We are the dead under your feet. We died in a train wreck in 1918. We worked hard and long, sweated and bled for peanuts and
popcorn; we had more fun in our lives than most folks ever do. We were showmen until the end.
-What I remember most about the crash was the cries of the elephants. Did you know that elephants mourn their dead? Just like you
and I do. They lament. They look upon the corpse of the one they've lost, and they lament.
-I died with my clown face on. The last that was seen of me before I burnt up was a vision of garish whiteface and a painted-on red
smile. I left behind the greatest show on earth to join the big top in the sky.
-I am buried in a grave marked 'unknown male.' I'd joined up with the circus only a few days before the accident. No one knew my
name.
My name was Adelaide. I was a girl of sixteen. My parents were going to force me to marry a man I hated. He was more than twice
my age, cruel and blackhearted. He had warts covering his face. But he had good money, and that meant I could get away from the
hand-to-mouth poverty of my childhood and live out the rest of my days swathed in diamonds and silk. But I didn't want finery, or a
rich, controlling husband. I didn't want babies or maids. I wanted freedom.
I cut my hair short, and disguised myself as a boy. I joined the circus as a roustabout. That's what I wanted – hard work,
adventure. I wanted to see the country and make my own way in the world.
-I am the '4-horse driver.' I tamed those fine chestnut horses that the spangled ladies rode bareback to the applause of adoring
crowds. I trained them to prance to the beat of the circus band. I fed them and brushed their manes. I mended injured legs and
calmed them when the jabbing hands of children spooked them. And I tell you, I never had a human friend I loved so much as I loved
those horses.
We are the trapeze artists and tightrope walkers. We are the men that put up the tents and ran the games. We are the girls that
danced in the kootch show. We are the mess cooks. We are the bearded ladies and the illustrated men. Lion tamers, calliope
players, freaks and geeks and high-flyers. Our families will never know what became of us. You lose all promises of security
when you run away with the circus.
We are the dead under your feet. We died in a train wreck in 1918. We worked hard and long, sweated and bled for peanuts and
popcorn; we had more fun in our lives than most folks ever do. We were showmen until the end.