by Laura Parker Roerden

I first met Peter Yarrow in 1998, when I attended a launch meeting at McGraw Hill in New York City for Operation Respect, an international anti-bullying program that Peter had just founded. I would be representing Educators for Social Responsibility (now Engaging Schools), where I was at the time the publications and publishing director. I wasn’t supposed to be there. Our star writer Bill Kreidler was ill, and I was asked to cover the meeting in his place. I had just moved to Italy with my husband and had not yet received the boxes we had shipped from the States, which meant I did not have business clothes with me. So I bought what I could purchase quickly—a very formal, dark charcoal suit. As I was rushing to the airport in Milan, I took out enormously big, bright blue butterfly earrings I had in my purse and put them on, worried that I was overdressed. Yet even for a meeting with a folk musician, the earrings were a bold choice. Perhaps too bold. In the taxi to the meeting, I took the butterfly earrings on and off at least twice; I was so anxious about this meeting with a celebrity. At McGraw’s offices I was met by an impressive older woman, who was introduced to me as a vice president and promptly asked, “Who are you and why are you here?” As I fumbled to explain why the senior writer she had expected was missing, Peter waltzed in joyfully with his guitar on his back, hugged me and sensing the discomfort in the room said, “I just love your butterfly earrings. I’m Peter.” Within minutes, the air in the room had shifted and we were all singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” now smiling with a childlike receptivity and kindness, because that is how Peter Yarrow did things. So began a quarter-century of a deep friendship, collaboration, mentorship and a very special experience of Peter’s unique magic.

As the primary writer of the Operation Respect curriculum, I was fortunate to work closely with Peter. Early on I had asked Peter what his goals for the school-based project were, expecting to hear the usual litany of metrics folks like to use: reduction of bullying behaviors, improvement in attendance, reduction in detentions. Peter simply and confidently answered, “World peace.”

I laughed, because certainly he was joking.

But I saw immediately: he was not.

This was the moment when it hit me that Peter was a Jedi and I merely his trainee.

Peter had been motivated after the Columbine shooting to do something about the increasing violence that was threatening our children in places like schools, where sanctuary from bullets should be non-negotiable. Peter understood that violence is a cultural issue, and creating safety is not merely a matter of hardening buildings. He wanted to spark a movement that would ripple out from children everywhere into the world. If we could stop bullets from flying in schools and teach children the power in nonviolence, as well as the skills of resolving conflict in community, might we put world peace on the table? No one would argue that Peter Yarrow knew something about social movements, having stood on the stage with MLK, Jr. singing “If I Had a Hammer” and “Blowing in the Wind” with Peter, Paul & Mary at the 1963 March on Washington so many years before in that and in many other acts in the righteous fight for a just and sustainable world.

Through Operation Respect, Peter was not simply preaching nonviolence or advocating for the absence of bullying. He believed the work had something to do with seating people back into their purest hearts. He knew the program needed an anthem and he found it when his daughter Bethany Yarrow discovered the beautiful Allen Shamblin and Steve Seskin song “Don’t Laugh at Me.” The song asks us to consider the perspective of those different from us and cautions to not get “pleasure from (another’s) pain.” But it does more. “Don’t Laugh at Me” points true north like a compass to our shared human vulnerability, as well as fallibility, which was beautifully captured in the Peter, Paul & Mary recording and video that became the centerpiece of the anti-bullying programming.

‘Cause I’m fat, I’m thin, I’m short, I’m tall
I’m deaf, I’m blind, . . .

Hey, aren’t we all?”

What might be possible in a world where people could truly see and acknowledge one another’s pain and vulnerability? What problems might be connected to these threads of bullying that enshrine overpowering others as a solution? What world might we create for our children if we could restructure the dynamics that keep us tied so reactively to violence?

