(18+ for adult content, graphic nature and gore.)
Introduction
When carnivals are all you know, you become a freak on a whole new level. Somewhere along the lines, "freak" became a derogatory term. It was a concept that I could never understand. Growing up around Carnies, some to be the best people I'd ever known and met, to think of them in a bad way seemed shameful.
It wasn't until I grew more wise about society's expectations and views that I understood. "Freak" was a derogatory term for "different" or "out of the normal". Or even so, less than the expectations and standards of others. It was all on perspective, really. What seemed normal for me, was strange for others.
Constantly traveling with a band of circus performers and carnival workers since the moment I crawled out of my mother's womb, that was strange to others. The ones that still lived in the same place they were born and raised, who grew up in the same house. Who stepped into a job in a single building or mill, or on a farm, and stayed there for years. To me, that was the meaning of strange. But while others held harsh judgment for us, I didn't hold any for them. They were strange to me, yes. But it was only a perspective of difference.
"Home" wasn't a building. It wasn't four walls of a bedroom. It wasn't a town, or a place. It was people. My mother, a trapeze performer. My father, the owner and ring leader of the Carnival of Harts. The other workers and performers of the Carnival and Circus that became our family, a band of strangers at first that became a team.
There were always temporary family. Some that came and left at the beginning and end of summer, but for those few months, they'd been a part of the team. Some stayed, some went. But in the end, they were family. They were a Hart by association.
Me? I was Audrey Hart, born and raised by Carnies. The chiming of carnival music was my lullaby. The Carnies, my closest friends and family. I didn't learn how to play tag or hide and seek as a child, but you can bet your sweet ass I could toss a ring with more accuracy than any five year old on the Eastern region of the United States. While little girls my age would be playing with dolls, I played with knives. After learning the proper safety precautions with sharp objects, of course.
I never knew what it was like to sit in a classroom, be taught by a woman in a skirt down to their ankles and brandishing a ruler. I was homeschooled by my mother. At the kitchen table of a camper, while she wore her trapeze leotard because she'd had to fit in a lesson between her performances.
I learned to read from the strong man, an intellectual man who could pull a truck that weighed a ton with nothing but a thick belt around his belly but loved to read the classic literature. I received lessons on chemical science from the firebreather, who taught me how to properly lubricate your throat to avoid burns from the torch - and how exactly that worked, the properties of which nulled the burns. I learned biology from the sword swallower, who taught me the proper mechanics of how to swallow a sword and how the wrong angle - even just an inch or centimeter - could pierce your heart. I knew the anatomy of the body quicker than any child my age. Inside and out. I learned how to fix the carnival rides, and the physics behind the merry-go-round by the workers that allowed me to watch them.
And most of all, I learned how to run a business from my father. How to socialize, to be charismatic. I learned how to read people, read a crowd. To be able to manipulate one's fears, and to turn it into a performance.
These people that would come to our shows, to gasp with awe and horror at what they saw. Who paid their hard-earned money to watch us. While they spoke in hushed whispers about our strangeness or "freakish behaviors" and talents, I wouldn't change a thing about my life. Because in the midst of our strangeness, our freakish talents, we were a tighter knit family who laughed, sang and danced. Who held genuine smiles and knew a happiness that the mundane could only dream of.
They could keep their normalcy. I, on the other hand? Sign me up with the "freaks", sweetheart.
Introduction
When carnivals are all you know, you become a freak on a whole new level. Somewhere along the lines, "freak" became a derogatory term. It was a concept that I could never understand. Growing up around Carnies, some to be the best people I'd ever known and met, to think of them in a bad way seemed shameful.
It wasn't until I grew more wise about society's expectations and views that I understood. "Freak" was a derogatory term for "different" or "out of the normal". Or even so, less than the expectations and standards of others. It was all on perspective, really. What seemed normal for me, was strange for others.
Constantly traveling with a band of circus performers and carnival workers since the moment I crawled out of my mother's womb, that was strange to others. The ones that still lived in the same place they were born and raised, who grew up in the same house. Who stepped into a job in a single building or mill, or on a farm, and stayed there for years. To me, that was the meaning of strange. But while others held harsh judgment for us, I didn't hold any for them. They were strange to me, yes. But it was only a perspective of difference.
"Home" wasn't a building. It wasn't four walls of a bedroom. It wasn't a town, or a place. It was people. My mother, a trapeze performer. My father, the owner and ring leader of the Carnival of Harts. The other workers and performers of the Carnival and Circus that became our family, a band of strangers at first that became a team.
There were always temporary family. Some that came and left at the beginning and end of summer, but for those few months, they'd been a part of the team. Some stayed, some went. But in the end, they were family. They were a Hart by association.
Me? I was Audrey Hart, born and raised by Carnies. The chiming of carnival music was my lullaby. The Carnies, my closest friends and family. I didn't learn how to play tag or hide and seek as a child, but you can bet your sweet ass I could toss a ring with more accuracy than any five year old on the Eastern region of the United States. While little girls my age would be playing with dolls, I played with knives. After learning the proper safety precautions with sharp objects, of course.
I never knew what it was like to sit in a classroom, be taught by a woman in a skirt down to their ankles and brandishing a ruler. I was homeschooled by my mother. At the kitchen table of a camper, while she wore her trapeze leotard because she'd had to fit in a lesson between her performances.
I learned to read from the strong man, an intellectual man who could pull a truck that weighed a ton with nothing but a thick belt around his belly but loved to read the classic literature. I received lessons on chemical science from the firebreather, who taught me how to properly lubricate your throat to avoid burns from the torch - and how exactly that worked, the properties of which nulled the burns. I learned biology from the sword swallower, who taught me the proper mechanics of how to swallow a sword and how the wrong angle - even just an inch or centimeter - could pierce your heart. I knew the anatomy of the body quicker than any child my age. Inside and out. I learned how to fix the carnival rides, and the physics behind the merry-go-round by the workers that allowed me to watch them.
And most of all, I learned how to run a business from my father. How to socialize, to be charismatic. I learned how to read people, read a crowd. To be able to manipulate one's fears, and to turn it into a performance.
These people that would come to our shows, to gasp with awe and horror at what they saw. Who paid their hard-earned money to watch us. While they spoke in hushed whispers about our strangeness or "freakish behaviors" and talents, I wouldn't change a thing about my life. Because in the midst of our strangeness, our freakish talents, we were a tighter knit family who laughed, sang and danced. Who held genuine smiles and knew a happiness that the mundane could only dream of.
They could keep their normalcy. I, on the other hand? Sign me up with the "freaks", sweetheart.