Growing up, I was a reserved child. I was one of the final few chosen when teams were picked in gym class (though that may be because, in addition to being reserved, I was also fat, slow and uncoordinated), I was scared of new things, and I was wary about meeting new people. All in all, I was terrified of rejection, being laughed at, being the center of attention…basically, being noticed. I just wanted to fade into the background.

Sounds just like me, right? Right.

When I was in second or third grade, there was a school assembly important enough that my sister’s class, two years ahead of me, as well as my brother’s class, four years ahead of me, attended. What could be so important to bring together such an expanse of children onto our rickety, undeniably unsafe bleachers in our poorly painted gymnasium? The paralyzed guy that tried to shoot himself but just ended up in a wheelchair? The MLK Day remembrance program? The drug dog with the perma-boner? Some eye-opening program exposing us to non-white, non-Christian, non-alcoholic individuals (or as we on the Range like to refer to them as – “the others”)?

No sir. It was a clown that brought us all together. A stupid clown with his stupid clown clothes and stupid clown make-up and other stupid clown stupidness. Now, I know there are a lot of people out there who dislike – nay, are terrified of – clowns. That’s all well and good, but I bet a good majority of them have not had a real-life clown trauma situation. However, I also understand clowns are like rabid monkeys or serial rapists – you don’t have to run into them in a dark alley to realize you’d prefer not to run into them in a dark alley.

I only remember the sketchy details of that day. My fragile child mind must have repressed the rest. In any event, at one point the clown asked for a volunteer. Dozens and dozens of hands shot up (I would love to say hundreds of hands shot up, but that would have to have been the entire school, kindergarten through 12th grade with their hands in the air, and that just wasn’t the case), but mine was notably not one of them. Go down onto the gym floor with the clown in front of the whole elementary school, a good majority of which consisted of my elders? Dream on, clown. I sat on my hands and averted my eyes.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

Stupid clown walked right on up to me and escorted me down onto the gym floor. In front of everyone, including the boy in my brother’s class that I was pretty sure I was going to marry (who is now married to some slooze that has two kids with her cousin [or maybe it was her brother, we’re not sure]). And what did the clown ask my chubby little seven-year-old self? “Have you been standing out in the rain?” I wish now that I could go back in time and say, “Do I look wet, jackass?”, kick him in his clown nuts, and walk out. But no. I was terrified. I just shook my head and felt the tears welling up in my eyes. “Well,” he said, “your head sure looks rusty!” I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, but I know I was the center of attention, I was laughed at heartily by all the cool kids, and I cried. God, did I cry. Damn it, clown, seven-year-olds don’t choose their hair color!

The only saving grace was that the boy in my brother’s class who I was going to marry but who is now married to a slooze that has babies with her family members said he felt bad for me and what the clown did was uncalled for. Sixth graders are so deep.

I think the clown incident was the point in my life that I realized if I laugh first, loudest and longest at my misfortune, then I won’t be able to hear anyone else’s side-splitting guffaws. I think this was how I coped the time my legs seized up and I was temporarily paralyzed in front of the entire boy’s baseball team, and the time during one of my thirty thousand hours working at the Soudan Store that my hand got stuck in the lottery machine and I couldn’t wait on customers, and the time I fell down the mini-flight of stairs in the Skyway. It is also the reason why every time I board the dreadful city bus and I tip over like a drunk straight off the merry-go-round before I get the chance to plop my ass in a seat, I always have a smile on my face.