Who is silent this Labor Day, and therefore I cannot be

Dear Jerry,

You know what today isn’t? Today isn’t Labor Day. But you already know that. Maybe that’s as much a comfort to you as me.

Because Labor Day will never be the same again – so, in a way, it doesn’t really matter whether or not some telethon takes place today of which you are not a part. It isn’t Labor Day. Big deal.

But I need you to know, from one artist's heart to another – and from the deepest part of my most grateful soul– it does matter the world to me that for the past 45 Labor Days (for those paying attention, that’s nearly 1,000 hours – nearly a half year of full-time work), you have worked hardest of all of us every Labor Day – for children, and for muscular dystrophy, a disease we still haven’t bested.

Someday – thanks to the $2.45 billion you helped raise (should I write that out for effect? I think so: NEARLY TWO AND A HALF BILLION DOLLARS) in your 45 years of service as Chairman of the Muscular Dystrophy Association – I feel confident beyond measure that we will find a cure. And that will be your truest, most loving legacy. Comedian, yes. Actor, director, etc., yes. But humanitarian extraordinaire – a role model for us all above all. YES.

YOU did that. I saw it. I was there. I watched every year as I grew up. I loved and admired you for all you’ve done, and still do. Let the detractors kvetch and say: “Oh, he did it for the attention.” I am reminded of that most excellent of authors in our time, Stephen King, and his novel, “Dolores Claiborne.” You did it for your own benefit? Really? For 45 grueling years – only to get nothing in return, to be unceremoniously ousted by a bunch of people who somehow (UNFATHOMABLY, in all caps) don’t remember a time when you were the glue that drew together the biggest names and stars across the globe? Shall I name them all? I don’t have time. It would possibly take another 45 years to recount the past 45 years – they were that good.

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Tonight, on this non-Labor Day, some people – for several empty and somewhat sad hours – will be filling in for you during a mock telethon that resembles nothing of years past. Years that you, and I, and millions of others, spent watching with baited breath as the next incredibly breathtaking check was delivered into your hands, trembling as they were from emotion and lack of sleep. Years that you, and I, and millions of others, watched the crème de la crème of Las Vegas, and Hollywood, and Broadway, step forward and say: “I care. I join you in your quest for a cure.”

I feel truly bad for these people. I really like some of the artists. I wonder if they signed on before they knew you were booted off.

No matter.

Mr. Lewis (for that is how I should have addressed this from the start – with all due respect): It is YOU for whom I, as a child, would beg my parents to stay awake and watch, starstruck, as the panoply of talented artists would step forward and perform, or sing, or laugh, or tug at our heartstrings. Every year, I called the Philadelphia TV station hoping against hope that, somehow, the overflow calls would be so great that maybe, just maybe, I would get to talk to you. Silly, I know. But it was YOUR telethon. Anything was possible.

Who knows how much I gave over the years. Not enough, of that, I’m sure. And not nearly what you did.

I should end this. At least I have that ability, unlike you. But let’s not go there…. I think your restraint in not lambasting whatever ignorant fools treated you so cavalierly represents the utmost of gentlemanly behavior, the last of its kind, now that so many of your peers are gone. Had they been here (do I really have to name them? … People, if you can’t name them yourselves, you just were NOT there), THIS WOULD NEVER have happened to you. TV wouldn’t have DARED.

I stand here as a sentinel. I know this. I remember what you've contributed because I was there.

And please take comfort in knowing: I AM NOT ALONE. I BELIEVE IN JERRY LEWIS.

Lest certain powers forget, this was once called the JERRY LEWIS MDA TELETHON for a damned good reason: No self-respecting performer would have shown up if NOT for you.

As far as I am concerned, sir, it still is the JERRY LEWIS MDA TELETHON, and always will be. And, without you, the cause is just as important – and the children are just as important. You’d have it no other way (hence your silence, I must assume - good man that you are).

So, I cannot believe I am saying this: But I will give what I can. Even during these terrible economic times, when I have lost nearly everything and can't possibly afford it – and I am not exaggerating that. And I know that's true for the millions of Americans who watched you, too.

You know what I have not lost?

I have not lost my hope in the Possible.

Jerry Lewis: You taught me, even more than anyone else in my life, the Art of the Possible.

I will make this year’s donation via the Laugh Factory (love you, Jamie Masada) on Monday, as usual – and I will tell the person who answers the phone (or mark in the comments section of the online donation site, whichever works best): “This is for Jerry.”

"Thank you" is too pedestrian and overwrought a phrase for what I feel. So is "devastated" for the way I feel you have been treated (though you are so much stronger than I would ever be to not even acknowledge your disappointment to the public before this weekend).

Will you accept my  pedestrianism anyway?

Please promise me you will not watch the telethon. I won’t, either.

However, let’s spend Sunday night remembering the excitement of the truest Labor Days, when you reminded every American – and indeed, every human on earth – what it meant to be a philanthropist's philanthropist.

If no one else (other than your most loyal comedian friends) will say it, I will:

THANK YOU, MR. LEWIS. Dear God, thank you to you for all you have done. Thank you for your love of the children. Thank you, thank you, thank you. If I could write it 2.45 billion times without perishing beforehand, I would write: THANK YOU.

I would shout it from Central Park. I would shout it from the top of the (former) Sears Tower. I would shout it in the Bellagio underneath the canopy of corkscrewy Chihuly glass until it shattered and everyone paused, for one slim moment, to remember a time when Las Vegas was built by your contemporaries, and you.

YOU MAY HAVE BEEN EXCLUDED, for reasons none of us can fathom, from this year's sorry replacement for a telethon.

But I want you to know that, of all people - and especially on this Labor Day, YOU'LL never walk alone.

Fondly, and with all the respect I’ve ever known and can ever give,

Lisa Cellini Romero

Salfordville, Pa.