Why Play The Clown?

by Ian Sidney Lewis

For about two or so hours, on March the 31st, April Fools' Eve, I dressed up like a clown and sat on Ankeny Field. If you're thinking of a clown that was sitting there at around that time, that was probably me. Did the whole shebang, put on clown make-up, made my nose red, covered my hair with colored wax that was a bitch to get out, and gave out prizes to people who either did tricks worthy of a prize or because I thought it'd be funny to give it to them. I gave away some fabulous prizes, including a razor, a handful of grass, fifty dollars, a paddle ball, and a cotton-candy-scented fragrance. I gave a cough drop to a child. It was cold as hell. Someone jumped over me. It went pretty well.

Naturally, this sort of thing brings some questions. Mainly: Why? Someone asked me if this was for a frat. Some people wondered if it was for a thesis. I don't know what the parents of the child thought I was doing, but it must have been weird because they were remarkably cool with me giving their kid a cough drop after he did a backflip. I mean, why would someone do this? Why would a human being just dress up as a clown and sit in a field? Why are you now writing about this in your college's film and media studies journal, instead of a more reasonable outlet?

Those questions are reasonable. They're questions I can't figure out the right way to answer. Because, yes, on the surface, why the fuck would I do this? It didn't get a crazy amount of attention. It wasn't associated with anything. It took way too much effort. Way too much. I spent forty minutes figuring out how to put on clown make-up right, I made an Instagram account and plugged it incessantly (which you can find at @whitmanaprilfool), I put together a shower chair I DoorDashed because I couldn't find an alternative chair in time, and I sat outside freezing my ass off because I was wearing a clown suit.

I mean, I don't even like clowns that much. I don't think I've ever seen a clown in real life. Besides myself, now, I guess. They're weird. They're scary. Even when I was doing it, there were a few people who were scared of me just sitting there. I don't blame them.

I guess the easiest answer to the "why?" is that this whole idea just came about because I thought it'd be funny to just be a clown. But that's not an answer - it's just where it started. See, every time I get close to approaching the answer, I change the topic. I tell a joke. I go around in circles, avoiding the main instigator that caused me to sit out there, that day: me.

Part of it is that I don't like to talk about myself.

That's a lie.

I love to talk about myself. I love to be talked about. There isn't anyone who sits out on a field dressed up as a clown who isn't, on some level, desperate for attention. The abstract idea of being discussed makes me feel alive. It reminds me that I am part of this world. Something is entrancing about the confusion of other people, about their laughter, about being something they'll remember, even if just for the day.

When I say "I don't like to talk about myself", I mean that I don't like to talk about the parts of myself I don't like to think about. For example, I don't like to talk about how I nearly had a panic attack the night before and was so anxious the night before that I only got four hours of sleep. I don't like to talk about how much of my self-worth I've allowed to be tied up in the perceived opinions of others.

For my entire life, I've used jokes to hide my anxiety. Every time I talked in a social situation or had to write something or had to decide my future or faced the reality of the world when it showed up in death and grief and loss. When the going gets tough, it's easier to not be the version you see of yourself at your core. It's easier to be the clown.

But that clown isn't you. It isn't me. It's make-up, it's the puffball suit, it's the fake golden chain that got lost in the ruffles of the aforementioned suit and no one even saw. It's a mask. And for so long in my life, I've allowed that idea of a mask to rule me. It was something to hide behind. It drip-fed me social interaction without the risks I saw inherent in exposing myself to the outside world.

So, in the end, the reason why I dressed up like a clown is pretty simple: it's what I always did. I put on a character and got to talk to other people, without revealing the shameful self I saw beneath.

The thing is, when you dress up like an actual, non-metaphorical clown and sit in a field for two hours, it's hard not to put yourself out there. See, I intended to go out in that field as a character. I was supposed to be an asshole, y'know, stingy with prizes and being weird and insulting people and all that. I was doing a voice, it was a whole, ironic, almost pretentious thing. 

That didn't happen. When I sat there, when I saw them do incredible things, when I got to be there with a bunch of mostly strangers, I was just me. There’s something about being in such a bizarre situation that frees you of those social worries. No one worries about being embarrassed in front of a clown. No clown worries about being embarrassed. After all this worry and fear, I just laughed and I was happy and I had a good time. If you were there, I hope you did, too.

So, if I have to answer "Why?", I'll put it like this:

Because life is about putting yourself out there. Because you have to make yourself the center of attention and mockery and accept that, no matter what can be said about you, you will still be there. Because life is too fucking short to worry. Because we're all clowns, anyway, and, whatever you do, you might as well try to get a laugh for yourself along the way.