Just Go

Joining a circus was much like visiting a foreign country - you had to learn the language first. Starting on day one I had to learn a slew of new words that eventually became part of my normal speech. It was rosin, the powder we put on our hands before practice, to make them sticky rather than slippery. When putting up the net, we didn't just center it, we had to guide it out. There were the many different shackles (pin, threaded, bow, rain), poles (net, side wall, tent), and knots (square, half hitch). And then there were the different acts (roman rings, sky pole, low casting, cloud swing) and tricks (aussie drop, hocks off, plange, cutaway). The most important word, though, was hup. Hup meant go. When about to do a trick, our partner or coach would yell "ready...hup" and then we went, whether we were ready or not. We'd whisper it to ourselves when coaches weren't needed anymore. We always went.

Slowly, the words were ingrained in our minds. Before leaving for class, my roommates and I would say "okay...hup" to peel us off the very comfortable couches. When we wanted to leave a party, we'd point our pointer finger in the air and make a circular motion, meaning "we're done." (In circus world, it meant "tie it off," meaning tie off the net, it's perfect where it is.)

My third year in, I was performing the act Hanging Perch with my roommate at the time Abel. It was only my second year with the act, his third, and I was determined to live up to his previous partner (who is a professional trapeze artist performing in London right now, might I add). We were working on a trick called clockwork which, to show how hard it was, is performed maybe once every five years. The trick started with me hanging from his hands by my wrists. At the same time, I'd kick my legs up in front of me and he'd throw my arms down behind me, thus allowing him to grab hold of my free legs. Without pausing, he'd then throw my legs down in front and I'd arch up as hard as possible, hoping he'd catch my hands. And then the trick would continue, making my body look, in essence, like arms on a clock. We missed it more than we caught it.

About two months before our annual homeshow, Abel and I found ourselves practicing the trick almost every day, in order to perfect it. I was still in safety lines since I fell so often, and they needed to be removed as soon as possible if we had any hope of getting the trick in show. One day, after setting up the net and our apparatus, we found ourselves with no line holder since our usual one was sick. Since it was still early, not many people were around. Our only hope was the assistant coach, Alan.

Alan scared me. A lot. I first met him my freshman year. He was large and angry, only kind to his select group of friends. When I filled out my form to join the troupe, he looked down at my writing and merely said, "there's no way you're only 100 lbs." I almost cried. (I was, in fact, 100 lbs.) He never complimented my practices, only scoffed at them. The thing was, he did that to everyone else as well, so eventually it stopped bothering me. He thought he was doing it to make us better, but really, it just annoyed us. Abel, thankfully, asked him and the only reaction we received was, "you're still in lines?"

As I stood shaking, he made an agreement with Abel. He'd hold my lines for two attempts at the trick and two misses and then we were taking them off. I was to be free. If I fell? Oh well.

Out of the two times we attempted the trick, we only caught once. That didn't bode very well. We practiced my misses next, not catching the trick on purpose to make sure I knew how to fall safely, and I managed to pull both times off well enough. So, as I sat in the net, gripping the rope, Alan forced me to take off my safety belt and unhook the lines.

I felt 100 lbs. lighter.

I had performed the act before. Abel and I could easily do the entire act without lines and I'd feel safe. It was just the one trick. The problem was, if we didn't catch, I was falling head first into the net. Fast. It was reasonable to be scared.

Holding tight onto Abel's sweating wrists, I looked up at him, fear in my eyes and my heart pounding. He gave me a reassuring glance and said, "I'll get you ice cream later. We can do this."

And then he yelled "hup!" Automatically, I let go.

It was one of those moments that would be slowed down if it were in a film. The bead of sweat fell off Abel's forehead, loudly banging onto the cement floor 25 feet below us. The spotlight hit my face as pieces of hair flew into my open mouth. The only sounds were two hearts pounding.

We didn't catch. Far from it, actually. I was so scared that I didn't arch nearly enough and fell straight down. But I was ready. Some how my body reacted just as it was trained to. I sat up quickly, mid air, and landed safely on my back, bouncing high off the net and then back onto it.

I laughed. A lot.

We tried it again and again that afternoon. Out of three more attempts, we caught it twice. I became more confidant, convinced that i'd be fine if we missed. I laughed each time. We ended up performing it in show that year and didn't miss it once.

I use hup a lot nowadays. Whenever I'm afraid, i'll say it. Because hup means go and you can't just not go. When I realized that teaching wasn't what I wanted to do with my life, I said "hup" and found a job as a copywriter. Looking down 10 feet below me, I yelled "hup" and jumped from the ledge into the dark water, screaming the whole way. When Samir asked for me back, I said "hup" and with my heart open I said yes. With work, life, or even love I use hup because it's what pushes me to do something I normally would be too scared to do. My body was trained to go and I'm all the happier for it.

Because, really, what's the worst that could happen? I'm not 30 feet in the air anymore and I know my limits. I know that, no matter how crazy my action is, there will always be a safety net waiting to catch me.