Midnight Meme Of The Day! Imagine A Congress With A Soul Like Robin Williams Had

Instead We Get The Vileness Of Speaker Johnson And His Fans

by Noah

One of the many things I like to check out on facebook is a page by a writer who goes by the name of Mera Desh. Translated from Hindi, Mera Desh means "my country." Mera writes a lot about behind the scenes historical and biographical topics related to the film and music worlds. If such things are of interest to you, I encourage you to seek out the page.

Tuesday, when the news broke about the vile decisions being made in the U.S. Senate and the GOP's subsequent boisterous celebrations of their trademarked cruelty, I recalled the following Mera Desh essay on Robin Williams. It really stood out to me and I was left wishing that we could, in some other world of our dreams, have a U.S. Congress made up of people like Robin Williams instead of the lowest of the low that we have plaguing, not just our existence, but our efforts to survive. You can read the gory details of what Congress is up to elsewhere but this post conveys a kind of related message. Instead of Trump's Titanic Evil of a bill, we could have something positive and constructive. Humanity can do better than having the absolute worst of its kind in charge. Robin Williams certainly knew that:

In the early 1990s, during the filming of Mrs. Doubtfire (1993), Robin Williams asked the production crew to hire a small group of individuals from a nearby San Francisco homeless shelter. The request came quietly, passed along through his assistant, and never discussed publicly. The crew didn’t initially know why, but one of the assistant directors later revealed that Robin often worked such agreements into his contracts. He wanted jobs given to those struggling on the margins of society. One of the men hired for the catering crew during that shoot later said, “He treated me like I’d been part of the team all along. I served food on set, and he joked with me every day like we were old friends.”

Robin Williams’ connection to the homeless community ran deeper than these work clauses. Throughout his entire career, he asked that every movie he filmed hire at least 10 homeless individuals as part of the crew. By the end of his career, that number had reached approximately 1,520 people helped. This was never a condition he spoke about in interviews or accepted praise for. It was simply written into contracts and fulfilled quietly. Directors and producers only began mentioning it after his passing.

In the late 1980s, after a stand-up show in New York City, he was spotted slipping into a shelter not far from Broadway. A staff member there remembered how he walked in with no entourage, no camera, no announcements. He brought pizza, sat cross-legged on the floor with residents, and just listened. One resident, who had been living on the streets after a factory closure, said that night changed his outlook entirely. “He didn’t ask about our addictions or failures. He asked what made us laugh as kids. Who did that?”

During the production of Good Will Hunting (1997) in Boston, he again asked the studio to offer temporary positions to local unhoused individuals. A location assistant recounted that one of the grips on set had recently been living in a shelter, and by the time filming wrapped, he had earned enough to put a deposit on an apartment. “Robin made sure he got to stay on. He even bought him a suit for job interviews afterward,” the assistant said.

Many of Robin’s donations were made under different names. One shelter in Los Angeles discovered years after receiving several large anonymous checks that the funds had come from him. The executive director found out only when a thank-you letter they had mailed was returned marked “no such address,” and a staffer recognized the handwriting on the envelope as Robin’s from a previous autograph. He wanted the focus to stay on the shelters, never on himself.

Whoopi Goldberg once explained, “He didn’t want applause for helping. He wanted action.” Robin believed that kindness shouldn’t require an audience. During a break from filming Patch Adams (1998), he visited a shelter in West Virginia and brought with him boxes of clean socks, gloves, and warm coats. When asked by a shelter volunteer what inspired the visit, he replied, “The weather’s turning. And cold doesn’t care if you’re tired.”

Even when he toured for comedy or appeared on talk shows, Robin would often walk neighborhoods in the early mornings before public recognition began. A security guard at a New York shelter once opened the side gate to find him handing out hot coffee and egg sandwiches from a local diner. He left quietly, only nodding when the guard asked why he had come. “Because this is where people are,” he said.

During a press junket for The Fisher King (1991), a film in which he portrayed a man living on the streets of Manhattan, Robin spoke briefly about what he had observed while researching the role. “It’s not about feeling sorry. It’s about recognizing someone’s humanity, even when the world refuses to.” He refused to let poverty be invisible, not just onscreen but off-camera too.

Robin Williams used his presence to open doors for others without seeking recognition. He gave his time, voice, and influence where it mattered most, quietly, intentionally, and with genuine care. He knew laughter could be survival, and dignity often started with being seen.

Even in silence, he built bridges where the world had built fences.

Sadly, instead of a Congress full of righteous souls like Robin Williams, we end up with people like "Ted" Cruz, Marjorie Traitor Greene, and House Speaker Mike Johnson who have devoted their lives to being vile. And, no Mitch McConnell, no matter how much you and your kind say we "will get over it," no decent human being ever will. In a world of people like Speaker Johnson and his repulsive ilk, we could all try being more like Robin Williams was.