(I know we didn't technically have to post our narratives, but I felt like it so hey why not?)
Look. We're as happy as any of you will ever be.
We spend all day parading around with our comrades, adorned in fake gold and the richest of colors, among the fairest of maidens swept up on our tide. We, fueled by this insatiable craze, bask in the applause, the acclaim, the approval. And maybe it's all just a double-edged scheme, but as long as I'm still standing you'll think I'm still fine. Am I right?
The thing about roofs is that they all look the same — stony and expressionless keepers of secrets by the side of the road, lips sealed shut, not telling a soul what they cover. Warm fires, tethers, filled stockings, broken plates, broken trust, broken hearts — and the roofs watch all, and hide, and no one ever knows.
Four years ago, I looked up at the big, round peppermint candy of a roof over the Barnum and Bailey circus, striped red and white like pleasant memories. Crowds buzzed in the stands around the periphery, the volume of their voices rivaling the music blasting the speakers. Flashing purple lights illuminated the stage with a garish glow. Eyes riveted on the three rings in which dancers and acrobats stood in full regalia, ready to begin their act. Clowns paraded up and down the aisles, squirting unsuspecting spectators with seltzer water. Waddling in shoes at least three sizes too big, one clown with bright yellow hair approached me as if to evaluate whether I was worthy of being his next victim, bright red lips curved like a pair of smoked sausages. I, a newly crowned tweenager, too young to be frightened but too old to be amused, turned away from this pasty-faced buffoon, stuck my fingers in my ears to block out the brouhaha and eyed the scene dispassionately.
Impress me, you tacky dancers in traffic-cone orange. Give me a reason to be impressed.
My breath had yet to be stolen.
The acts of the dancers and acrobats made little impression on my memory; all I remembered were the elephants. They paraded out from backstage, with ladies dressed like brilliant spring flowers on their backs, footsteps in perfect synchrony. Arranging themselves in a circle, they performed a variety of stunts: perching on small stools, balls, and barrels, catching hula hoops on their trunks, balancing on their hind legs and each other’s backs.
“Jenny, look!” my mother hollered over the crowd’s cheering as she zoomed in on the elephants with her video camera. “Do you like it?”
“Um sure,” I said in an unnaturally cheery voice. “But do kindly refrain from recording your voice in the video.” This was a habit of my mother’s, a pet peeve of mine.
Though I feigned enthusiasm, my thoughts were swirling. For some reason, this part of the performance didn’t feel right. The dances and acrobatics had been much more entertaining, because they were done by people who had control over their lives and who had chosen to perform, but these elephants were different. Something about seeing them filing around and balancing in unnatural positions felt wrong to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time.
“Woah! The elephants are standing up! This is so cool!” my mother exclaimed.
“Okay, are you really this excited? Because I’m a ten-year-old kid so I think I’m supposed to be more excited than you are,” I muttered under my breath as I clapped politely.
I averted my eyes to a smaller ring on the side, where a circle of clowns tumbled, juggled, and performed other crazy antics. All of them, with brightly colored wigs, makeup, and costumes, differed in appearance, but in a way they looked the same: arching black eyebrows, puffy red noses, powdery white faces, like masks. I wondered what they looked like in their normal lives, without the wigs and makeup but simply natural, bare faces exposed. Each had his creases, creases that told stories, little bits of his soul, his family, and his life that were so much more a part of him than juggling or riding unicycles were. And yet the neon-colored balls and unicycles were all the audiences saw. I absorbed myself in this thought for a few minutes.
We know the bite of the bullhooks and the zap of the prods, the cans spewing Wonder Dust on our skin. We know the sting of the whips and the thud of the baton, all the wounds that you can’t see. The musty, narrow boxcars are our home. The soles of our feet are thick from walking long miles but we’re pachyderms only on the outside.
Something clicked inside me. How long had it taken to train these elephants, for elephants most certainly did not dance of their own accord? How much pain had they endured? How many bullhook wounds, how many whips had they lived through? How much had they been confined, isolated, shut away from the rest of the world in darkness? As happy as they seemed, adorned with bright accessories and stepping in sync with the music, what were they forced to hide that the crowds would never know?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small burst of flame and an acrobat doing flips, and the crowd began to howl as the music picked up its rhythm. My eyes swept around the scene, eyes and clapping hands and the walls glowing red, white, and happy. The circus wanted people to believe that it was a joyful place, and everyone believed it.
Suddenly, I felt a pang of guilt I couldn’t really explain. Why was I here among others, watching these suffering creatures, and cheering them on? Why had my family spent our money to see this act of torture? I was a ten-year-old child, and I was supposed to enjoy watching circuses, and yet I felt as if I shouldn’t be there, as if I were misplaced.
We are but lost spirits, ghosts, interrupted memories of our childhoods, stifled and beaten down. We are but automatons draped in wrinkly gray curtains, trapped inside bodies we can hardly call our own. We are but lonely souls brought here against our will with no knowledge of our destinies. We, trained to crack open our mouths as if in a smile to boast how happy we are, raise laughter among the crowds, who are oblivious to our suffering. We are but clowns.
Years later, I now sit cross-legged in a chair in my dining room, though the name “dining room” can only be used very loosely. Stubs of vine charcoal, trays of fresh Prismacolor colored pencils in all colors of the spectrum, sketchbooks, and drawings in various stages of completion litter the table. A clean sketchbook page and my graphite pencils arranged before me, I let my hands guide me as I begin to draw. The faint outline of a large head, the base of a trunk, and large, fan-like ears appear on the paper. Gradually, wrinkles, shadows, dimples, creases, — the fingerprints of time — materialize. The coarse, leathery texture of skin appears: nicks, cracks, deep folds like fabric in great need of ironing. On either side of the great head, I position the eyes, framed with thick, white eyelashes and myriad wrinkles — bunny lines, crow’s feet, smile lines, frown lines.
Picking up my Prismacolors, I slash the eye wrinkles with a vertical, diamond-shaped streak of Bleu D’Outremer, accented with Bleu Violet. I trace the outline of two black clown eyebrows with Noir, interrupted by cracks and splits in the skin underneath, and fill in the space between the eyes and eyebrows with stark white. And in the center of the face, I draw a big circle of Rouge Carmin and Rouge Toscan like a runny dollop of paint forming a streak down the trunk amidst the wrinkles.
I take a 6B pencil and swirl my initials in the bottom corner, dotting my “J” with a heart like I always do. Standing up to stretch my legs and rearrange my artistically messy bun, I look down at my sketchbook. The wide-set eyes, broad white forehead, and arching black eyebrows gaze back at me pleadingly, and with a start, I realize that this is a face I recognize.
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| A close-up on the eye of my drawing.. |
I dreamed up the idea for this poem during orchestra class (because, we all agree, I never pay 
