The Fallacy of the Fair

My red balloon drifts through the air as I cheerfully walk the fairgrounds with the string in one hand and my dad’s hand in the other. Despite the lingering aroma of kettle corn, hay, and stinky animals, unique to the fair, I was the happiest little girl there. Full of excitement, I sporadically tug at my balloon as I jump up and down, begging my dad to take me to the carousel. We spot it, “there it is!” I shout. Assuming it is only fitting that I choose the prettiest horse to ride on, I carefully examine each one. I find one white horse, in mid-gallop with firery red hair, and a gold saddle that I claim as mine. Slowly, the ride starts while I hang on to the gold bar of my white horse. Circling around a crowd of unfamiliar faces, I am able to look out and find my dad standing off to the side waving at me. The second time around, I look down in admiration of my horse and then back up to wave to my dad as I pass by. By the time the carousel goes around one last time, I grow familiar and bored with the scenery. Eager to explore further beyond this monotonous state, I step off the carousel once it comes to a stop.

It isn’t long after that we begin to hear what sounds like an old man screaming, Oh wait, that’s just the bleating goats! Soon, we approach the animals. Observing these furry friends make me realize they aren’t that much different than humans. The resemblance of human qualities is astonishing by the way the babies snuggle up to their mother longing to be nurtured, communicate with one another in a language of their own, and reciprocate their love. Despite our differences, there’s power behind our ability to still find similarities that enable ways to relate to one another.

Casually, we walk past the cattle and sleepy sheep only to end up by the pigs. Their cute, curly tails remind me of my pug at home, while their squeals and oinks are heard here, there, and everywhere. They seem to be unphased by the people standing on the other side of the fence. In a playful manner, my dad sticks his hand out towards the mellow, but alert, pigs and swiftly pulls his hand back. With my curiosity leading me to emulate my dad’s antics, I stick my hand out towards the sleeping mother. Instantly regretting this, my lip begins to quiver, tears run down the side of my cheek and I bellow as my index finger lies bitten between the lips of the pig’s mouth. I abruptly move my hand away out of hurt and shock. Passers-by may be questioning my intellect or lack of agility, but all that consumes me is bewilderment. I’ve always been told two things: One, don’t touch anything hot, like the stove, and second, anything with teeth can bite. I know pigs have teeth, therefore presumably they can bite. But having watched my dad do the same thing and not get bitten, I didn’t expect this outcome to say the least.

My dad walks me over to a sink where we stand by, submerging my finger under the cold water to dispose of any risk of infection. My screams begin to catch the attention of the bleating goats, as if I were imitating their own idiomatic ways of communicating. It is while I stare at my reflection in the mirror with tears streaming down my face that I realize, at such a young age, how things can change so quickly. Having gone from content to traumatized only in a matter of seconds, we remain in place by the sink until I have collected myself. Silence fills the small, grubby washroom with nothing except the cutting sound of running water.

Today, I am scared. I haven’t been back to the fair since because I can’t bear to look or even think about pigs, none the less eat bacon. Well, actually that couldn’t be further from the truth. However, it is true about what I said being scared. I’m scared of the unexpected and being led into a tunnel with no light at the end. This makes me a planner today and a worrier for tomorrow. It’s the reason why I find myself reading my horoscope for the day to come every night before bed. It’s also the reason why I say “I love you” to loved ones so often: every time before bed, every time I leave the house, and every time I get off the phone.

Fortunately, that day at the fair turned back around. I exited the animal attractions overlooking the doe-eyed donkey and lanky llama, only focusing on conquering the long, colorful slide. Along the way walking to the slide we passed by the endless supply of popcorn, funnel cakes, ice cream, and corn dogs, all of the quintessential fair foods. The slide sat nearby, attracting people from all directions. I climbed up the steps and once reaching the top, I peered down below where everything looked so little. With my two feet out in front of me, I began to slide down. My hair brushed behind my shoulders as I picked up speed. By the time I reached the bottom, the sun was just going down and it was time to go home. As we walked back, I still held my balloon in one hand and my dad’s hand in the other. The twinkly lights strung above from booth to booth shined bright, exposing only the smile on my face.

Sometimes, I find myself looking down at the scar on my finger fading away. Though it may not be obvious that I was bitten by a pig as a child, the repercussions are still heavily prevalent in my life. I find others always trying to find reasons or explanations in an effort to make sense of things. Though this experience of mine may be where my craving for stability and fear of the unknown has originated, it has equipped me to accept that some things simply don’t have explanations and uncertainty will always exist. The unexpected is bound to happen, so you might as well embrace it. Perhaps we all start off being on the carousel’s cycle and stepping off represents leaving behind our youth. Realizing that the carousel only went in circles and didn’t end anywhere, I stepped off that day at the fair with my intuition telling me adventure is out there. I was right, staying on would limit my freedom and growth; there is no getting to your true destination by the continuously spinning carousel. Where will my final destination be? Well, I’m not completely sure and to say the least, that scares me.

Summer of 2002