I’m at my Catholic Retreat with my friends, on the cusp of our confirmation. This is likely ’88 or ’89. There’s no warnings here. No agendas. I’m talking to John, or somebody else, and the lights go off. It stays this way for a good 15-30 seconds– enough time to cause anticipation and a little anxiety. You can hear necks move, swiveling to see what’s happening. Once in a while a knuckle or some other joint cracks in the silence. When you can’t hear anything, the the strobe lights come on– aggressively. Everybody looks horrific. Everybody’s angular movements in the chopping light– their bodies like twisted car wrecks. Then the music from Godspell comes pouring out of the speakers. But the best part is the clowns.
The Clowns come sprinting out like athletes , then divide up amongst the audience. Soon the sprint slows down to a strut , then they attack us with makeup and clothes– transforming us into clowns, just like them.
My clown’s name is Colleen. She’s two years my senior and has really dry frizzy hair that’s the color of cat piss and oatmeal. She has the best smile. Maybe I’m making that up, but she is truly the sweetest.
She sits down next to me, with a bowl of water , wipes the makeup from my nose and asks, “Who are you?”
” Ummm. James Robinson.”
“No! That’s your name. Who are you really?”
Emphasis on really. I think about it. She continues wiping the makeup off, repeating the question. WHo are you really? WHo are you really? Who are you really?”
I repeat the same answer as before– and, like before, I ‘m wrong and punished for it.
And somehow it all ends up beautiful.
You’ll feel this way again when you’re 45.