Carousel
My son’s tiny fingers curl tightly around mine as we wait in line. His eyes don’t dare blink for fear of missing out. I want to match his excitement. He’s four? I do the math. 2013? Where was my first amusement ride? Six Flags? No. Some rogue carnival, like this one. It could have been anywhere.
I feel powerless as I sneak another peek at the video in my hand of Portland imploding. Really? Molotov cocktail? I understand. You’d like to file a complaint.
Looking over, I see Leo’s curious face beaming out at the spinning carousel; he’s bouncing, giving his Toy Story hightops a workout. I exhale deeply and act surprised by the parade of figures, slowly circling like vultures. Lion. Unicorn. Giant flower. Egyptian Nubis?
It’s as if he just teleported to another planet. The chaotic lights, rides, and sounds are mixing, confusing him. The song blaring from the merry-go-round’s busted sound system is from my youth. I didn’t recognize it at first, but it came to me — an old Ministry song. The lyrics are hypnotic, incomprehensible, but I know them, very inappropriate. Carnival standards. This isn’t Disneyland.
On the far side of the carousel, a teenage girl with green face paint and a black witch’s hat is “stirring” her “kettle” into cotton candy clouds on a stick.
“Which one do you want to ride, buddy?” I ask.
“Flying saucer!” he shoots back.
I see the UFO pass in front of us, its bright yellow bulbs flashing. Good choice. Just behind it, there’s an empty spot. For whatever reason, it’s just an open, exposed space on the ride, no whale or bull or whatever.
My eyes wander back to the video and check the frenzy in the streets. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to care. I want to shut it off and enjoy the moment. Ruin businesses? Destroy the community? So, you’re saying you have soft skills. I sacrificed six years of my life for this?
My mind is a funny thing. As I get older, random events will unlock memories from decades past. And I’ve been around for five decades. So, here we go.
I was on the phone with my (now) ex-wife. She was feeling lonely, emotionally isolated. I was seven thousand miles away, in Suwon, a small airbase in a foreign country where many of the citizens didn’t want me. I felt helpless — nothing I could do. I was only two months into a twelve-month tour of duty. I knew what I was going through. I couldn’t comprehend her side. We were young, too naive to be thrown into something so emotionally complex.
The smell of candy clouds and salty popcorn is everywhere. Looking over, I see Leo’s contagious smile. I wish I could be as curious—so much unknown, discovery, potential. The years have numbed me a bit, but I can still feel excited for him.
As the garbled music transitions to a new song, the ride slows down. Leo springs in place a little faster. We gonna make this one? I recognize the new song immediately — “Cantara” by Dead Can Dance. Eccentric. This ride is stuck in the eighties. I like it.
I was digging a foxhole in the sweltering Mojave desert in MOPP4 at two AM. I was exhausted, hungry, dehydrated, and I hadn’t showered in four days. Far off, maybe a mile, bright flashes were bursting randomly in the sky, “lighting up” the mountain range silhouette in the foreground. Due to our distance from the Abrams live-fire range, the popping sounds weren’t in sync with the display in the sky. A few meters away, I thought I heard my battle buddy sobbing in her gas mask. At eighteen, she was five years younger than me. She’d enlisted to escape an overbearing family situation and contribute to her country. As a lesbian, she was eager to prove that she was as capable and relevant as anyone. She was.
National Training Center exercises last a fortnight in “the box” and condition soldiers for war. One of the goals is to see who will break. Training the body is easy. Training the mind? That’s tricky. Chances are, if a soldier cracks in training, they won’t be able to do their job when the shit hits the fan. People die in training exercises all the time. No one talks about stress.
Just off to our right, kids have been busy at a Whack-A-Mole stand since we got in line. The cycle is predictable: three minutes of non-stop THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, followed by a Defcon One alarm, followed by a few moments of silence, then the sequence starts over. Nobody wins with this game, except the mole counting his quarters.
