My first memory of going to a carnival was when I was thirteen years old. It was, more or less, my first experience of being with friends without parental supervision. We became screaming banshees marauding throughout the midway, riding the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Scrambler, the Round-Up, and hunting for packs of boys. It was a carnivorous time. That night I was whistled at by a twenty-something year old carny, the ultimate confirmation of my sexual debut. I felt so omnipotent, in my own tiny universe.

An old saying goes: “When the Carnival comes to town, lock up your daughters and bring in the laundry.” Is this the only reputation the carnival has? A carny named EZ once explained, “When we leave this town, these people won’t think about the people running the carnival, but they will remember that the carnival was here.” Then who are carnies?

 I sought my answers in carnivals across the western plains of Nebraska and Wyoming, deep in the hollers of Appalachia, and through the valleys of California. The carnies told me who they were, and of their life with the carnival. I discovered that they are America’s Gypsies. The rock salt of this land taking the hard knocks society gives and spins it into sugar for the little child, in all of us, to enjoy.

 Most importantly, the carnival showed me what it means to folks across this country.

In my universe, I have my memory of the carnival: within yours, I’m sure you have your own. Nearly everyone who has ever been to a carnival has carried away these indelible impressions. This collective memory of ourselves as youth becomes a part of our Americana.