Clowns for the Climate
Seoul, South Korea
2022, Senior, Creative Writing
It’s really hard to stay positive. The ice caps are melting, phytoplankton are eating microplastics instead of carbon, and extreme weather is getting, well… uh, more extreme. But it is a lot easier to be positive with a giant red nose, multicolored hair, and a huge smile painted across my face. The crimson lips adorn my own lips and cheeks, making it impossible to convey the effect of frowning, no matter how hard I try.
Some people don’t really like clowns. I guess I get it on some level. Mostly, I just think it’s unfair to paint all of us with the same brush. Sure, some clowns are creepy, but the vast majority of us are completely harmless. In fact, a small number of clowns are actively participating to reduce harmful actions that are too often overlooked.
So why do I do this, you ask? As you can probably guess, I am a member of the latter category. I’m a performance artist. My act highlights climate change. Almost everyone knows a little bit about climate change, but the biggest problem is that people don’t pay attention. The clown get-up is mostly just to attract publicity. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, after all. It has been partially effective so far. I often chat with confused passersby, who ask the specific reason why I put on this costume every day. Sure, you’re protesting climate change, but what’s with the clown persona?
“We live in a clown world,” I explain. “The best way to make this apparent is by literally dressing up as a clown. People just aren’t paying attention, and this is an effective strategy to make them look.”
Another reason why I choose to be a clown rather than some other character is because people are more scared of clowns than climate change. This just makes no sense to me. Climate change is clearly the threat, not us. According to a poll taken by Vox in 2016, 42% of Americans are scared of clowns, compared to 32% who are scared of climate change.
My goal isn’t to frighten people, though. Humanity only needs to be scared if we don’t react to climate change. By raising awareness, I hope to calm the distress caused by the climate crisis.
My day begins when I roll out of bed. First, I make a vegan breakfast—avocado toast and orange juice—since it is quite difficult to eat in costume. Then, I’m just like everyone else—I put my clown pants on one leg at a time. After I have pulled on my shirt and buttoned it up, it’s time to put on my make-up. I wear a thrifted dress shirt, two sizes too big, to protect my costume from stains. I cover my face in a coat of white and then meticulously draw oversized lips in red. With blue paint, I sketch diamonds onto my cheeks, giving the look more of an accent. It might seem like I’m going into great detail to describe my appearance. I certainly am, but a clear description in prose is almost as effective as seeing me in real life. Think about it like this: I want the description of myself to stand out on the page as much as I want to stand out in real life.
Once I’m finally ready, I grab my upcycled cardboard sign and my prop bag, walking out from my cramped apartment (being a clown doesn’t pay much) and into the outside world. I am immediately greeted by confused looks, which are usually followed by smiles. People don’t really know what to do when they see me.
I sit down on a busy street corner, propping up my sign that says “HUMOR NOT TERROR.” The “m” in “humor” is shaped like a heart. In small letters below that phrase, it says, “We can stop climate change.” I have found that this approach is more effective than writing something more provocative like “MASS EXTINCTION INCOMING.”
Functionally, what’s the difference between a climate activist holding a sign like that and an apocalypticist waving around a poster that says that the end is nigh? In both cases, people will simply pass you by.
I have a number of visual gags that I employ in my performance. Like many classic clowns, I invite audience members to pull a handkerchief out of my sleeve. Once they begin pulling, it is revealed that the fabric is actually connected to a long string of six-pack rings, commonly used in packaging bottles and cans, meant to emulate the consumption of the average person. Audience members keep pulling and pulling the plastic out of my sleeve with no end in sight. Eventually, they make it to the end. The plastic now lays on the ground, ready for me to reuse it during my next performance.
I honk my big red nose. A larger crowd is gathering around me. I ask the audience for objects to juggle. Some spectators reluctantly hand over whatever is in their pockets: a light stress ball, a heavy windproof lighter, an apple. Although juggling is significantly harder when the objects differ in weight and size, I still masterfully toss each item into the air without letting anything touch the ground. I find that the participation is entertaining for the audience, and it saves me from having to buy specific things to juggle. After a few minutes, I return the objects to their owners.
I see a cameraman for the local news station out of the corner of my eye. Finally, some publicity. I smile and reach down to the plastic flower attached to my chest, squirting water into the applauding crowd. Delighted laughter erupts once again. I grab a bag of balloons, blowing them up and tying them into animal shapes. Before handing them out, I explain that balloons are not biodegradable. If you want the privilege of receiving this balloon, you must promise to care for it responsibly. But, more importantly, I acknowledge that to be conscious of the environment does not necessarily mean that individuals must shun the very things that make us human, the little things like balloon animals (although there are many more examples). People must learn to enjoy things responsibly in moderation.
This seems to be the most receptive crowd to date. They agree to my conditions as I pass out balloon animals to children and adults alike. The cameraman approaches, trying to get a better shot of the audience and, of course, the climate clown. For the first time in a while, I make a genuine smile underneath the one that is painted on.
“Thank you for being here today,” I say directly into the camera. “This is a very important event. I am here protesting every single day, so don’t hesitate to drop by and say hello. But now, if you excuse me, I have plans for this evening. Some other protestors are coming soon, though. They carpool.”
As soon as I finish my thought, a small car parks on the curb. An impossible number of clowns emerge, probably around eight, from the car that could only plausibly hold two people. That’s the best way to cut down on gas, right? The crowd bursts into laughter as the clowns from the car come to replace me at my station. This is exactly what we want: positive attention and good press. I feel content for the first time in a while as I pile into the clown car, joining my brothers and sisters to go make some change somewhere else.
Reflection
Reflection
Before writing my short story, I found multiple news articles about climate activists who dressed up as clowns. This idea immediately intrigued me, as I could not shake the image from my head. I wanted to get into the mindset of one of these devout climate activists myself. The arts, especially literature, transports readers into the shoes of the protagonist. The audience begins to have a deeper understanding of the motivations of climate activists. While this is a piece of fiction, it is inspired by real events. The actual climate clowns, like the clowns in my short story, use humor to inspire change without sinking into despair. I want the readers of my short story to recognize the efficacy of humor from both the perspective of the jokester and the general public. Maybe this story will inspire more people to participate in activism. If clowns can bring their strengths to the table, you can as well.