When the attendant opens the gate, kids with grownups in tow scatter to claim their spots, and our line creeps forward. Before long, I see we won’t make this round. Leo shoots me an exaggerated unhappy face when he sees the attendant halt our progress and close the gate. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand tighter for a moment. Patience you must have. Learn you must. I want to remember him like this — curious about what lies ahead. I want him always to be four years old, scrambling about the house all day to investigate and experiment with this, that, and the other, wearing nothing but Star Wars underwear. I chuckle at the picture in my head for a moment; then, I see the commotion.
There’s a struggle at the white horse. A pigtailed girl is firmly seated on it, but a small boy is standing beside her, glaring at her. He appears older than her, and he’s seized the leather reigns. The mare’s frozen expression seems fitting; the eyes are fixed open, looking on as though it’s reacting to the unfolding scene. Beat it, you little shit!
Seconds later, the boy’s mother catches up to him. She looks a little too made up for the carnival. The girl isn’t budging, and she’s giving the boy’s mother a what the fuck expression. Aside from the boring-looking giant flower, the other spots have been taken. Mom grabs junior by the hand, then shoots the girl a fake smile: he can get so fussy (if I’m reading it correctly). I’m sure he can. The boy, with a scrunched face, has made himself dead weight on the reigns.
Every parent can sense the meltdown coming. We do a quick check. When did he eat? Has he had enough sleep? Diaper blowout? When emotions and hormones are out of balance, survival instincts kick in — it’s fight or flight.
Mom gestures toward the giant flower, but junior isn’t having it — MY horse! Awkward. I understand the kid; he’s like every other kid, the center of the universe. My question is for mom. What are YOU going to do?
I’ve been there — my life changed when we had Leo. You want your child to be happy, but you have to be firm sometimes. Yes, you can have a strawberry-frosted donut, but not every fucking day. Growing up can be a shitshow for the child and the parent. It’s a balancing act, a learning process with constantly changing limits and boundaries. I want you to be creative and independent, but — right now — I need you to take your toys out of the toilet without a fuss. The process takes decades for both.
Raising kids is your marshmallow test on a twenty-year timeline. Perhaps no process teaches you to sacrifice more. Kids don’t understand concepts like time, boundaries, money, and freedom until they’re asked to give it up for their kids. Finding a way to manage it all is the parent’s learning curve. Some days you go back three steps. Some days you move forward one. But, once you’re sharing your lives, you can’t imagine the journey without them. When it’s finally time to eat your marshmallow, you may find more joy just giving it away.
From up high, the girl squint-stares down at the boy with pursed lips. Are you fucking kidding me? He’s not. It’s a standoff. And mom appears to be gesturing for some mercy from the girl.
I look over at Leo and see the spring gone from his sneakers. He’s studying the interaction carefully. What will be his takeaway? The squeaky wheel gets the grease? Do unto others? Win at any cost? With a look of defeat, the mother throws her hands up and apologetically fake-laughs at the attendant. Okay, not all parents were created equally.
As I search the area for the girl’s parents, I sense her beginning to soften. She’s apparently on her own. Stick to your guns; don’t do it. C’mon, mom! I can see where this is going.
“Hey, Leo!” I say.
“Huh?” he responds, still focused on the conflict.
“They have Slushies here!”
“What?” he asks, snapping to me. “Really?”
Well, I’m sure they do somewhere. Over the next few moments, I distract him with talk of strawberry slurry ice while I monitor the rustlers out of the corner of my eye. After the girl dismounts, mom thanks her with an expression that conveys it’s just easier to give him what he wants.
Immediately to our left is The Zipper, a ride that needs no introduction for those who’ve taken it for a spin. For the rest of you, it’s like a Ferris Wheel, but it’s a giant “cigar.” Not only does the cigar do summersaults (spin on the central hub), but the cages flip freely and move along a belt. So, there are three moving factors creating g-forces here. No thanks. Never again. Don’t get me wrong. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be all over that shit.