I remember a few weeks after 9/11, Peter and I were scheduled to present an e-learning concept for the Operation Respect curriculum at the conference TechLearn in Orlando to gain support for spreading the work. Planes had only recently begun flying again; our nation still in shock. I had prepared a prototype of the project, with some fancy bells and whistles. But Peter wisely told me to simply put it away.

Peter asked me instead to create a slide show featuring images of people from all over the world, of all ethnicities, abilities, and ages. While the montage played behind us on a massive screen in the equally massive auditorium, Peter invited CTOs from Fortune 500 companies to cross arms and link hands. Then together they sang “We Shall Overcome” with Peter humbly accompanying on guitar. I shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened, but I’ll never forget it. The air crackled with emotion as a ballroom full of executives in suits began swaying, tears streaming down many of their faces as they sang holding hands, “Deep in my heart, I do believe, that we shall overcome. . .some. . .day.”

Peter had always been fond of using terms like “catalyzing hope through song” or “activating hearts” to describe the work, but it is so much deeper than that. His commitment was to heal the dark places by bringing a light so strong that even hate could not consume it.

Peter’s celebrity opened doors for Operation Respect and along with it for bullying prevention and social and emotional learning programs across the U.S. It would not be an exaggeration to say he had an impact on an entire field of education by bringing lessons from movement building to the important work of making children everywhere emotionally healthy, safe, and thriving.

Peter did the rounds presenting at every national teacher conference you could name—singing, healing, and uniting teachers’ and administrators’ hearts—before even suggesting we do the same for children. He simply refused to do the work in the wooden, orthodox way that is so common in curriculum rollout and adoption. This is, I believe, where his brilliance laid. We’d ask for strategic plans and he’d instead eye the horizon for opportunity. We’d think of roles we needed filled, and he’d take people who had a heart for the work and develop them. We’d press to leverage his famous contacts and he’d put on the brakes for a better time, because of an innately uncanny sense for timing. But what else would one expect from a master musician? Peter was bringing artistry to the task of peacemaking.

Other education programs unfolded in predictable ways: first pilot, then research, then revision and rollout, but Operation Respect began to have uniquely extraordinary moments. After we created a version of the program for summer camps, Peter supported a youth march on Washington, with representatives like Senator John Kerry in attendance and young people holding anti-bullying signs they had created. I believe I was the one crying that time: it was the most beautiful combination of youth empowerment and leadership with the support of powerful adults paying attention that I have ever seen. I’d be hard-pressed to think of another program that can say it was adopted by 200,000 sites in 50 countries, like Operation Respect can say of its programs. Peter’s keen intelligence and extraordinary vision was indeed drawing world attention, as the Don’t Laugh at Me curriculum was translated and rolled out into places like the Ukraine and the Middle East. Seeing children from Palestine and Israel singing together—Jews, Arabs and Christians—their hearts connected and open across their differences, felt like world peace no longer seemed to be so far out of reach.

Spending time with Peter meant you would occasionally bump into his celebrity, even if his humility meant that most of the time you entirely forgot how famous he is. He’d take the very cheap Fung Wah bus when he travelled between NYC and Boston. He would sleep on a couch without complaint.  If Peter was recognized on the street or stopped for an autograph, he would always take the time to engage sincerely and authentically. His fans would be much better described as “new friends.” If you introduced someone to Peter, you’d also have to prepare them for the embracing hug and cheek kiss they were about to get. No one was a stranger to Peter for long and everyone was worthy of his rapt attention. He simply did not have anything but wide-open love and joy in his heart for others.

I remember once Peter was staying with my family in our small town in Massachusetts while we were working on a new curriculum to celebrate teachers. We took a break and walked into our downtown antique store—Peter loves antiques—and I introduced him to the owner of the store who was named Paul. I simply said, “Peter, this is Paul.”

And Paul said to me without missing a beat, “Then you must be Mary.”

He was making a joke to the actual Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul & Mary about the band, without knowing this Peter was that Peter.

I looked at Peter; he looked at me. And Peter said nothing.

