Fate or Luck, What Brought Me to Clowning
Six years ago I went back to Nebraska to attend my mom’s eighty-fifth birthday party. At dinner, I asked the older woman sitting next to me what her hobbies were.
“I’m a hospital clown,” she said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Did you ever see the movie, "Patch Adams"?
“No.” I said.
“Oh. Well, I volunteer as a clown at the hospital once a week."
“A clown? In a hospital? How does that work?”
“Let me tell you what happened yesterday in the cancer unit,”
she said as she leaned in toward me.
She explained how, dressed as a clown named Zoey, she knocked on the open door of a room where a little girl was sitting up in bed, staring down at her folded hands.
“Would you like a clown visit?” Zoey asked. The girl didn’t answer.
Zoey blew some soap bubbles into the air. The girl turned her head enough to watch them float in. Big brown eyes.
After a bit, Zooey asked, “Could I sing you a song?”
“No.” A tired shake of the head.
“I can see you don’t feel like playing. Could I come in for a minute and keep you company if I keep quiet?”
The little girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say please yourself. Head down. Sad.
Zoey walked in very slowly. "My name is Zoey," she said when she arrived at the foot of the bed. “Shall I sit in the chair or down here on the end of the bed?”
To Zoey’s surprise, the girl pointed to the bed. Zoey sat and kept her promise of not talking. She could feel the girl checking her out—her purple curls, shiny red nose, a harmonica sticking out of her smock pocket.
After a bit, Zoey began to gently swing her legs back and forth. She stared down at her red, polka dot shoes.
Silence.
And then the bed bounced slightly as the girl scooted over to sit beside Zoey. She started swinging her legs, too, her bare feet keeping rhythm with the clown’s.
In a barely audible voice, the little girl asked, “Can I wear your shoes?”
“Sure.” Zoey stood up, undid her shoes, and slipped them onto the girl’s small feet, tying the laces twice around her ankles to keep them on.
The girl slid out of bed and began shuffling around the room.
“Can I go down to the playroom and show my friend?”
“Of course.” And off she went.
That’s the story that fired the desire in me to become a hospital clown. I loved the way the clown changed the atmosphere in that hospital room, the way she empowered the child by giving her her clown shoes. I loved the spirit of that child who, in the throes of her illness, reached out to play. I loved the notion that what the clown did had more to do with gentleness and respect for the child than it did with being funny or performing antics. One story, and I was determined to learn how to be something I had never dreamed of being.
“I’m a hospital clown,” she said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Did you ever see the movie, "Patch Adams"?
“No.” I said.
“Oh. Well, I volunteer as a clown at the hospital once a week."
“A clown? In a hospital? How does that work?”
“Let me tell you what happened yesterday in the cancer unit,”
she said as she leaned in toward me.
She explained how, dressed as a clown named Zoey, she knocked on the open door of a room where a little girl was sitting up in bed, staring down at her folded hands.
“Would you like a clown visit?” Zoey asked. The girl didn’t answer.
Zoey blew some soap bubbles into the air. The girl turned her head enough to watch them float in. Big brown eyes.
After a bit, Zooey asked, “Could I sing you a song?”
“No.” A tired shake of the head.
“I can see you don’t feel like playing. Could I come in for a minute and keep you company if I keep quiet?”
The little girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say please yourself. Head down. Sad.
Zoey walked in very slowly. "My name is Zoey," she said when she arrived at the foot of the bed. “Shall I sit in the chair or down here on the end of the bed?”
To Zoey’s surprise, the girl pointed to the bed. Zoey sat and kept her promise of not talking. She could feel the girl checking her out—her purple curls, shiny red nose, a harmonica sticking out of her smock pocket.
After a bit, Zoey began to gently swing her legs back and forth. She stared down at her red, polka dot shoes.
Silence.
And then the bed bounced slightly as the girl scooted over to sit beside Zoey. She started swinging her legs, too, her bare feet keeping rhythm with the clown’s.
In a barely audible voice, the little girl asked, “Can I wear your shoes?”
“Sure.” Zoey stood up, undid her shoes, and slipped them onto the girl’s small feet, tying the laces twice around her ankles to keep them on.
The girl slid out of bed and began shuffling around the room.
“Can I go down to the playroom and show my friend?”
“Of course.” And off she went.
That’s the story that fired the desire in me to become a hospital clown. I loved the way the clown changed the atmosphere in that hospital room, the way she empowered the child by giving her her clown shoes. I loved the spirit of that child who, in the throes of her illness, reached out to play. I loved the notion that what the clown did had more to do with gentleness and respect for the child than it did with being funny or performing antics. One story, and I was determined to learn how to be something I had never dreamed of being.
