What a ride . . .

The tall steel structures gleamed against the ray of sunlight and the faint tune of a catchy jingle had mobs of patrons mindlessly walking to the entrance of the park. My fingers crumbled the dollar bills in my pocket as I stood in the single file line that weaved out from the ticket-booths. We shuffled, one step at a time, until a voice beckoned, “I can help the next person in line!” The man hidden behind the glass simply stared until finally I found the courage to ask for one ticket. “That’ll be $32.73 or you can buy it used for $25.00.” Without question I slipped the bills and loose change beneath the glass and in exchange, he pushed a small book back towards me. This book had a blue binding that continued on to the cover and was met with a clashing gold banner with “Rhetoric Park” printed in bold letters. “Enjoy your day here at Rhetoric Park,” said the man from behind the counter. The gates were only a few steps away and as I began walking away from the ticket booth, my spot was soon replaced by another wide-eyed college student eager to give their summer earnings for a chance to spend the day in Rhetoric Park. As I continued with the crowd into the park I began thumbing through the pages of the book where maps, show times, and rules littered each page. The park was split up into different sections and after familiarizing myself with the locations of all the rides I decided to start my day off in Identity Isle.
Identity Isle was situated in the back of the park and with each footstep my anticipation grew of what I might find there. Upon entering this section of the park I quickly saw a line had formed in front a tall roller coaster. The clicks and clacks of the coaster acted as a metronome and when the beat stopped, it was answered with screams from its riders. Those standing in the maze that lead to the loading station were jittery with excitement. I took my place in line and soon realized that small signs were placed every few feet. “This ride is not for those with heart conditions.”
“This ride is not for pregnant women.”
“This ride is not for children under the age of 12.”
“This ride is not for those with a fear of heights.”
“This ride is not for those with motion sickness.”
As I passed each sign I wondered, “Who is this ride for?” With each passing sign the demographic of the line became more and more specific. Children were letting go of their parent’s hands and were soon slipping under the metal bars to wait until their parents had exited from the other side. Shortly after, those that were once looking up at the first drop with great nervousness excused themselves as they bumped and nudged their way out of line. By this time the once thirty or forty eager riders that were in front of me had now diminished to a mere ten or twelve. There was one final sign before boarding the ride, “This ride is not for those who drink soda.” As we came upon the last sign the man standing in front of me dropped his red and white paper cup and as the carbonated liquid splashed on the ground he shouted, “This is ridiculous!” Those still in front of me fumbled with the paper wrappers on their water bottles and reluctantly watched their pregnant wives and Dramamine popping husbands go down the “Exit” ramp. When it was my turn I lowered myself into the sleek leather seat and pulled down on the safety harness. Within one breath my face was met with a great burst of wind, and the coaster was sent on its journey of gravity defying loops and weightless drops. The cart returned to the loading station and as I found my footing on the worn wooden boards I soon realized that those that did not ride seemed relieved. Defining the riders by who was not suitable for the ride was easier than saying who could. Instead of just four signs there could have been hundreds. “You can get on this ride if you like thrills.” “You can get on this ride if you like speed.” “You can get on this ride if you like long walks on the beach,” and so on. Yes, a little different but sometimes it is easier to describe a person by what they are not than what they actually are