We laughed heartily when we left the store, but Peter had no desire to out himself as a celebrity. He simply took those moments in stride.

With the extraordinary life Peter had lived, in his presence much of the most extraordinary moments began to feel simply ordinary. Peter could tell some of the best stories, so many of them intersecting with historic moments, most of them also very funny. I’d mention a heartbreak from my early days in high school and he’d counter: “Oh, right. That’s the worst. I remember a time that Ringo Starr stole my bird right in front of me.”  When I told him I wanted to use the song “Blowin’ in the Wind” for the camp curriculum, he responded, “Let’s get Bobby on the phone now to ask.” And there you were: talking to Bob Dylan like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Or you’d walk into his apartment and Gloria Steinem would be standing there, because they were working on a project together. Peter was simply a treasure trove of deep perspective on historic moments, largely because he had been so central to them.

Peter had been a mentor to me, but also one of the best friends you could ever have. When my mother died, Peter took it upon himself to help care for my father and created quite an independent friendship with him, inviting him to his concerts and other events. When my father died, he took time out of his busy schedule to be there at his funeral bringing song as balm, singing with us in church and at graveside. I know my father would have really loved that. The joy pouring so naturally out of Peter helped us manage our grief and connected our hearts at a time when we needed one another so much. Peter would often refer of those moments as a “mitzvah for a mitzvah.” But you always knew: he wasn’t keeping score. He was freely handing out blessings wherever he went.

Peter simply supported anything that the people he cared about cared about. When I wanted to start my own nonprofit, Ocean Matters, centered on youth leadership and service in marine conservation, Peter said “yes” to every request I made: from being on the board of directors, to hosting a fundraiser at his apartment, to coming with his family to Hawaii and performing a concert for an impossibly challenging fundraising trip. He even came scuba diving with the Ocean Matters staff; Peter was always game for an adventure no matter how daring. He was always a brave dragon, which gave us all inspiration to be the same.

I was on the phone with Peter when my sister-in-law Kim was calling from the hospital to tell me my brother David had died of a heart attack at age 52. When I called Peter back, heaving in tears and explaining that I couldn’t imagine life without my brother, he said, “Then I’ll be your brother.” That is how extraordinarily generous Peter was. Always.

As the years spun on, so did the work, as Peter was truly “weaving sunshine out of the falling rain.” There was the work with Olympians to bring character messages into schools; a curriculum devoted to acknowledging teachers built around a PBS documentary; then another program created for school children about gratitude and its place in our lives. Later when the political polarization of our nation became so intense and damaging, Peter pivoted to building bridges and supporting work that brought Democrats and Republicans together for productive and heart expanding conversations through supporting the organization Braver Angels. After the Parkland school shootings, Peter, his daughter Bethany, and Steve Seskin and other songwriters supported the teenage survivors through songwriting about their experience. Even though that project also bumped up against the pandemic, it resulted in a beautifully moving CD and video that showed how healing and powerful voices in service to truth can be. Peter had empowered the teens to turn their grief and trauma into inspiration through art.

The last project Peter and I did together was in 2022 in response to the mental health crisis in children post-pandemic. We created a curriculum to empower young people in similar projects for teens as the songwriting with the Parkland survivors had done.

Peter never stopped responding to the world’s pain. He simply always showed up.

I remember when we were working on the curriculum about gratitude, Peter said something that has resonated deeply with me ever since. He said, “I choose to live my life from the vantage of gratitude.”  When I heard that Peter would soon be passing into the ages, I was filled with deep sadness and loss. But I also choose to be filled with deep gratitude for the light and love he has brought so generously to me and to so many. And I also choose to return the mitzvah that knowing him has been.

As the Talmud states, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

I have no doubt the best way to honor Peter is to live up to the words he penned in “Light One Candle” by continuing his important work to create a just, sustainable and peaceful world:

“Don’t let the light go out. It’s lasted for so many years. Don’t let the light go out.  Let it shine through our hope and our tears.”