Being Brand New
Being Brand New
Some folks graduate from clown school with a costume, a character, a name, a shtick that feels right to them, and off they go. And others—well, I remember how it was for me. On my first day at the hospital, and, honestly, for the first year, I was on sensory overload. There was so much to take in at once: the sights, sounds, smells of the hospital, being behind the nursing stations and passing out candy to the doctors and nurses, pushing the clown cart down the hall and greeting visitors, both adults and children, and finally, visiting a patient in his room. One minute I would be “out of clown” answering a nurse’s question: How long have you been a clown? The next minute I would see a child coming down the hall toward me, and I would be “in-clown,” whipping out my shy puppet friend, Loopi. And a few minutes later, I would be standing at the threshold of a patient’s room. As I had seen my mentor do, I would half-bow toward the patient and make an open handed gesture from my heart while asking if this would be a good time for a visit.
We are told in clown school to “read” the patient and the room in order to determine what that patient wants or needs. I discovered that making the judgment call takes practice because inside, every fiber of my new being was yelling, Okay, Clown! Do something funny. Say something brilliant. Show your stuff. I found that approaching the patient slowly was one of the hardest things to learn. In hindsight I’d suggest, think of approaching on a sigh instead of an exclamation. Do not ask, How are you? You might comment on something in the room: flowers or a stuffed animal or the patient’s view from the window. My mentor sometimes offered to have a column outside the window removed if was blocking the view. Or you might call attention to a prop you have: a stuffed animal, a clown stethoscope, a feather duster. Try to be make frequent eye contact. Remember, the patient is also sizing you up to see what kind of clown you are—boisterous, practical joker, even scary? The patient has had no forewarning that a clown is coming, has probably never met a clown in the hospital, if at all, and furthermore, is not feeling his best self. And you are getting a chance to see if the patient wants to play, or watch, or maybe just talk to you, or go to sleep, or maybe he has just had surgery and it hurts his incision to laugh—you never know.
At first, my clown character felt rather flimsy. It was a big surprise to me that my “audience” gave me ideas to build on. Heart Throb has bright orange curls. “Hi, Carrot Top,” one man said when I entered the room. That gave me an idea. I told him, “Yes, you’re right! My hair is orange, because ever since I was a child I’ve been addicted to carrots.” A woman I passed in the hall said, “You must be young; I don’t see any grey hairs among the orange.” As the weeks went by, I started writing down people’s humorous remarks so that I could select the ones that fit my developing character and use them as my own.
Still, I felt stiff and awkward. I was very grateful to be making visits with my mentor, an experienced clown. I was aware of being in the world in a brand new way. And of making mistakes. Once my mentor suggested that I “stock” the aquarium in a patient’s room.
Having seen him do this before, I placed a tropical fish sticker on the patient’s I.V. bag. When we were back in the hall, my mentor said gently, “You put the fish on the bag upside down.”
Trying to be cool and imaginative, I answered, “Well, sometimes fish like to swim upside down!”
“The only time that happens is when the fish is dead,” he answered.
“Oh, dear!” is all I could think of to say.
I’ve been a clown for five years, and I still make mistakes. You really can’t help it. There are times when I don’t know what to do or say. What is required is complex, and it changes with lightning speed. However, more often than you could have imagined you will bring joy and gentleness into the hospital world.
Here are some overall tips: start clowning as soon as you can after training ends while your enthusiasm is raging and before whatever confidence you have gained fades. Find a mentor whose style works for you. Try to sign up for a regular schedule, once a week if you can. Try different venues. Do you prefer the nursing home or the hospital? Children or adults? Practice your magic, or juggling, or puppetry at home. Read a training book: The Caring Clowns by Richard Snowberg or The Hospital Clown by Patty Wooten and Shobhana “Shobi” Schwebke. Or read the on-line training manual at our website: www.caringclowns.org. Keep a journal of your visits. Join a local clown club (called a clown alley). Take an improvisation class. Do whatever you can to build your confidence in the joyous and loving clown that is being born. As the French poet Paul Valery said: “The master has provided the spark, it is your job to make something of it.”
