The Trouble with Clowns: Self disclosure in Writing

This piece is very short but it speaks volumes about who I am as a person and some of my early relationships without telling the story of who I am in a typical autobiographical style. All writing is biographical no matter what you write about, because you are always disclosing bits and pieces of yourself. When we lift the veil we may not like what we see, and our readers may recoil. That is the risk we take in writing.

I have an unsettled relationship with clowns. My mother adored clowns and I always felt uneasy around them. That disconnect between my mother and I, in respect to clowns, is emblematic of our relationship. We simply perceived the world from completely different vantage points.

Before I get into the details I have to share my only positive clown memory. It is a story my mother often told about the clown that sat on top of her jewelry box. She was in the hospital after my birth. My father came for a visit and outside the hospital he was was approached by a young boy selling hand made clowns. My father bought one and took it to my mother. So it sat for the remainder of my mother’s life as a sentinel to the only child my parent’s had, that survived. My mother loved clowns—so by extension she must have loved me.

The next clown I remember was a framed colored photo of Emmett Kelly with his classic sad clown face. It was hung in my room and I found in troubling and unsettling. It was there for many years, a testament to my mother’s passion for clowns and the circus. When I was finally old enough to have a say, I asked for its removal, much to my mother’s dismay. We went to the Ringling Brothers Circus and again I found it all rather confusing. It did not have the effect on me, that it had on my mother. It delighted her and yet made me sad.

I remember when I was about 10 my mother for Valentine’s Day got my brother and I stuffed animals that included an autograph pen so you could have your friends sign them. My brother got the muted orange dog and I got the red and yellow and blue clown. I don’t remember if I broke into tears straight away, or later. However, I do remember my Mom insisting that the clown was the better of the two. My mother liked clowns, so I should be delighted she chose the clown for me. I wasn’t and she never got that. And sadly it didn’t matter if I tried to explain it to her—she simply could not put herself in my shoes. And I was the opposite. I was always putting myself in everyone else’s shoes, in my attempt to understand why people did what they did. I was wired to try and understand.

When I had children my mother insisted on taking us all to the circus and although decades had past my feelings remained the same. Rather than amuse me and make me laugh and uplift my spirits, I felt out of sorts. Even sad.

This all came to my attention recently when I was talking to someone about comedy. And how so much comedy and humor is at someone else’s expense. There is a fine line between funny and exploitation. Perhaps, this was because I was teased and humiliated as a kid. It is probably the reason I react so strongly against bullying and why I find some comedy–not at all funny. There’s a difference between laughing with someone and laughing at some one. Laughing at our human condition and the silly things we do and laughing, often cruelly, at someone that we place beneath us.

In retrospect I could not reconcile the sadness on a clowns face with something that was supposed to make me happy. Or even a happy clown, like the Bozo of my youth, I could not reconcile with the sadness that lurked inside. I simply do not inhabit a superficial world, where I can take things at face value. One of the nice things about aging is, I know I have lots of company. My apologies to any clown lovers out there, that I may have offended.

Kelly Wheaton ©2024 – All Rights reserved