Trailer Trash

Author's Note: A lot of what I’ve written concerning Dick Grayson’s family is completely non-canon so take it for what it’s worth; nothin’ gospel to see here, just a lil ‘ol made up story.


* * *
 

“So you all understand the assignment? You’re to write an essay about your family, when they arrived from wherever they arrived from, who they were, where they were from, their beliefs, their professions, their service to the country—whatever you can think to put in which will tell us something about your ancestors. Then you’re to explain how, in your opinion, that background did or didn’t influence you. The idea is to know yourself better by understanding where you came from, a concept we can also apply to countries and ethnic groups. Questions?”

“Pictures?”

“Sure, but they don’t take the place of the writing, Bernie, so don’t try it.”

“What if you don’t know a lot of that stuff? I mean, no one in my family cares about genealogy or scrapbooks and my parents have all these old albums full of people we don’t even know the names of. What then?”

“I expect you to do the best you can and to be able to back up whatever you write. It’s due two weeks from today.”

“What if someone in your family’s adopted? Does that count or just blood family?”

“Adopted counts, at least for me, anyway.” The bell rang, signaling the end of the class period. “Thank you and I’ll see you on Monday.”

Dick Grayson moved on to his next class, wishing this assignment would disappear and thinking about what he could write. He knew his parents of course and he knew where they were from and all of that. He could come up with most of his grandparents, a chunk of his mother’s family still lived out on long Island as far as he knew and he’d met his mother’s father when he was about five or six but his maternal grandmother was dead by then.

He knew that he had some cousins, though he’d never met them and was ambivalent about the idea. No one on either side, his mother’s or his father’s, had made any effort to contact him, let alone offer to help, when he’d been orphaned and so as far as he was concerned, well—basically, screw them.

And he could add Bruce in at the end but it looked like it was going to be a short paper. Oh well, not everyone could trace their family back to the Inquisition.

A few days went by with a lot of his supposed ‘spare’ time taken up with the Titans helping the JLA apprehend Bane again before Dick had a chance to sit down and figure out what he could do about the stupid Family Paper.

He sat at the desk in his room, Word opened to a clean page. He typed ‘My Family’ and paused, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

And sat. He looked at the cursor blink.

He changed the font from Times New Roman to Courier then to Ariel before changing back to Times New Roman again.

He underlined the title and centered it.

The cursor was still blinking at him.

He tried Tahoma, decided that he didn’t like it and changed back to Times New Roman again.

Finally he just sat down and tried to plow through the paper, just getting it done.

 

* * *

My Family

I can only trace my family back as far as my great grandparent’s generation with any accuracy. Beyond that records have either been lost, destroyed or are beyond my ability to recover. I don’t know as much about my family and my background as I should. I’ve thought, now and then, that I should make an effort to learn more and I intend to do that at some point, but because of the realities of my family it will be difficult and likely take years. The best I can do is write the parts I know now.

What I do know about the background of my paternal side is that they originally lived in Europe, in a small village in what is now Croatia though I don’t know it’s name nor do I know how long they lived there. I’ve heard stories that both my grandfather and my grandmother were relocated and hidden as children during World War Two for their protection; they were Romani, better known as Gypsies and so were among the ethnic groups targeted by the Nazi’s. I’ve been told that they lived in hiding somewhere in ‘the country’ with some sympathetic farmers who took in several dozen children and, somehow, weren’t discovered or turned in to the authorities.

They survived the war and were teenagers when they tried to return to their home village to learn their own parents, my great grandparents, had been rounded up around 1943 along with other Rom living in that area and shipped to one of the concentration camps. Records indicate that they were all eventually gassed with no one from their village surviving other than the children who were taken into hiding. The number of Rom killed by the Nazi’s is generally estimated between a quarter and a half million. The village itself, the name of which I’ve never known, was burned to the ground, no buildings were left standing.

