Waving Goodbye to the Circus

One of my earliest memories is of the circus.

It was 1976, I was 4, and a clown approached me, my mother and my friend Susannah in our seats. Would we like to be part of the finale? 

We would, my mother said.

The clown said she’d be back.

It was the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island, making its annual spring tour, and in my memory it was dazzling: bumbling clowns; elephants stepping trunk-to-tail; tigers snarling in the ring. It smelled like sweat and popcorn and childhood. 

The clown did indeed come back, and brought us to a tunnel in the arena leading to the famous three rings. We were given large cardboard top hats in red, white and blue for the Bicentennial. There were a lot of other children there; I remember feeling very small. A clown said some of us were going to go on a trampoline and some would meet an elephant and then we’d be taken to the ring to ride in vehicles that went around and around, and we'd bow and wave and smile.

Instead of "trampoline" I heard "trapeze."

I was terrified. Immediately, I imagined some spangly woman throwing me toward a tiny bar, far, far up in the air. I was an anxious little girl, scared of heights. But even then, I could see that the circus was about impossible things, about people flying and facing ferocious beasts and overcoming gravity.

I would do it, I thought. I was resolute. I had never been so frightened, but I would do it. 

The next thing I knew, tears were streaming down my face and my clown was back. "I’ll take you back to your mom, honey," she said. 

I tried to say, "No, I'm okay!" But before I could even get the words out, I was back on my mom’s lap, safe. I was both disappointed and relieved. 

Far below us, Susannah circled the arena floor, waving and smiling. 

Fear; excitement; missed opportunities; those things together trapped the circus in my dreams.

As an adult, I went to the Great Circus Parade in Milwaukee and visited the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisc., which was Ringling Brothers’ winter quarters. Years later, when I first moved to Manhattan, I was in the crowd when the elephants walked off the circus train and through the Midtown Tunnel on their way to Madison Square Garden. They tromped gracefully through the night, women waving from their backs.  

This year was Ringling Brothers’ final spring. Owner Feld Entertainment announced in January that the circus was closing on May 21st after 146 years. There had been a public outcry against using elephants in the show, which lead to them vanishing from the big top in 2016, and hence dwindling patronage. But attendance — and revenue — had been plummeting for a long time. Entertainment had moved on.

Last night was the circus's grand finale — and it was at Nassau Coliseum, where that first memory of mine was made. 

In March, I brought my 3-year-old son to see Ringling Brothers for the first — and last — time at Barclay’s Center. I was worried he’d be scared of the darkness, the tigers, the loud music, the clowns. He had never been to a show like that before. But I wanted him to be able to say, years later, that he was there. 

And I wanted to see it, too.

I showed him videos to prepare him. I told him a man would come out and say, “Ladies and Gentleman! Children of All Ages! Welcome to the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus!”

We got to the arena. He sat on my lap. "When they say it, Mama?" he asked. "When they say, Ladies and Gentlemen?"

“In a minute,” I said. 

And from those words, he was riveted. He gasped. He shouted in surprise. He asked a million questions: why were the motorcycles going around and around in a ball? Were the horses friends? Mostly, he loved all the animals. We bought a flavored ice that came in a plastic mug shaped like a tiger and a souvenir program with pictures. 

No one asked him — or any child — to be part of the show. We live in a different world now; I can’t imagine letting my 3-year-old walk off with a clown. 

Afterward, he framed my face with his hands. "That was amazing." 

He said, "Can we do it again?"

"I wish we could, sweetheart," I said, and we walked together out into the sunlight, toward the train.