Getting Happy At The Unhappy Children's Home

by Jek Kelly 

 

I have been a professional juggler for 21 years. This, coupled with some other things occurring in my life lately, has caused me to examine the meaning of my career more carefully. This introspection has led to no lightning bolts or revelations, but it constantly brings one incident to mind. 

 

In the autumn of 1992, my wife, Nancy, and I were invited to represent Omaha, Neb., at the World Cup Street Performers Festival (the "daidogei") hosted by our sister city of Shizuoka, Japan. This was a great honor, and a highlight of my career. 

 

In addition to our daidogei performances we were asked to perform at some other locations, and were happy to do that. One of the shows was at an orphanage in Shizuoka. I was told that in Japanese the word for orphanage translates as "the unhappy children's home." That prompted two immediate thoughts. The first was that the name was appropriate and poetic. The second was that I would do my utmost to make the appellation untrue, at least for the hour or so we would be there! 

 

We were greeted at the door of the orphanage by the director, and ushered to a sitting room for tea, introductions and a discussion of our forthcoming performance. Following the formalities we were shown into a large adjacent room to perform. Several hundred children were politely and quietly led into the room and seated on the floor. I remember being amazed at their good behavior, and heartbroken at their condition. The director and one of our hosts spoke to the children. 

 

We did not understand what was said, but when they gestured toward me and said "Jeksan," I figured I was on. I worked as hard as I ever had, doing my best to please and entertain. I had feared the language barrier, but it was not an issue. The children smiled, giggled, laughed and applauded. They were happy, and Nancy and I were ecstatic. 

 

When the show was over, we and our hosts handed out small gifts to the children. It felt great to know that I had performed well, that I had made them smile. 

 

Then mayhem broke out. All of the kids seemingly at once decided they must have our autographs. The once polite and orderly audience became two little mobs, one around Nancy and one around me. Our hosts, the director, and staff were alarmed and possibly embarrassed, but we quickly assured them that we were delighted to comply with their requests. 

 

I am occasionally asked for an autograph when I perform, though I am always amazed and flattered by the question. I have no idea why a Japanese orphan would want our auto- graphs, but Nancy and I both steadfastly refused to move until every proffered bit of paper had been duly signed. This caused the staff and our hosts some anxiety, as we were running over time. 

 

Keeping to our prearranged schedule was very important to them, but we would not budge. No force could have moved me at that time! It was the most important thing in the world to me to sign those autographs, and to spend a few seconds with each and every child. Five years later, looking back on a long and wonderful career, and a longer life, I can think of nothing I have done that has been more important.

 

The Best Words I Ever Heard

by Barry Friedman 

 

Proclaiming to my father and stepmother that I intend to be a professional juggler, and then all but quitting society to make the dream a reality, wasn't exactly the recipe for child/parent bonding. In my case, it widened an already visible crack in my family's foundation. Rebellion ensued, stick-to-it-ness won out, and today (much to my parent's amusement) I am a professional juggler. 

 

I can't take all the credit, though. Fortunately, there was a shining star to guide me. Grandpa Joe was the happiest man I have ever known. A jolly, well-dressed man of medium build, extremely fair skin and thick eye- glasses, he was always armed with a joke or a story to pass on. His wife called him a "big kid" - which in my opinion is the highest compliment a man can be paid. 

 

When his only daughter married my father, she became my step-mom and Joe instantly became the grandfather to three teenage boys. We were full of energy and a welcome surprise in his life. A hard candy, a baseball, a picture from his childhood, a tale, a riddle - we always knew that we were going to get some- thing special when we saw Grandpa Joe. 

 

When I was 13-years-old Grandpa Joe gave me a red, plastic key chain from a liquor company. Under the name of the drink, in italic letters, it read, "Joe Donahue, The Smiling Irishman." I was so excited I immediately threaded my only key onto it and took it with me wherever I went. 

 

I can picture the brown leather recliner where he lounged and told tell me stories of being on ski patrol during World War II, of selling liquor to stores in The Bronx during the 50's and 60's, and stories of his beloved wife. They were detailed and coherent recollections, told with a New York/Irish accent, of a life filled with variety and passion. 

 

He was always at peace in that recliner. He also always asked about my juggling. "How was the practice today, Barry? How many new tricks did you learn? I would love to see you juggle today!" 

 

Excuse me?! Someone showing interest in me doing something I love!? Getting encouragement from somebody passionate about his own life had a powerful effect on me. He felt the same way about my juggling as I did - that it had the ability to save me from a humdrum life and give me a chance to live my dreams. 

 

Sitting here tonight on an airplane ride coming home from a well-paying performance for Oracle Software in Cancun, Mexico, it becomes obvious to me that I am who I am today primarily because of one special gift Grandpa Joe gave me: encouragement. I lost the red key chain long ago, but I remember every single conversation we ever had about juggling. 

 

Grandpa Joe, even though you died over a dozen years ago, I still think about you during my practice sessions" I want to let you know how well everything's going. And, more than anything, I want to thank you for encouraging me. 

 

(Barry Friedman is the taller and younger Raspyni Brother. He can regularly be seen at airport terminals around the world playing with yo-yos, spinning tops, or juggling balls. His wife is sometimes there calling him a "big kid.")