A guest blog post by artist Bart S. Bartholomew about the Minnesota State Fair:
When it comes to the Minnesota State Fair, my first choice would be to avoid it at all costs. Don’t get me wrong, the thought of gorging myself on the diverse food options is totally my jam. People and long lines – not so much. Getting through a good day with my mental health conditions is difficult enough and takes a lot of energy. Pile on a cacophony of lights, music, scents, feeling claustrophobic while pin-balling through the sea of humanity at the Fair, and I become overstimulated quite easily.
Maybe the dislike started when I got separated from family while watching Ye Old Mill. Being five and lost among the crushing masses doesn’t exactly instill a sense of security. My dad, brother, and I would attend every year when we were kids. Arriving before most places were open, we’d walk the grounds through the rising mist. Our first big stop was always Tom Thumb Mini Donuts, right behind Ye Old Mill. The mingling aromas of fryer oil and cinnamon-sugar led us right to the stand where we’d wait for a bag of piping hot sugar bombs. These two diametrically opposed memories have stuck with me all this time, forever linked.
Before COVID I took part in a series by the Minnesota Council on Disability and AMPERS radio featuring people with disabilities sharing their perspectives. It was a way to start communication and create new dialogue. MCD offered up the chance to meet fairgoers at their booth. I hadn’t been in over a decade and frankly just the thought of it terrified me. Advocacy and representation are crucial, but did I want to put myself in that situation? Accepting their offer meant being pushed way outside my comfort zone into the deep end of the pool.
Sure, the 150-year-old “Great Minnesota Get-Together” is a fantastic showcase of the best butter sculptures, fare on-a-stick, seed art, DNR pond, 104-year-old blue-ribbon winning baker, and talent. Other states can’t compare. As much as my mind screamed, “NO!,” deep down in my heart I wanted to enter the melee and soak up the experience. Why? Even though I knew my circuits would overload and the breaker would blow, I wanted to be a part of something bigger; moreover, like anyone else – most of all – I wanted to be included.
It’s taken a long time and lots of hard work to be able to recognize my limits: both mentally and physically. By acknowledging them, setting realistic expectations, and learning new coping mechanisms, I am able to adjust and take the necessary steps to keep myself mentally and physically healthy. Planning and schedule are key for having a successful day. Not sometimes, but every single day. Unexpected changes can throw a wrench in the works.
To make it through the crowds, I play a little game I’ve named “space hopping.” Much like checkers, the goal is to get from my location to the intended destination by moving from open space to open space. This gives my ADHD mind a job to focus on while delaying the feelings of becoming overwhelmed. Also, knowing that there will be a “prize” at the end, whether it’s a person I’m excited to see, a food I’d like to try or an exhibit/performance I’m interested in, keeps me motivated.
Finding a quiet place seat off the busy path to observe people as they walk around helps with a neurosystem reset.
So many unique individuals pass by. Since my brain is continuously chattering, it usually creates stories of the people around me. I wonder what the real narrative of their life is. How many things do we have in common and don’t even realize it?
What I learned by saying yes to a new experience was that small gestures make the biggest ripples.
Four years go, on the day I was scheduled to go to the fair, there were torrential rains. Although I only had to walk a block from the front gate, it seemed like miles. I’d expected to have a buddy to help me navigate, but because of the weather conditions, they had to drop me off instead. By the time I made it to the booth, I was at my limit and starting to melt down. The kindest soul you will ever meet, Linda, saw me coming, understood what was happening, and in that moment changed the trajectory of the day.
Most people might think what Linda did was inconsequential, but to me, she gave me the ability to go on when I was ready to turn around and go home. She gave me a soul-satisfying hug, led me to a quiet room, met me where I was emotionally, and simply held space. It wasn’t about breathing exercises or idle chatter. Instead of a human doing, she helped me become a human being again. When I was drowning, she held out her hand and grounded me. That basic kindness and compassion is exactly what I needed.
No matter how independent or introverted you are, we all want to feel connected to each other and to the world in some way. For those of us with non-apparent disabilities, we often choose seclusion over discomfort or potential breakdown and end up missing out.
So, to those of you who are uncertain about attending the fair because it’s just too overwhelming, here’s my suggestion: find a person who is willing to go with you and hold space for you when you need it. Find someone who’s strength and kindness can be your anchor. And don’t let the perceived weakness of a disability keep you from being included.
I had such a good time four years ago that I’m going back this year not once, but twice. Admittedly, even writing this makes me a bit terrified, but I know that I have the support and skills needed to get me through. And I hope to see you at the fair, too.