Some folks graduate from clown school with a costume, a character, a name, a shtick that feels right to them, and off they go. And others—well, I remember how it was for me. On my first day at the hospital, and, honestly, for the first year, I was on sensory overload. There was so much to take in at once: the sights, sounds, smells of the hospital, being behind the nursing stations and passing out candy to the doctors and nurses, pushing the clown cart down the hall and greeting visitors, both adults and children, and finally, visiting a patient in his room. One minute I would be “out of clown” answering a nurse’s question: How long have you been a clown? The next minute I would see a child coming down the hall toward me, and I would be “in-clown,” whipping out my shy puppet friend, Loopi. And a few minutes later, I would be standing at the threshold of a patient’s room. As I had seen my mentor do, I would half-bow toward the patient and make an open handed gesture from my heart while asking if this would be a good time for a visit.
We are told in clown school to “read” the patient and the room in order to determine what that patient wants or needs. I discovered that making the judgment call takes practice because inside, every fiber of my new being was yelling, Okay, Clown! Do something funny. Say something brilliant. Show your stuff. I found that approaching the patient slowly was one of the hardest things to learn. In hindsight I’d suggest, think of approaching on a sigh instead of an exclamation. Do not ask, How are you? You might comment on something in the room: flowers or a stuffed animal or the patient’s view from the window. My mentor sometimes offered to have a column outside the window removed if was blocking the view. Or you might call attention to a prop you have: a stuffed animal, a clown stethoscope, a feather duster. Try to be make frequent eye contact. Remember, the patient is also sizing you up to see what kind of clown you are—boisterous, practical joker, even scary? The patient has had no forewarning that a clown is coming, has probably never met a clown in the hospital, if at all, and furthermore, is not feeling his best self. And you are getting a chance to see if the patient wants to play, or watch, or maybe just talk to you, or go to sleep, or maybe he has just had surgery and it hurts his incision to laugh—you never know.
At first, my clown character felt rather flimsy. It was a big surprise to me that my “audience” gave me ideas to build on. Heart Throb has bright orange curls. “Hi, Carrot Top,” one man said when I entered the room. That gave me an idea. I told him, “Yes, you’re right! My hair is orange, because ever since I was a child I’ve been addicted to carrots.” A woman I passed in the hall said, “You must be young; I don’t see any grey hairs among the orange.” As the weeks went by, I started writing down people’s humorous remarks so that I could select the ones that fit my developing character and use them as my own.
Still, I felt stiff and awkward. I was very grateful to be making visits with my mentor, an experienced clown. I was aware of being in the world in a brand new way. And of making mistakes. Once my mentor suggested that I “stock” the aquarium in a patient’s room.
Having seen him do this before, I placed a tropical fish sticker on the patient’s I.V. bag. When we were back in the hall, my mentor said gently, “You put the fish on the bag upside down.”
Trying to be cool and imaginative, I answered, “Well, sometimes fish like to swim upside down!”
“The only time that happens is when the fish is dead,” he answered.
“Oh, dear!” is all I could think of to say.
I’ve been a clown for five years, and I still make mistakes. You really can’t help it. There are times when I don’t know what to do or say. What is required is complex, and it changes with lightning speed. However, more often than you could have imagined you will bring joy and gentleness into the hospital world.
Here are some overall tips: start clowning as soon as you can after training ends while your enthusiasm is raging and before whatever confidence you have gained fades. Find a mentor whose style works for you. Try to sign up for a regular schedule, once a week if you can. Try different venues. Do you prefer the nursing home or the hospital? Children or adults? Practice your magic, or juggling, or puppetry at home. Read a training book: The Caring Clowns by Richard Snowberg or The Hospital Clown by Patty Wooten and Shobhana “Shobi” Schwebke. Or read the on-line training manual at our website: www.caringclowns.org. Keep a journal of your visits. Join a local clown club (called a clown alley). Take an improvisation class. Do whatever you can to build your confidence in the joyous and loving clown that is being born. As the French poet Paul Valery said: “The master has provided the spark, it is your job to make something of it.”
