Last week, I found myself at the end of my rope. The excitement of my newly-finalized PoliSci minor was dampened by my inability to answer a cold call from former University President Lee Bollinger. My crush failed to show at Senior Night. My roommate left his dirty underwear on my desk. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a face marred by disappointment and failed promise.
When I was a child, my father caught me sneaking a brownie from the tray hidden in the pantry. He called me a glutton. I knew from that day forward that I would always have a wound related to my ability to seek pleasure. My root chakra was damaged. I would spend the next decade and a half attempting to heal it.
I tried talk therapy. Lindsay helped me to work out the kinks of my social anxiety and my sexual dysfunction. But I still felt a tug to perform. To please. To be desired. It was after my final therapy session that I found myself looking in the mirror once more. I felt the need to hide my face, my flaws. To cover my blemishes, my scars. I asked my marred reflection: what else can I possibly do?
That’s when my phone buzzed with an email notification. It was Groupon, advertising $5 off for an “Intro to Clowning” workshop in the basement of the Public Theater. It felt like a sign from above. I clicked “pay.”
On my first day of clown school, I learned that all of life is a performance. I was masking the way that I truly felt. The Clowns taught me how to let loose. To show the world who I am. And now, I can.
After I finish my classes every afternoon, I dip my hand into a tub of white paint, and smear a pasty layer across my forehead. I apply my big, red, honking nose, and lace up my 36-inch-heeled shoes. When I look in the mirror, at last I see life reflected in my eyes.
I am a proud clown. I am a freak. I juggle and I stilt and I bring the joy of my individuality to the world. I may have no money, and no food, but I can make nearly any animal out of balloons, and isn’t that satisfying enough? With the Clowns, I know I belong.
