Send in the Clowns … or, Maybe Not

Every year from about the age of 10, my father presented me with tickets that would admit myself and a friend to the Shriner’s Circus, an extravaganza that promised to thrill and delight with live animal acts galore and clowns whose snowy foreheads wrinkled like accordion pleats. I sensed how proud my dad was to be able to pass these tickets along and knew I should be grateful. (There was also an element of fear involved since he would have been livid if I’d refused to go since that would be “showing him up.”) But truly, I hated every part of the experience especially the animals dressed in humiliating, ill-fitting outfits. The crowd would cheer as a “bear in a frock” balanced on a ball or an elephant wearily rose up onto its hind legs or a twitchy monkey repeatedly tipped his hat. But I pictured all of these animals after the show, miserably shivering in the darkness of their cages, far away from family and natural habitat while we narrow-minded spectators trampled striped, flattened popcorn boxes on greasy-grey floors to exit the building quickly so we could begin thoughts of our next meal.

(I may or may not have been heavily influenced by ‘Dumbo’ here … )

Clowns too, are a concept I struggled to understand then and now. They’re scary as hell for a start, literally never funny, and they all had the demeanour of an uncle who might have made you feel uncomfortable. Huge pants billowing, eyebrows arched in permanent surprise, they pranced along the edges of the stage in their great shoes, pretending to hurl large buckets of water into the audience amidst much screaming laughter; however, it was soon revealed that the buckets were full of confetti. Not water. I caught onto this immediately (being 10 ) but no, they continued the same prank on and on, moving to different sections and enjoying the same hysterical audience response.

I really just wanted to go home.

The Shriners themselves were also a bit of a puzzle. I recognized some of them as my dad’s work colleagues, quiet businessmen who now wore bejewelled scarlet ‘Fezzes and drove wildly in very tiny cars that barely accommodated their long legs folded up against their chests. Strangely, they seemed only to travel in small circles and honk their horns a great deal. (Aside: The General recently shared that his own father – a handsome, somber banker by day, but also a Shriner – would regularly don his own Fez, slip into a pair of shoes with huge, curling toes and  completely let loose at such events. There is a marvellous photo of him energetically slapping a conga drum, a cigarette clamped happily between his teeth … )

I was very conscious that the Shriners did Very Good Things and felt guilty feeling this way, even as a child but truly, I just didn’t understand what was going on. What did the cars represent? And those shoes, those hats? What was the music connection? No one seemed curious about this but myself.

Each year I was also routinely disappointed that not one of these balding, paunchy Shriners  resembled my very first crush – Desi Arnaz – who, whilst displaying no other outward signs of being a Shriner himself, did play that drum …

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