Like the Freaks They Were

There is an art to being different. It requires patience and bravery. Sometimes, it requires miracles and a little magic. But more than anything, it requires integrity and compassion — to stand in your truth and be YOU while forgiving others for hating you without knowing why.

The freaks, the weirdos, the queers — the ones who are phenomenally different by nature — they are to be admired, envied even, by those who live in conformity. What freedom there is in being different. What wonder! Without pretense, without the veil of sameness, without a blinding urgency to blend in and be like everyone else. By nature, they are outcasts already privy to stares and slights. In most cases, it was undesired, cruel, and painful. But there is an exquisite magic in commanding such formidable attention simply by being different.

This is what made the freaks of Gypsy, Florida, such a treasure. As circus rejects with deformities and oddities abound, they didn’t ask for the attention they received. But neither did they turn away from it. They understood their responsibility: to instill in men a sense of wonder and fear and disrupt the banality and self-righteousness of their world.

It was this responsibility to create reverence among the normals that set Milk Toast and Penny on a mission to attend public school instead of the classes that Armax taught. Armax was a great teacher, and they both loved him like a surrogate uncle. But as a former bullfighter with a lisp and a limp, lessons tended to last a lot longer than they should. Long division had already taken weeks, and they were both eager to be the first in their families to go to college.

The two were quite a pair. Cousins by birth, and best friends by choice, they’d grown up traveling with their families in the circus. Until Wizard — Penny’s father — had fallen from the trapeze and broken his back. Doc had sent him on med leave to Gypsy to live out his retirement, and Penny and Milk Toast had been sent to care for him.

Milk Toast’s real name was Milton Toze, but no one called him that anymore. His alabaster skin and shock white hair lent an irony to the nickname that spared him the cruelty of it. And Penny, who was a fierce redhead and a dwarf standing just under four feet, had always called him Milky Toes anyways. So the nickname stuck.

Neither cared about being called a “freak” according to society’s standards. They’d been taught to celebrate the little things that made them special. In the circus, the weirder your flaws, the more celebrated you were. The more people revered you. Milk Toast knew this firsthand. He’d been the Ghost Boy his first season. And the people had loved him and his opaque skin. Translucent enough to see his blue veins. They would stand in awe outside his pen and ooh and aah over his abnormalities.

Penny had never been in a show, but she knew the crowds her father would draw as a one-legged dwarf aerialist. Being different, being weird, it was an adventure. It was your podium. And you could stand up on it and declare yourself anything you wanted and no one could say you were wrong.

That’s why they wanted to go to public school. Not to be just like them, but to exist where they existed and prove that being different was a gift and normality was a curse. Even though the local kids hurled insults and threw stuff at them. They knew it wasn’t out of hatred. It was fear. Fear that they would never be great, they would never have something special inside them. They would just be boring and normal and remain an everlasting part of the status quo.

Of course, they still had to tell Armax that they were not going to be learning from him anymore. He was a big man, but also incredibly dainty and somewhat of a softie. He cried at sad movies and love songs, and even some commercials. He had tea every Sunday afternoon with Granny Lavinia, who was blind and mostly deaf. And Rocco, his three-legged bull, would sit on a large beanbag and watch reruns of I Love Lucy.

They trekked over to his small converted house, an old car repair shop turned humble shack. Their arms were full of his favorite goodies: potato salad, fried chicken, and hummingbird cake. It was both a bribe and a celebration feast.

Penny knocked on the door of his shack in the pattern Armax demanded. “Shave and a haircut…” she sang, while Milk Toast shook his head, amused.

“Two bits!” came the muffled response, just before the door was flung open.

“Ahh, cara mia, mi amigo,” he said with a bow, “come, come.” He held his arm out wide, ushering them inside. Despite its appearance outside, the little shack was much bigger on the inside. Walls were painted goldenrod, the couch a deep purple, and in the hallway stood a three-legged bull, breathing heavily. He looked over lazily at them and snorted.

“Rocco! Have some manners,” Armax said. The bull grunted before bowing his head in Penny’s direction. “That’s better,” said Armax, who shook his head in amusement. “Now go to your room.” Rocco backed up a few feet, then made a right into an open doorway. A few seconds later, there was a loud thud.

