Tales from the Backseat: Be a Clown?

Author’s note: This story will be added to the continuing saga of memoir stories called Tales from the Backseat.

As an adult, childhood memories are designed to harken back to the nostalgia of yesterday and at the same time embarrass siblings and often ourselves for past deeds of awkward puberty, dated fashion choices and immature conduct.

Our family trip to Circus World is one of my favorite tales to hold over my baby sister’s head, and my own, I’m ashamed to say.

My sister is five years younger than me. As an adult, a seamless gap, but as a kid, the continental divide of chasms.

My sentence began with required matching outfits my mother loved to parade us around in, posing for stilted memories in celluloid. Cute for pictures, but torture for a preteen trying to develop a personal identity.

And then on that trip, I finally put my foot down… or as history show, in my prepubescent pouty mouth.

The circus museum was full of memorabilia from the long tradition of Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Baily Circuses dating back more than a century. As a brooding teen, my interest was moderate, but it soon changed to rage when an unknowing cast member of the museum kindly informed us that we could become clowns.

“Would the children care to be made over as clowns?” she said, handing my mother a flyer of a special offer.

To say my sister was elated was like saying fireworks make a small beep. She was over the moon. In fact, they could probably hear her squeals of joy all the way to the moon.

“Oh, can we, can we, pleeeaaase daddy,” she yelled.

She always asked my dad for everything.

“Of course pumpkin. Shall we go?” he quickly agreed and we followed the lady to a room with a salon style chair and surrounding mirrors visible from all sides.

I deeply sighed in disgust at the boredom this would cause while we wait for her. As the lady presented the clown makeup options, my sister took her sweet time choosing, until a blood-curdling scream reverberated throughout the building.

“That one! I want that one,” she commanded.

The one she chose was called Clown Princess and included a plastic tiara. But if that wasn’t nauseating enough, the lady had to up the ante.

“Ooo. That’s a good one. And it has a special powers. It makes you princess for the day and you rule everyone and everything.”

I saw the excited glint in my sister’s eye turn to an evil glare as she looked at my brother and I and decreed.

“Then they have to get clown makeup too.”

I instantly panicked. No way was I doing this. I had my reasons. With typical teen oily skin, I dreaded the acne this would create. And I didn’t want to look like a little kid, again. All the world may love a clown, but I didn’t want to be one.

“Aw come on, Dad. Do we have to?” my brother immediately objected.

I was saved. My brother, only a year my junior, and I would hold firm in teenage solidarity opposing the mandate.

My dad smiled and pointed to my sister.

“She’s the princess,” he smirked, almost enjoying our angst too much.

With one definite nod from the princess, my brother slumped over to the lady to make a choice.

“Whatever,” he said mumbling.

And then there was one. Me. I was completely alone, but not out yet.

“Not a chance. I’m not going to do it,” I folded my arms in defiance.

“Well, pumpkin, if your sister doesn’t want to,” my dad gently told my sister.

She glared at me as if all the trials of being the little sister bubbled up in one blast.

“I AM THE PRINCESS!” she insisted.

“Who cares?” I rebelliously stood off directly in front of her. It was like high noon at the OK Corral. Neither of us was budging.

Finally, the voice of reason, my mom, intervened.

“Ok, let’s just go. She doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want to.” And with one sentence, I was pardoned.

But then my eternal punishment was issued when all three of us took a picture. My proud sister with her princess makeup and tiara, my brother staring sullen at the camera in his makeup, hoping not to be recognized and me standing with my arms folded and a cold sneer on my face.

Even worse, that was the year’s Christmas card sent to everyone we knew; my teen angst on display for all to see. That moment, now frozen in time, was worth a thousand words. But without the story, I look like the spoiled one. At least I didn’t have to be a clown.