Ringling Bros. chased a fading spotlight: Charles the Clown

Charles the ClownPublished USAToday, Jan. 18, 2017 | Updated 5:07 p.m. ET Jan. 19, 2017

Back in the day, we did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show.

              By Charles Kraus

(Photo: Kraus)

Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus is closing. Not for the season, but forever. Each year from 1950 until 1966, when it came to New York City, I attended a performance. Initially because my parents took me. Later because I felt that watching the Greatest Show on Earth would do me some good.

Back then, before sideshows were considered degrading, I’d arrive early so I could tour the preamble. The giant slipped his plastic ring from his pinky, passed a silver dollar through it, then peddled duplicate rings to the crowd. There were contortionists, sword swallowers, fire eaters and a guy who could paint a detailed picture of Niagara Falls in less than 30 seconds. He just happened to have a few dry copies he could part with for a ridiculously low price — low for serious art like his.

Once you got to the bleacher seating, you could look out on three rings plus two squares, rigs, ropes suspended from way up high, waiting to be climbed by beautiful women (beautiful from where we were sitting), costumed acrobats, twirling, flipping, balancing. Dancing bears, prancing horses carrying trick riders, elephants doing “head” stands, dogs bounding through the air.

We did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show. The lions, of course, were confined to large, walk-in cages. That is where the lion tamers confronted them. No matter what you were watching, you were tempted to refocus on another of the simultaneous exhibitions crowding the enormous floor.

Experiencing a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey show was similar to attending a big league game. You knew you were watching seasoned, superbly trained professionals at the peak of their careers. I once witnessed a high-wire performer balance his way up the support cable to the platform 60 feet above ground, do his act and then, seemingly for the fun of it, cross to the guard rails that kept those of us with bleacher seats from going over the edge. He strolled along the top of the railing, located a sturdy wire, then slide down, down, down to the sawdust.

These acts were astounding. But mostly, I waited for Emmett.

I saw Emmett Kelly year after year in his star turn as the leading Ringling Bros. clown. His character was a sad hobo named Weary Willie. Kelly played to segments of the audience, turning one against the other. He’d do a bit of juggling and become “disappointed” with the reaction of the crowd. Dismissing it, he’d move to another part of the arena and try his luck with a different portion of the audience. Back and forth, without saying a word, he commanded everyone’s attention. And admiration.

As his act concluded, the house lights dimmed. Emmett tried to sweep the floor clear of an ever roaming, ever fading spotlight. He was so sad, so lost and confused. And so funny. It was humor with pathos, very different than the slapstickery performed by the other clowns. I liked the other clowns, too, the business of a tiny car coming to a stop in the middle of the center ring and two dozen costumed zanies emerging from inside. But these clowns had no particular personalities. They were colorful, funny and entirely interchangeable. Emmett was unique.

Ringling Bros. chased that elusive spotlight into the 21st century. And just like Emmet, the spots grew more and more difficult to pin down. Finally, they faded away.
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Apprehension Trumps

Apprehension Trumps

By Charles E. Kraus

Malcolm Gladwell called it the tipping point. My mother called it the final straw.  Now we are calling it the Trump Administration.

I cast my first Presidential vote in 1964, so I've come to expect a kind of pre-inaugural anticipation, new administration and all.  But this time it's different.  No anticipation.  Apprehension prevails.

From time to time, when the economy is bad, when we’ve begun or prolonged or intensified yet another war, when a ravaging disease such as HIV threatens, when something big enough to qualify as actual breaking news occurs, I wonder if my personal trip line has finally been crossed. If I'm impacted enough to respond in a serious, meaningful way. Is the event so disruptive that my reaction will be more demonstrative than shaking my head and shouting at the screen.  

My daughter will be in the Capitol on January 21.  Where will I be?

Some of us have never experienced a tipping point.  We've made decisions, but not disruptive ones. We've gotten married, become parents, gone off to work – lived lives in the prescribed sequence, traveling the kind of existence that a GPS might recommend. Logical, direct, uninspired.  

We've acquired houses and families. Financial commitments. Parental responsibilities, and workplace obligations . We are, or feel we are, locked into our lives. As the political system disassembles, we observe, maybe even bitch about the decline in government accountability and civic decency.  From just past nowhere, zealots reveal themselves and threaten to out maneuver  reasonableness.  This is happening on our watch, but who has the time to do anything more than click a petition, send a letter or make a donation?

When does the country turn so unsettling, unhinged and potentially damning to our children that we are obligated to act? And if we feel inclined to do so, to take action, what does that mean? Describe it please. Define meaningful. To me and more importantly, to yourself.

A great many years ago I knew a couple, two law students whose lives consisted of study and work, work and study. Comfortably middle class, and though this was during the Vietnam War era, a time when many young people marched and protested, my friends were far too involved in their personal development to do more than pay lip service to civic issues.

In May 1970, National Guardsmen shot and killed four Kent State students during a protest against bombings in Cambodia. There were no cable news operations, no instant internet alerts. If CBS, NBC or ABC told the public about a breaking news story, the networks meant a serious, consequential event had occurred. People stopped what they were doing and listened or watched.

My friends were highly focused. Disciplined. They'd regimented their lives, adhering to a schedule that would not distract from studying for the bar exam. External events were on hold.

I believe the classical station was broadcasting nondescript background music when the interruption came. An announcer broken into the program to report that four Kent State students had been shot and killed during a protest. My friends heard this and continued studying. Several days later, The New Mexico National Guard bayoneted 11 students. These and similar events lead to the country's only nationwide campus strike. Hundred of colleges and universities shut down. Four million students participated. Including my friends.

Five days after the Kent State murders, 100,000 people showed up in our nation’s capitol to demonstrate against the Guard’s brutality, and against the war. My friends closed their text books, altered their plans, got into their car and drove to DC. They'd had enough.  The country turned against the war.  A collective tipping point had been reached. 

The current issues are about another kind of war, a war against common sense, reasonableness and decency.