Cirque Passion

While staying in a little Normandy village several summers ago, I had the great idea of taking our little girl, two and a half at the time, to the circus. It was called Cirque Passion.

My childhood memories of the circus were filled with wild animals, different smells, peanuts, popcorn and sitting high in the bleachers under a tent. We arrived at the tent early. It was small inside. It could probably hold no more than 25 people.

The circus family was mainly children under 15 years old with dark smooth olive skin. They were busy selling flashy fiber optic lights and balloons. I was so excited! The circus leader, a small dark man, stood in the spotlight. He told us the performers were all circus school students and this was their opportunity to do a live performance.

The lights went down and everyone gave a welcoming applaud.
Spotlight back on, a young girl of around 12 appeared in a shiny leotard. She moved with the grace and confidence of a seasoned performer.

A trapeze slowly made its way down low enough for her to swing onto. She perched herself gracefully as the trapeze rose back up. The music came on. The song of choice was “All By Myself,” a heart-wrenching, self-annihilating song. Music has always touched me. I cried when Kermit sang “It Ain’t Easy Being Green,” when I was 8 years old. I’m still traumatized by it.

The young trapeze artist did nothing spectacular. No “ooos” or “aaas” circulated the tent. But, I couldn’t handle the sad song, watching her “all by herself” up there somehow made me terribly depressed. Tears filled my eyes and I swallowed the lump in my throat, quickly glancing over at my husband who appeared to be doing just fine. Luckily, he didn’t see me and I pulled it together.

The next act came on. He wasn’t what I consider a real clown. He had no big red nose or white painted face. He was pretty basic. He wore a hat, baggy pants and big shoes. He also carried a horn. He began some mime act of a guy getting into a car. He ran around the ring waving and honking his horn. Then he parked his “car” and got out. He waited for us to clap.

He started scanning the audience. Oh, no! Suddenly I became terrified. What if he picks me? I don’t feel like acting like a retard clown in front of a bunch of people! Not me! He chose a man and then, he chose me. Yes, shy and introverted at times, me! Me, whose head shakes when I play a musical instrument. Me, who notoriously got kicked out of the audience for inconsolable anxious laughter every time my sister sang in the choir. How in the world would I be able to play with a clown in the circus? My husband seemed thrilled. My daughter looked like she was panicking. Oh, no! I would have to pretend I was happy! I would have to pretend I was enjoying myself for my little girl.

The clown made the man stand at one side of the ring, me at the other. The audience watched without a sound. The clown reenacted his mime car scene, honking and waving. Then, he came over and “picked me up.” I had to pretend to get into his car and then he made me hold him around his waist. It was intimate. I could feel his love handles and it was emotionally uncomfortable. Then he took off and I could barely keep up with him, my little legs flying through the air. I held onto his hips for dear life and then we picked up the other man! He got on, and we became a trio of imbeciles, running, waving and honking at the audience. As you can imagine, it was very disconcerting. A couple more laps around the ring and he set us free.

Relieved, I went back to my seat.
“You looked like you were having a good time!," my husband beamed.
“What? That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. That was awful!”
My little girl stared at me; she had no words for what she had seen.

A couple other acts came onto the ring, nothing momentous.

The last act was the circus leader and a mountain goat. In the spotlight we saw a pyramid of wooden stools piled high. The goat would climb up one stool, then he’d pause and lift his little trembling paw and do a 360° turn slowly. He was balancing on his three skinny little legs, pot belly bulging at the seams. The audience clapped each time.

I could feel my husbands’ shoulders trembling and I looked over to see him laughing hysterically without making a sound.

“Stop! Stop! It’s not funny!,” I said. I felt sorry for the goat. I felt sorry for the man doing the act. I felt sorry in all senses of the word.

“Oh, my god!,” he grabbed his shaking stomach and kept laughing.

The goat posed trembling as he reached the last and highest stool. All four legs had to dangerously fit onto this highly perched stool. He lifted his little paw, and then began his full circle, his body barely fitting onto the stool. It was like watching a 90 year old man forced to climb a 30-foot pole and then stand on a Frisbee-sized disc at the top of it.

“Oh, god,” my husband gasped for air, some high pitched wheezing began to escape from the depths of his being.

The audience applauded and my husband just let himself go. “That’s excellent! That’s excellent!” he bellowed between fits of laughter. “Oh, my God! Excellent!”

My daughter and I just sat and stared together. The lights came on and the circus was over. I don’t think my daughter understood the whole deal. Who did?