Why go to clown school? Job worries, illness, anger ... joy

In a church basement near Denver last month, five Coloradans dressed in wacky regalia and big, honkin’ shoes marched before their loved ones — and past a painting of the Last Supper — belting “Pomp and Circumstance” on kazoos.

An audience of family, friends and plainclothes clowns squinting to recognize each other without white-painted faces cheered on as the five men, women and teens each leveled up from layperson to professional goofball. 

It was graduation day for the 2023 cohort of Colorado Clown Alley’s 10-week clown school in Englewood. The newly inducted jesters are now not only card-carrying members of a different variety of postsecondary institution, but rising masters of belly laughs, balloon animals and spreading joy in uncertain times.

The clown class of 2023 tickled Clown Alley president Isabel Nuanez as there were multiple young members, she said, inspiring hope for a rebound in the clown industry.

Whether people were compensating for the bleakness of the pandemic years or searching for a bit of childhood nostalgia, Nuanez said clowning is back — and the next generation of jokers has some big shoes to fill.

Turn that frown upside-down 

Emily Cooper, 30, had a rough start to the day.

On graduation morning, she discovered her Denver garage had been broken into and her e-bike stolen. She felt discouraged — a feeling she knows has resonated with many in recent years.

“Things have been kind of bleak, so I just really wanted a way to uplift my loved ones in the community,” Cooper said of her decision to embrace clowning.

Tensions eased Sunday morning once Cooper started applying her white face makeup and her alter ego, Lollygag the Clown, appeared. Once Cooper glued on her rainbow eyelashes and red nose, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. (To be fair, it was painted on.)

Cooper’s mother, Becky, and brother, Chris, had flown in from Minnesota for the big day and watched with pride as Lollygag emerged before them at her dining room table.

“This is really par for the course for Emily,” said Chris Cooper as he eyed the plastic bats, ghost-shaped string lights and moon phases decorating his sister’s home on a March morning closer to Easter than Halloween. “It makes me happy that she’s doing this because she’s such an empathetic person, and I think making people smile is healthy for her emotional state.”

When Emily Cooper decided to enroll in clown school this year, she was in need of a smile.

The insurance agent was laid off unexpectedly in January. Instead of foundering, Cooper wanted to have a little fun and refocus on her former passion for theater.

“I went from having conversations with people every single day where they would be crying on the phone about how they need this insurance but can’t afford it to getting to learn about how to make people laugh and smile and feel entertained or distracted from whatever stress or sadness they might be experiencing in their lives,” Cooper said. “That’s been huge for me.”

“My friends think I’m making a joke when I say I have to get up for clown class tomorrow and I’m like, ‘No, really."

Choosing laughter 

Aside from her blue hair and a comically tiny hat, Nuanez — clown alias: DaffaDilly — blended into the graduation audience Sunday.

Nuanez filmed the skits the graduating class performed — charmingly corny sketches with physical comedy, props and wordplay — and laughed among the hardest in the crowd.

Nuanez, 67, is the president of Clown Alley’s board of directors, making her the head jokester in charge of the school that's been teaching the fundamentals of clowning since 1970. DaffaDilly has been clowning around for 15 years, since Nuanez’s retirement from her state computer job.

At clown school, budding bozos learn how to apply makeup without looking scary, how to paint faces, how to perform skits and how to spot and stay clear of coulrophobes — people who fear clowns — among other talents, Nuanez said.

Each year, clown school alums pack the graduation sans costumes to show their support for the new class without stealing their thunder.

Barbara Kaare-Lopez, 71, introduced herself to the graduation audience as Nurse Patch-It, figuring she wouldn’t be recognized outside of her clown persona.

Kaare-Lopez graduated from Clown Alley in 2000. It was anger that led her to the school, she said.

“I was a cancer survivor, and I was very angry that I couldn’t have kids,” Kaare-Lopez said. “I thought, ‘What can I do with all this anger?'”

Kaare-Lopez chose laughter.

For more than a decade, Nurse Patch-It has cheered up patients at Swedish Medical Center. Her husband, Bernie Lopez, is also a clown by the name of Dimples.

Before the graduation ceremony began, Nurse Patch-It embraced Woopsie the Clown, who was going incognito as 69-year-old Nancy Haberkorn.

Haberkorn had a childhood dream of becoming a clown but didn’t pursue it until 2003, when her mother had cancer and was in respite care.

“I needed some joy,” Haberkorn said. “Plus, laughter is the best medicine for everything. My mom would put on my nose and wig, and we’d laugh and laugh.”

 The church basement buzzed on March 12, as attendees caught up and families prepped their cameras — until a hush settled across the room.

Enter the clowns 

A series of silly sketches followed, including one that involved pulling a rubber chicken out of a hat. Soon, the five graduates were marching to the beat of their own kazoos to receive their certificates. Two other graduates were out of town and couldn’t make the ceremony, and another person who started this year’s program became a clown school dropout after an ill-fated makeup allergy.

Braeden Schilling-Smith, 17, debuted his alter ego, Mr. Fancy Pants, on Sunday.

“I’m addicted to this,” Schilling-Smith said. “Getting ready and putting on my makeup and transforming from this awkward, gay teenager to someone who makes everybody happy — it’s just magic.”