My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [40]
It took courage—as it often does—to do the right thing.
IT WAS BLIND passion, laced with courage, that propelled me away from home and into the heart of New York City at the age of nineteen. When you’re young, you don’t think of leaving behind everything that is familiar and reliable as courage; you think of it as having an adventure. When I chose puppetry over college or a more traditional job, it was youthful optimism—strengthened with courage. When I stuck it out in the city after I found myself between jobs, it was grit that kept me going, but courage that gave me that grit.
Like all of you, I learned how to be brave when I learned what being scared felt like. Maybe it was the first time I wondered if there were monsters lurking in the darkness of my bedroom. Maybe it was when I got teased for being the kid who played with dolls. Maybe it was in the silence of the family car as I realized that racial conflict can happen close to home. Maybe it was being the young guy who thought he could make it in show business, even though the living was paycheck to paycheck. Maybe it was realizing that life could end when it was just beginning.
As a performer, I draw strength from my art, from entertaining others and bringing joy into the lives of those who may be hurting.
As a private person, I draw strength from the courageous acts of other people—whether they are professionals who put their lives on the line for the rest of us, or sick children who show no fear as they struggle to stay connected to life, or simply ordinary people who do extraordinary things.
Look around you. Their courage is everywhere.
THE COIL OF rope was so thick that I imagined it had once been used to moor a gigantic ship down in Baltimore Harbor. It had that strong hemp smell, and it felt powerful and heavy in my small hands. Dad would never miss it. I hauled that rope out of the shed and carried it across the lawn.
You would have thought I was the Pied Piper of Hamelin the way my neighborhood friends followed me, asking me what I was doing. I was a little master showman, so I simply shrugged and said, “You’ll see.” (I didn’t always know myself.) It was a picture-perfect summer day, and we were taking a break from chores to goof around outside, but baseball or tag was a bit too tame. I didn’t want to just play with my friends. I wanted to do something different; I wanted to entertain them.
Once there was a time, for all of us, when making friends was as easy and natural as breathing, even for someone shy like me. I never lacked for company when it came to other kids, and I had three friends in particular—Richard Green, Lorraine McCullough, and Orlando Jackson—whom I played with constantly. (My mom took care of a number of them, so I got to see them daily.) In my own quiet way, I was becoming the neighborhood ringleader, and Richard, Lorraine, and Orlando were always ready to go along with me when I had a plan.
I sent them into the field by our house to harvest the thick-as-hay grass the county had cut down and left behind. Every few minutes, one of them would return carrying an armful, nose twitching from the dusty load. Following my orders, they dumped the grass in a pile beneath the huge oak tree in the field until we had a nice high mound. Now we were really grabbing the attention of the neighborhood kids. Next I took a rectangular foot-long piece of lumber I’d scavenged and notched out the corners, parading into the field as my audience watched and wondered.
I shinnied up the tree with the coil of rope and looped one end over an enormous branch. Once back on the ground, I helped Orlando tie some knots in the other end to attach the rope to our makeshift seat.
Richard went first. While he sat on the seat, Orlando, Lorraine, and I hauled on the other end of the rope, pulley style, and lifted him until his head was just about level with the branch, a