To the best of my knowledge, after being married, my grandparents had no choice other than relocate to another village, ending up somewhere in Romania. I’ve no idea how they earned their living or how many children they had though they had at least one son who eventually became my father. One other thing I do know is that they were Catholic; my father, and later I, were raised Eastern Orthodox Catholic.

I’ve sorry that I never met my paternal grandparents. My father’s mother died when he was a teenager and I believe my paternal grandfather died when I was around seven or so. I do know that I’ve never had contact with him.

As far as I’ve been able to find most of my other family members—aunts, uncles, cousins and so on—were killed during the war though names and the specific relationships are no longer clear and both family and official records have been lost. If there are any other members of our family still living in Europe, I don’t who or where they are.

My father, John Frederick Grayson was a full-blooded Rom and an only child. He refused to talk much about his childhood but I gathered that there was either a falling out with his own parents or a lack of jobs—or both—where they lived and he ended up leaving home when he was around fourteen or fifteen to find work. He was athletic, strong and coordinated and somehow—I don’t know how—ended up working as a roustabout with a small circus. Probably it was the only job available for a fifteen-year-old where no one asked too many questions so long as he could do the work.

Within three years he was working as a flyer, a trapeze artist, having made friends and been taken in by a performing troupe where he learned the basics. He had a natural talent for trapeze work and loved it, adding new moves and built a reputation fairly quickly in the closed world of circus performers. He was offered and accepted a job with a small circus in the United States when the owners traveled to Europe on a talent scouting tour. He convinced a couple of friends to form a new act and arrived in America when he was nineteen.

This was when the family name, Grasu, was anglicized to Grayson. I don’t know why, maybe it was just easier for some reason, maybe it was a clerical error. It’s also possible that my father entered the US without all the needed immigration or work permits.

For what it’s worth, I consider myself Rom and I’m proud of that part of my heritage. There are a lot of misconceptions and misunderstandings about the Romani, some of which they use to their advantage and many of which makes life harder for them. Despite common perceptions, we never lived in a horse caravan and none of my relatives—so far as I know—made their living from fortune telling. I’m not a thief. I don’t lie too often, no more than most people, I suspect.

The Romini aren’t from Romania, as is commonly thought. The word comes from the base for Rome and the original Roms are thought to have originally been Greek, though they were also referred to as ‘Egyptiens’ by medieval French and which lead to the shortened label ‘Gypsies’. They’re called different things in different countries, many of the names considered a slur; Roma, in Eastern Europe and Central Italy, Iberian Kale, mostly in Spain and so on, a different name in almost every country. It’s a long list but they all basically mean the same thing.

My mother, Mary Lloyd, was about eighteen, working as a dental assistant afternoons after school in Oyster Bay on Long Island when my father’s circus came through the area. They met on the Midway and I was told she decided to leave her family and home within the same week to run away and join the circus, eventually learning how to ‘fly’ and joining the act with my father. They married about a year later; I followed two years after that.

My mother’s family cut her off when she married my father, disapproving of him, his profession and his lack of formal education. Because of this, I’ve never had any contact with them, though I know they still live on Long Island. I have at least one aunt, my mother’s sister, and several cousins. I’m curious about them but have never tried to contact them. I might at some point but don’t have any immediate plans.

I was started in training for the act before I could walk and was allowed on the bars when I was two and a half, actually joining the act and performing when I was three. My mother worried about my being hurt, but I almost never was because the training was good and we were careful. I loved performing and was proud I was making a needed contribution to the family with my paycheck; I felt part of something more than just me and that what I was able to do helped my parents.

We were headliners in the circus and I miss it to this day. Most of the year we traveled from gig to gig in a trailer which was pulled behind a pickup truck loaded with my dad’s Harley. Off-season, January and February, we lived in a small house in Venice, Florida, which is a winter community for circus folks.

We traveled with Haley’s Circus until just before my ninth birthday when my parents were killed in a fall.

