Every evening around six o’clock that summer, a clown with bright orange hair and a fluorescent purple polka-dotted top hat rode past my house on a neon blue unicycle. A black lab in a red bowtie darted around below him.
The first time, despite the fact that I usually find clowns creepy, he was a delightful, colorful anomaly splashing across the monotony of suburban life. Jaws dropping, my roommates and I watched from our driveway as he looped, jolted, raced, wobbled, and spun in his own one-ring circus. The guy had skills. Ridiculous skills in every way.
As for each evening thereafter… “Guys! It’s the Unicycle Clown!” someone would exclaim. We’d all race to the windows or find an excuse to get the mail or check the sprinklers. He’d wave and pose even when no one seemed to be watching. Somewhat weirdly, he seemed to just like being a local personality.
I sneaked pictures of him when I drove past and sent them in a kind of incredulous awe to my family and other friends. Snickering, I related his story as if it were the mythology of our very own Loki. I felt justified because, after all, he clearly wanted to entertain.
Here’s where I stop sounding so smug.
One day as I drove out of my neighborhood, I saw the clown standing on the street corner with his unicycle leaning jauntily under his elbow. My youngest roommate, Ava*, was engaged in animated conversation with him, a bright and curious grin on her face.
No way. I’d avoided eye contact when I saw him on the street corner… Ava? Ava was leaning into curiosity, taking a selfie and petting his dog. Then, in my rearview mirror, the clown popped up onto his unicycle and swerved away, tipping that polka-dotted hat.
“His name’s Gary,” Ava informed me casually when we were both home again. “He’s an architect, and he lives three streets over with his wife and four cats. His dog’s name is Andy.”
Whoa. I felt convicted. Ava and I had both had the same opportunity to connect with this neighbor, but I missed the chance. Why? Probably because it felt too vulnerable to acknowledge how different Gary seemed, and it was easier to laugh at him from a distance. Had I even missed an invitation from the Holy Spirit?
In one simple act of curiosity, Ava moved past knee-jerk amusement at the expense of someone I’d designated as “other,” as a visual joke personified. She discovered his name and story and demystified his presence in our neighborhood, making him a friend she could wave to when she drove past. She didn’t ask him why he’s a clown, didn’t make him justify his unicycle. Ava showed interest in Gary as a person who brought his valuable self to our neighborhood every summer evening. She humanized him.
Who knows how this affected Gary—I’d like to think he felt bigger, more seen as a person that day. I know for sure that Ava and her world got bigger as she considered someone else’s contribution, perspective, and story. I also know her encounter changed how I saw Gary the Unicycling Clown. It made me ask, “What would it be like to live ready to see past the surface-level ‘wow’ reaction? What if I moved toward others in intentional, relational curiosity?” All these years later, those questions still stay with me and affect what I do.
So, I guess Ava’s act of connection made my life bigger too.
*Names and details changed.
