My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [5]
If only we adults could just remember to let our hearts do the talking sometimes, like kids do. Back in December of 2001, we held the first and only MuppetFest in Santa Monica. This was a weekend event for the general public and for television industry insiders. Along with projecting clips of the shows on giant screens and discussing the history of the Muppets, Jim Henson’s London Based Creature Shop (where they built puppets used in films such as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and animatronic creatures like those in Babe) held seminars on the making and maintenance of the puppets, the use of computer-generated images in children’s television, advances in electronics and radio-controlled puppetry, and a host of other topics. As performers, we didn’t attend every seminar, but we did all gather for the question-and-answer session. We sat on stage at the Civic Auditorium, each of us with a puppet on our arms.
Now, this wasn’t a gathering of kids; the audience was a collection of adults who grew up watching the show, a number of them dressed in full walk-around costumes of their favorite Muppet, and I noticed more than one super-size Elmo. These folks made me realize the connection between the words “fan” and “fanatic.” (Okay, it was a little like a Trekkie convention.) Most of all, the stuff they knew—from behind-the-scenes trivia to highly technical details—blew me away. The questions ranged widely, and we talked about everything from diversity among the cast and characters and the future of the Muppets, to new directions the Sesame Street curriculum might take. It was great to have such an intelligent and passionate audience, and we tried to have fun with it all, but then something happened to put the whole thing into perspective and to remind us why we were up there in the first place.
We’d placed a microphone in each aisle, where people lined up to ask their questions. At one point, I noticed a stirring in the audience, and I saw a little African American girl walking down the aisle. I thought maybe she’d gotten up to stand beside her mommy or something like that. I kept an eye on her. She didn’t stop by anyone in line; she just kept coming. We were on a raised stage, and when she got right up to the edge of it, she rested her elbows on the stage floor and cupped her chin on her hands, staring straight in my direction. But she wasn’t looking at Kevin Clash. “Hi, Elmo!” she piped.
Steve Whitmire was fielding a question about the responsibility he felt in taking over as Kermit after Jim Henson died, so I don’t think too many people heard her. I did, but I didn’t want to interrupt Steve’s response.
“Hi, Elmo,” she repeated. “I love you.”
This time her voice was louder. I couldn’t let Elmo ignore her, so I had him wave, but I knew that wouldn’t hold her. I was dying to get Elmo over to her. By this time, the folks in the front rows who’d seen and heard her started murmuring, and Steve and everyone else onstage were looking at the little girl. I went to the edge of the stage. Elmo bent over and hugged her and said, “Hello. Elmo loves you, too.” He put his arms around her and hugged and kissed her. That girl’s smile lit up the entire darkened portion of the auditorium. She hugged him back and they said their good-byes before she gleefully ran back to her mother.
The audience burst into applause. This little girl could not come to an event where her friend was and not say hello to him. She had to connect with him and tell him that she loved him. All the rest, the reminiscences and the revelations about new developments, didn’t matter to her. After that exchange with the child, that stuff seemed to matter a little less to those of us onstage and in the audience, too. That’s the power of giving and receiving love.
MANY OF THE qualities that I observed in my mother as she interacted with her daycare kids are ones I use in puppeteering: having eyes in the back of your head, split-second instincts, improvising, taking genuine delight