After that I went to live with Bruce Wayne and was made his legal ward, which is almost but not quite a full legal adoption. He’s a good man who has been both unfailing kind and tough when warranted. I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me but he’s not my family, not really. He’s my teacher, mentor, protector, guardian, friend. He’s the person who took me in when my parents died and I’ve no doubt that he wants the best for me and would do anything for me if I asked, as I would for him.

Since moving in with Bruce I’ve seen and been influenced by an entirely different reality than the one I was born to. I don’t find it either better or worse than the life my ancestors and parents left me and I see more similarities than I do differences.

A home, trailer or mansion, is still a home to the people living in it.

A family is still a family, whatever their financial standing.

Bruce isn’t related to me through blood, he’s a guardian, not a parent, legal or otherwise. A good argument could be made that he’s the family I have now and there are days I’d agree but the fact is that our history barely goes back seven years.

But my name remains Grayson.

 

* * *
 

“Okay, a lot of the papers were pretty good and a few were standouts. It seems you may congratulate yourselves on being a varied and distinguished group; there are several United States Senators, judges, medical researchers, a few tycoons, a few generals and admirals, one or two criminals and felons and a laundry list of other professions represented. I counted something like fifty different countries in your collective backgrounds. The furthest back anyone could go, with documentation, was—let me check here—1432. I’d like a couple of you to read our essays to the class…come on, it’s not that bad. Amanda? First, please.”

The girl got up, embarrassed, and read/mumbled her way through her ancestors landing at Plymouth Rock and her Uncle serving in Kennedy’s Cabinet. Next Josh joked his way through his grandfather founding the family fortune on black market booze during prohibition back in the 1920’s. Lorna was clearly proud of her distant link to the British royal family.

“Okay, Dick? You’re up next.” He stood up and read what he’d written then took his seat, the class looking at him with new interest.

Then the fall out began.

“You lived in a trailer?” He nodded.

“Your parents were murdered? Jeez, I knew you lived with Wayne but—Dick I never knew; that’s…that’s…”

He didn’t react. “It’s okay. A lot of people don’t know.” And a lot of people did. Whatever.

“You worked in a circus? You were a trapeze artist—flyer—person? So how come you don’t try out for the gymnastics team or something?” Dick just shrugged. Secret Identity, no time, he didn’t want to; take your pick.

“Your family was killed by the Nazis?” There was an embarrassed silence while the students thought about that.

Dick was getting annoyed; the comments were a little obvious if anyone had been listening. “I could read it again if you want.”

“No need, Trailer Trash.”

The teacher clamped down before Dick could say anything. “Shut up Doyle.”

“Just calling a spade a spade, Mr. Harrison.” The smirk was enough to start fights in a bar.

“Get out. Principal’s office. Now.” The smart-ass smirked out. “Okay, next, Nick, if you’d favor us, please?” The class settled down for the next twenty minutes until the bell rang, letting the kids go on to their next class.

An hour later Dick was outside under a tree with an apple and a carton of milk reading an English assignment when Ashley came over with a diet soda and stood close by for a moment.

“Do you mind?”

He shook his head and gestured to the scraggly grass to have a seat.

“I’m sorry about Steve in class, he’s a jerk.”

Dick put a place-mark in his book, “I know, ‘doesn’t matter, but thanks.”

“That gypsy thing is sexy, y’know.”

Dick took a beat to wonder what she meant by that. “…Are you coming on to me?” He smiled to take the sting out, but still…

Ashley laughed but in a nice way. “A little, yeah.” She resettled, pulling her skirt down a little. “You were the topic du jour today in the cafeteria, everyone was talking about you.”

“’Wondering what the real deal is with me and Bruce?”

She shook her head. “Everyone knows you two are gay.”

“Oh yeah, I keep forgetting; ‘Boy toy.” Old story, he’d been hearing this one since he’d moved into the Manor.

“You finished the English reading? I thought it was stupid.”

“I thought so, too. The whole plot setup was foreshadowed by the end of chapter one.”

She took a breath, “I was wondering, if you’re not busy Saturday, I have tickets to that Coldplay concert out on the island. Would you like to go with me?”

