Neighborhood Mr Rogers Quotes

I’m sorry if...I get too personal, if I make you uncomfortable, but writing is like one of the seven deadly sins, like Sharing on Mr. Rogers, and once you get the bug you’re trapped in The Neighborhood of Make-Believe forever.

The tendency is to view God as a cosmic ogre, bound and determined to administer well-deserved punishment; or we envision God as an eternal Mr. Rogers, eager to welcome us all to the neighborhood of the Kingdom.....Jesus however, lived with the dynamic tension of God's wrath and grace; in fact he embodied the paradox.

At some point in your adult life, you’ve probably walked into a party and felt a frisson of relief upon discovering at least one woman there who was fatter, uglier, and/or dressed more inappropriately than you. We sure have. But if you want to have any hope of making peace with your own body, you need to knock that shit off. We’re not even telling you to stop just because it’s nasty, petty, and beneath you to judge other women so harshly; it is, but because you’re not a saint, and neither are we. We’re telling you to stop because it’s actually in your own self-interest to stop being such a bitch. ‘Cause you know what happens when you quit saying that crap about other women? You magically stop saying it about yourself so much, too. Judging other women negatively creates a constant stream of nasty thoughts in your head. It is inevitable that you will end up applying those same standards to yourself. We think we’re building ourselves up when we do this but, really, we’re just tearing other people down to our level. And we hate to go all Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood on you, but tearing other people down isn’t really productive. It leaves you in the same place you started, which is full of loathing for your own body.

Sometimes on flat boring afternoons, he'd squatted on the curb of St. Deval Street and daydreamed silent pearly snowclouds into sifting coldly through the boughs of the dry, dirty trees. Snow falling in August and silvering the glassy pavement, the ghostly flakes icing his hair, coating rooftops, changing the grimy old neighborhood into a hushed frozen white wasteland uninhabited except for himself and a menagerie of wonder-beasts: albino antelopes, and ivory-breasted snowbirds; and occasionally there were humans, such fantastic folk as Mr Mystery, the vaudeville hypnotist, and Lucky Rogers, the movie star, and Madame Veronica, who read fortunes in a Vieux Carré tearoom.

Most of us, I believe, admire strength. It’s something we tend to respect in others, desire for ourselves, and wish for our children. Sometimes, though, I wonder if we confuse strength with other words like aggression and even violence. —FRED ROGERS, MR. ROGERS’ NEIGHBORHOOD

Well, if it ain’t Mr. Rogers. What are you doing here?” I walked to Marlene and kissed her cheek. “You’re not trying to hit on my woman, are you?” Grouper waved me off and grumbled something. “It’s Sunday,” Marlene said. “We play checkers and watch TV. But there’s no football on today.” “I was in the neighborhood, so thought I’d stop in and check on things.” Grouper tried to play off his visit as casual. “He turns on my television every week before we play. I don’t really like football, but we play checkers, too, so I don’t say anything.” “Is that so? The old bastard even comes in on his day off, huh?” “That’s not nice. He’s not a bastard. He’s just old and moves sort of slow. And a little hard of hearing, too.

I'm definitely not going to be graced with a suitable partner," Miles grumbled. I plucked at his cardigan. "Well, maybe if you didn't come to a fetish party dressed like Mr. Rogers. Are you here to get your ass beat or catch a trolley to the Neighborhood of Make Believe?

Saw WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR. So touching and powerful with a simple searing message. I never met Fred Rogers, but Jim did and liked him. They both had that strong, silent will. They had similar messages, but expressed them in different ways. Be nice to have them both around now. CONFESSION: In my 20’s I joked about “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” being so bland and “kidsy” and “unhip”. Then years later when life became more complicated and I was battling my inner demons, I would watch him because he would always make me feel better about myself.

Like the great Mr. Rogers always said on his neighborhood show, attack from where they least expect it, when they least expect it, and how they least expect it.

I just feel that there isn’t enough silence, you know, and I’m always asking people if they can just give some silence. And we’re in a medium that allows so little of that. The last time I was at the White House, I said, ‘Would you please just have a half-minute of silence to think about somebody who has helped you become who you are?’ and that whole fancy meeting, you know, that whole fancy East Room of the White House, sitting silently, thinking about people who they might not have thought of for a long time that had made a big difference in their lives. When that meeting was over, one of the guards came up to me all in white and with the gold braids and everything [he motioned with his hand, touching his shoulders], and he said, ‘Mister Rogers, do you know who I thought about during that half-minute that you gave us?’ “And I said, ‘No, who?’ “ ‘I thought of my grandfather’s brother.’ “And I said, ‘How was he special to you?’ “ ‘Just before he died he took me to his basement and gave me his fishing rod. . . . I hadn’t thought of that for a long, long time.’ ” The White House guard went on to explain that he was very young at the time and that the bequeathal of the fishing rod before his great-uncle died had a profound effect upon him. In fact, he wondered if that was perhaps why he loved fishing so much and why he liked to teach the children in his neighborhood all about it. But it took those moments of silence—requested by Fred in the “fancy” East Room of the White House—to bring the legacy to mind.