"You're Not a Real Clown"

Last Thursday at the hospital, as I pushed my cart down the hall in
pediatrics, a small boy, holding the hand of a young woman, came out of one
of the rooms to see me. His dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses made him
look like a small version of Harry Potter. Because some children are afraid
of clowns, I stopped and waved but stayed beside the cart instead of
approaching him.
Coming closer, the child pointed at my lime green scrubs, stating in a loud
voice, “That’s just a costume.” And pointing at the patches around my eyes,
“That’s just white paint. And that rabbit sitting on your arm, that’s a
puppet.”
I have to admit that in spite of attending six weeks of hospital clown
school where I studied the history of clowning, how to apply clown makeup,
create a costume, a clown walk, work with a puppet, do clown magic, develop
a character, incorporate methods of improvisational theater, and adapt
clowning techniques to a therapeutic setting—in spite of being mentored for
one year and clowning once a week for three years, I still worry that a
child will one day look at me and say, “You’re not a real clown.”
What am I dreading? I’m not exactly sure. I don’t want to feel like an
imitation of a clown. I’m aiming for a level of artistry where I am
thoroughly in my clown character, purely “Nurse Heart Throb.” But mine is
not simply an actor’s wish. I also aspire to honor the larger concept of
“Clowndom.” I want to please the Ethereal Clown Board, presided over by
Emmett Kelly, who will, when he looks down on me, elbow his buddies and say,
“Now there’s a real clown!” And by that he will mean that I am a clown from
the inside out, that I have the playful, loving, vulnerable, wonder-filled
instincts of a clown, that even if all I had for a costume was a red nose, I
would be believable.
And there’s more. Remember when you believed in Santa Claus? What if, when
you were a small child, sick and afraid, Santa Claus had come into your
hospital room, and instead of just dropping off a present, he stayed and
played quietly with you, made up a song with your name in it, maybe asked
you to help him do some magic? What if he listened to the heart of your
teddy bear with a North Pole stethoscope and said your bear was very, very
brave? Or put a fish sticker on your I.V. bag to turn it into an aquarium? I
want to step, however briefly, into that magical, healing space that
“believing’ creates.
Meanwhile, Harry Potter is calling us over . . .
“This is my son, Zachery, “ the young woman says, in a tone which suggests
that this little boy is a genius.
I bow to him. “How do you do, Zachery.”
Zachery glances past me at the cart, decorated with a large cardboard cut
out of a clown and bobbing helium balloons. He studies an array of objects
on the lower shelf of the cart.
“Would you like to try one of those?” I am about to offer a rubber reflex
tester that makes the sound of breaking bones upon contact with an arm, but
he chooses a magic wand.
“Bow,” he commands, waving the wand at me, and, of course, I do, as low as I
can go.
“Turn around three times,” he says, and I obey so fast that I stagger
dizzily into the wall. Zachery hoots in delight.
“You know, Sir Zachery, you really are very good with that wand. I wonder if
you’d like to wear a red nose?’
He nods yes, and I give him a sponge nose, which he puts on.
“And now,” he says, walking over to his mother, who has been watching him in
silent adoration, “ I am going to turn you into a cat—a nice cat, but
still—a cat!”

Watching Zachery wield his magic wand, I was reminded that the goal of
hospital clowning is to empower others. However and whenever that happens,
magic is in the air.