“That’s been sold out like since before they went on sale, how did you get tickets?”

“My dad owns the arena, would you like to come?”

Brixton. Of course, her father owned the arena. Actually he was supposed to help Bruce with a stake out but… “That sounds great, thanks a lot. Should I pick you up?”

“That would be perfect; the show is at eight so how about seven? Do you know where I live?”

“It’s in the student directory, right? I’ll find it.” The bell rang for the next period. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”

 

* * *
 

Sixth period study hall, the library. Ashley was sitting with two of her girlfriends, whispering over near the windows, pretending to study.

“He said yes? Ohmigod—he’s seriously cute and you got him to go out with you?”

“All it took was free tickets—but, ohmigod, he’s a gypsy—how sexy is that?”

“Rich, smart, dark and handsome—and did I say rich? He’s perfect. Besides, Daddy gets the tickets whenever he wants them, it’s not like it’s a big deal.”

Halley rolled her eyes. “Sure, okay, Dick is smart and he’s really cute but he’s, I mean, God, he lived like in a trailer. Don’t they get destroyed in Florida all the time? And everyone’s heard those rumors about him and Wayne. God.”

Ashley put her book in her backpack and stood up a little too fast. “They’re just rumors, okay? He’s really nice.”

“We want a full report Sunday morning, Ash—I’m calling you.”

“Like I’d tell you anything.”

“At least he doesn’t still live in a stupid trailer, that’s all I’m saying. Ohmigod, you don’t think they still have the trailer parked like in Wayne Manor’s garage or anything, do you?”

“’Could be, he probably would have inherited it, right? Maybe you two could use it for the honeymoon, Ash.”

She gave them her Mona Lisa smile. “Why wait for the honeymoon?”

 

* * *
 

Gym class and Dick knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. It started in the locker room as they were getting changed in the narrow aisles between rows of lockers.

“Hey Trailer-trash, you want to move out of my way?”

Dick ignored the comment, hoping it would be a one-day wonder and blow over by Monday when something else came along to replace it as radar blip of the week.

“Circus-boy, you remember to tell the butler to feed your elephants?”

He ignored it, was finished changing and tried to get by the other boys on his way to gym class.

“I asked you a question, Trailer-trash.”

Dick sill ignored it and tried to gently push past the idiots. He was blocked by a two hundred and fifty-pound line backer.

“Circus-boy.”

Dick refused to respond, He knew better than to take that kind of bait.

“I hear Wayne took you in because of your ‘special talents’, that right, Trailer-trash?”

A small group of students were gathering around, hearing the lead-up to what might end up a fight, always entertaining.

Dick gave Steve a steady look without expression, waiting of him to get tired of the game and move. After several long seconds Marcus touched Steve’s arm. “C’mon, that’s enough.”

“As soon as he agrees to read my future.” He held out his palm. “Whatd’ya’say? ‘You see a long and happy life here?”

Dick just stood there, waiting, knowing there was no point in engaging.

The teacher’s voice broke the deadlock. “Class, gentlemen, if it’s not too much trouble. Today, if you don’t mind.”

Marcus gave Steve’s arm a gentle pull; the small crowd broke up as they filed into the gym. After the usual warm ups but before the volley ball games could start, Steve raised his hand. “Mr. Wilson, Dick here is a professional athlete. I was hoping that maybe he could show us some stuff, if we have time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Honest; he’s a real trapeze artist, ‘was raised in a circus and used to perform all the time. I’d bet everyone would like to see what he can do, give us some pointers or something.”

The teacher didn’t what was going on, though clearly something was up. “I hate to point out the obvious but we don’t happen to have a trapeze set up here. Form teams for volleyball, let’s go.”

“Please, Mr. Wilson? If he’s as good as I’m sure he is, then I bet we’d all learn something.”

Dick was just standing, his weight on one leg, his hands on his hips waiting for this to be over so they’d start the stupid volleyball games. The teacher, saying nothing, picked up a volleyball and tossed it to Steve. Dick was sure of being on the opposing team, knowing he was being immature by aiming a spike dead-on at the jerk’s chest and knocking him down.