As the carousel winds back up, Leo hits me with a question, “Are unicorns real?”
No. Next question. I bullshit, “That’s a good question, buddy. You know, I’ve never seen one, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real.” Satisfied, he reengages the carousel that’s back up to speed. With peace restored, I go for my phone out of habit. Before I touch the screen, I recall the video: rioters smashing windows; a policeman macing a teenage girl in the face. After a deep exhalation and a moment of pause, I power down and slide it back in my pocket.
As if on cue, “Cantara” is building, growing progressively faster. This song doesn’t say anything, yet it’s so powerful. And, just like that, I’m pulled out of my funk into my eighties. I recall Lisa Gerrard’s comment about her songwriting style. It was something akin to the “words” having no meaning, but the sounds conveying emotion. Her vocals come from a confluence of influences. It’s as though she’s singing in tongues, with universal tones, across languages and cultures.
“Look!” Leo exclaims as he points at the UFO lights, which are changing colors. For whatever reason, the song, combined with the playful atmosphere, pulls me back to when it was new for me, my twenties, the nineties, my military years. I don’t have to recall specific events to evoke a strong sense of contented nostalgia. I didn’t fully understand what I was signing up for when I signed up for it, but I’m damn proud that my small contribution helped to keep the dream alive.
Before we can board the merry-go-round, there’s a commotion on the far end that needs resolving. Every child has dismounted the ride and exited the gate except for one and his mother, near the white horse. The delay has stopped the background music, which apparently can only play when the carousel is moving. Apparently, the little boy’s experience wasn’t ideal. Now, he’s lobbying for another turn.
While we wait a few more minutes for our turn, I say, “Okay, Leo, when the gates open, I’m going to stay here and wait for you.”
“Huh? But, I want to ride with you,” he responds.
“I’m not going anywhere. I want to take your picture. You’ll be fine. I’ll be right here,” I assure him. He’s a little uneasy with the idea at first, but when the gate opens and the other kids begin to scramble, he, possibly feeling a sense of urgency, goes with the flow. A wise parent learns that every moment is a teachable one, and you’re always a child.
When the carousel begins to wind, the music queues back up. Again, I recognize the song immediately, “Sober” by Tool. The slow opening seems to match the speed of the ride. Dude! Really? There are kids here! I know the lyrics, dark stuff. How is this appropriate? Just as I’m about to say something to the attendant, I hear that they’ve censored the curse words. Still, it’s aggressive. Why?
As a protective parent, I try to manage the influences on my children and filter out the ones I feel are inappropriate. I think about giving the attendant my look of disapproval, but for whatever reason, I don’t. Let it go. Lighten up. At least the ride is moving.
Leo, turning slowly and bucking for more speed, waves to me with both hands from atop the unicorn. For a split second, I fear for his balance. But, I ease back down when I see him steadfast, oblivious to any danger. He could care less about the music. No UFO? When was my first carnival? I can’t recall. With Portland out of mind, I allow the moment to soak in and put myself in his shoes.
I’m no longer standing on the side; I’m on the carousel, slowly turning. My view is the blurred repetition of bizarre carnival rides and streaks of light — flipping Zipper cages. The sweet smell of cotton candy penetrates my nose. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It’s all revolving, disorienting, unfamiliar. Maybe this is too much? The UFO, the elephant, and the white horse hold firm for the swirling chaos — out there. As the cadence gets faster, heavier, I realize my hands have clenched into solid fists on the reigns, for him.
“Why can’t we not be sober?”
I’m Gilbert Ramirez, author of The Chameleon: Plot to Weaponize Bias, an alumnus of The University of Texas at Austin College of Communication. I’m a philosophical technogeek, a Media Literacy freak, and a proud Veteran. I’m out to unite diverse cultures through technology.
I go by The Chameleon on Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter to evangelize Media Literacy topics: rhetoric, sociology, neurobiology, philosophy, psychology, and of course, media.