“What was that?” Penny asked.

“Oh, he probably just kicked over his radio again. He does that when he’s upset with me.” Neither of them asked why Rocco had a radio. They were still amazed that he slept inside. In the house. In his own room.

“So, what delicious food have you brought me?” Armax asked, sniffing appreciatively. They held out the dishes as he lifted up the foil, checking what was underneath.

“Ah, you want something!” he said with a smirk. “Tell me, what crazy thing must you want my help with? To parasail over the alligator pond? To skydive? To get matching tattoos of Rocco?” They laughed, just as he’d expected. But then Milk Toast cleared his throat.

“Armax,” he began. “We love you. You’re like our uncle. No, you ARE our uncle. You’re the best teacher ever. But the truth is, Penny and I, we want to got to public school.” He’d stood up and started pacing while he was talking. It made Penny dizzy, but then she got vertigo often when very tall people moved around too quickly.

It was quiet in the little kitchen. Armax was fiddling with the foil on the potato salad, not looking up. Milk Toast finally sat down, and Penny wrung her hands, waiting for Armax to speak.

“Eh, what would you want to go and be around all those normal people for? Why them and not me?” he said. The hurt in his voice made Penny want to cry. She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t like hurting anyone.

“It’s not you, Armax. But we don’t want to hide anymore,” Milk Toast said. “We’re just wasting away here, in our shanties, in our tents, in our campers. And those normal people…they’re all merged together, like a blob. Amoebas. With no distinction. Nothing unique. Why should we hide? We want to exist loudly. Not silently. We want to celebrate our flaws. We are blessed with beauty and ugliness, duality in its most supreme form. And it’s liberating. So why are we made to be prisoners for their shame and their fear?”

“But they’re just going to taunt you. Don’t you see, mi amors? They’ll show you their spite and their hate and wear it like armor against your quirks and rarities. They won’t appreciate your beauty, your magnificence. They will try to strip you of your YOUness.”

Penny could see hurt in his eyes. She went to him and hugged him fiercely, her short arms reaching as high as they could.

“Please understand, Maxie. This is for you. It’s for us. It’s for the freaks, the weirdos, the carnies, the circus folk. For all of us that are peculiar and perverse, perfect and proud. We are free in our minds. We should be free in the world, too.” Penny kissed his cheek, hoping he would see the truth and goodness in their decision.

But Armax had stayed silent since they’d left him that day. They’d ridden their bikes by his place every day, hoping he and Rocco would come galloping out, throwing water balloons or dancing in the mud during the rainstorms. But the windows were shuttered, the lights off. His pride was wounded, and he didn’t trust the world to be kind. His two favorite people would be hurt and see the world for the cruel place it was.

Two weeks later, they were enrolled at Gypsy Manor High School, a large brick building that blended in, just like its faculty and student body. The only thing that stood out was Penny and Milk Toast — a ghost and a short flame of a girl, staring down the ennui of society.

The shrill bell of first period rang, and together they walked into the school.

There were gasps and glares, but there were also curious stares and small smiles. A big hulk of a kid called Milk Toast an albino freak and told him to go back to his home planet. Two girls jammed their elbows into Penny’s shoulders, yelling, “watch it, you short little shit.” But then a girl in a wheelchair handed Milk Toast a pencil in third period when he couldn’t find his. At lunch, Penny sat next to a boy who’d waved her over. He was bald, with a port-wine stain covering half of his head and face.

Amongst the typicals were a ragtag group of freaks and geeks, already a celebration of mavericks bucking the system and its mundanity. The bullies were the odd ones out. The rich kids, the pretty ones, the cut-up manufactured Barbies and Kens? They spent too much time creating a mosaic of faux perfection. They were the real prisoners.

Penny loved it. Every single difference, every flaw, blemish, deformity, and birthmark. It felt like home. A sense of safety and security in all the strangeness.

And when the day ended, and she and Milk Toast walked out into the parking lot, Armax and Rocco were there, waiting, in matching rainbow tutus. Like the freaks they were.