In English class we wrote essays that we hoped would be submitted to our local NPR station. Mine wasn't nominated by the class but I'm proud of it nevertheless.
------
My parents are never sad to see me run away to join the circus.
Every day of the week after I get home from school, I change into leggings and a tank top and drive to the circus. I don’t see any tents, animals, or even clowns. The painted golden wall, with silhouettes of acrobats mid flip, is the only sign that the warehouse is anything special.
Training all year is a big responsibility, all leading up to twelve shows during the weekends of march. Everything needs to be choreographed and in character, even moving mats. The worst days are when the lighting and music cues are created. Ten hour work days on February weekends are worth the work, no matter how much anyone complains.
If the performances aren’t enough, I have the calluses and bruises to prove my work. Blisters and rips on hands are common with the trapezists, while rope and fabric burns are on the waists the ones who perform on them. Biceps and lower backs are deep purple and lemon yellow from where taped metal met skin, over and over again. Circus hurts, but it’s a pain that you get used to and look forward to.
No amount of training prepares me to perform a new show in front of an eager audience. Every first show brings up the same nerves as it did in all my past performances, my stomach churning and goose bumps every time I look out at the people waiting for me to do something fantastic. I don’t think I’ll ever be perfectly calm before a show.
It seems all too sudden when the house music fades and the lights dim until our director explains the safety rules. Chaos in the six foot wide backstage as everyone scrambles to where they should have been a long time before. Applause and then silence as the director makes his way back up to the tech booth. Lights and sound rise and the stage is animated with colors and performers.
This is the home that I’ll never run away from.
With a Perspective, I’m Owen Fairchild.
------
My parents are never sad to see me run away to join the circus.
Every day of the week after I get home from school, I change into leggings and a tank top and drive to the circus. I don’t see any tents, animals, or even clowns. The painted golden wall, with silhouettes of acrobats mid flip, is the only sign that the warehouse is anything special.
Training all year is a big responsibility, all leading up to twelve shows during the weekends of march. Everything needs to be choreographed and in character, even moving mats. The worst days are when the lighting and music cues are created. Ten hour work days on February weekends are worth the work, no matter how much anyone complains.
If the performances aren’t enough, I have the calluses and bruises to prove my work. Blisters and rips on hands are common with the trapezists, while rope and fabric burns are on the waists the ones who perform on them. Biceps and lower backs are deep purple and lemon yellow from where taped metal met skin, over and over again. Circus hurts, but it’s a pain that you get used to and look forward to.
No amount of training prepares me to perform a new show in front of an eager audience. Every first show brings up the same nerves as it did in all my past performances, my stomach churning and goose bumps every time I look out at the people waiting for me to do something fantastic. I don’t think I’ll ever be perfectly calm before a show.
It seems all too sudden when the house music fades and the lights dim until our director explains the safety rules. Chaos in the six foot wide backstage as everyone scrambles to where they should have been a long time before. Applause and then silence as the director makes his way back up to the tech booth. Lights and sound rise and the stage is animated with colors and performers.
This is the home that I’ll never run away from.
With a Perspective, I’m Owen Fairchild.