KINKER: CIRCUSING THE SEVENTIES

Chapter One — Once Upon a Time

I didn’t leave home looking for adventure.

I left because staying felt like suffocation.

I grew up in the Midwest, in a house where order mattered more than expression. Rules sat heavy in the air. Silence carried judgment. My older brother was brilliant and different, long before anyone had a name for it. His behavior confused neighbors and exhausted my parents, especially my father, who believed perfection was something you earned through control.

I learned early how to disappear without leaving the room.

I withdrew into drawing, music, and imagination. Creation became my refuge. Art gave me permission to exist without explanation. Still, it wasn’t enough. No matter how hard I tried, I could not become the son my father wanted. The harder I pushed, the further away approval moved.

Then the circus came.

It didn’t arrive gently. It rolled in loud and unapologetic, full of motion, color, and noise. Trucks. Wagons. Canvas. People who lived without asking permission. When I stepped onto the lot for the first time, something in me clicked. These people didn’t fit neatly anywhere, and they didn’t try to. They worked hard, moved fast, and trusted each other with their lives.

I was a teenager when I joined the Clark & Walters Circus, touring Appalachia and the Deep South. Overnight, my idea of time collapsed.

Each morning we woke in a new town. We raised the big top by hand. By afternoon, the seats filled. By night, the lights burned hot and the music carried. After the final bow, we tore it all down and rolled out under darkness. One-day stands. No past. No future. Just now.

Time stopped behaving the way it had back home.

On the road, clocks mattered less than weather, bodies, and instinct. You learned quickly who you could trust. You learned what fear felt like when it had teeth. I played the drums. I watched. I listened. The Silverlake family, who ran the circus, took me in. They didn’t ask me to explain myself. They gave me work.

That was everything.

The circus showed me a kind of relatedness I had never known. People depended on one another in ways that left no room for pretense. Animals were partners, not props. Nature was not background. It was a force you respected or paid for.

Back home, life was scheduled. Compartmentalized. Measured. On the circus, life was immediate. If you failed, it showed. If you succeeded, it mattered. There was no hiding.

For the first time, I felt present.

I didn’t know then what the circus would give me.

I didn’t know what it would take.

All I knew was that I had found a place where time loosened its grip, and for a while, that felt like freedom.