It was a small, if pointless, victory.

 

* * *
 

The taunting did die down by Monday, much to Dick’s relief. The concert had been good, the seats third row center with backstage passes for the after party. It was a good night and he called Ashley the next day to ask her out to dinner and a movie the next week. She was a nice enough girl and he enjoyed her company, at least for now, anyway.

Bruce, probably spoken to ahead of time By Alfred was surprisingly obliging about his having the night off—it was a good weekend.

 

* * *
 

It was a month or so later when they changed units; this is your thing, right? How about a little demo?” They were on line to take turns on the vaulting table, everyone doing either a simple side vault or a wolf, stuff any mildly coordinated ten-year-old could do.

Dick knew better than to respond to this kind of thing, it was swinging in the dirt but he was tired of Steve and Robin or not, he was still human.

Taking his position he began the run, flipped onto the springboard, hit the table with both hands, pushed off and turned a piked double Tsukahara, sticking the landing to applause. Next, with a nod toward the teacher, he chalked his hands and, lacking grips since the school didn’t have any, hopped up to grab the high bar. He kept it as simple as he could, turning a few giants to gain speed and released at the apogee of his swing, tucked into a double to another stick.

The quad would have been too hard to explain.

Wilson, the gym teacher approached but before he could say anything Dick matter of factly said “I try to keep my old skills up, you never know when Ringling Brothers may call.”

That was the end of the ‘Circusboy’ comments.

 

* * *
 

“Well, I just feel sorry for the boy, that’s all. I mean seriously, he’s been thrown into an entirely new world and he must feel like a fish out of water after the life was born into. I just don’t think it’s fair to him that’s all.”

“It seems to me like he’s pretty much put all that behind him when you come down to it; he’s a good student, never gets in any trouble as far as I know and…”

Ashley’s parents were talking over after dinner drinks, discussing their daughter’s latest crush.

“You heard the kids talking; a smart, good looking boy like that and he’s never had a single girlfriend. I think that’s your answer right there.”

“Oh really, that’s just gossip, lots of kids are late starters.”

“Um-hmm. And where there’s smoke there’s fire is all I have to say. Where are the kids, anyway?”

“Over at Dick’s place, Ashley said they were going to watch some movie Bruce got an advance copy of. We were invited if you want to go, we haven’t seen been over there in a while, it might be fun; Bruce is always entertaining.”

“If you like idiots.” Ashley’s father shook his head and held out his glass for a refill. “I’d rather not, too much smoke over there.”

“Oh stop, you’ve barely Dick, he seems like all boy to me. I don’t believe that stupid gossip for a minute, what with all the publicity Wayne gets. And don’t forget that Dick is adopted or whatever—the child protection people have to keep an eye on things there, no matter how rich that man is.”

“…I suppose. I just don’t think it was a smart thing for the poor kid to be thrown into that kind of high society with the kind of background he has, that’s all.”

“And you’d be opposed if Ashley ended up with him?”

“I just think, well, breeding does play apart in things, that’s all.”

 

* * *
 

Alfred was hesitant, which was unusual for him. He’d received several well-meaning calls from various friends and neighbors and even one from the school itself. The young master was the target of some new and unfounded unpleasantness and, while he’d never say anything, had to be upset or at least annoyed by it all.

The Master, as was his wont, merely saw the situation as a fairly normal part of growing up, the having to deal with peers and all of that. He wasn’t always sensitive to a youngster’s feelings and that was unfortunate.

Well, there was nothing to be gained by pretending nothing was happening, best to face the problem head on and damn the torpedoes. He knocked gently on the thick oak mahogany door. “Master Dick?”

“Come in.” He was lying on his bed, reading, sitting up when Alfred crossed the carpet and looked up expectantly.

“Forgive my intrusion but it’s come to my attention that…” No, much too formal. “May I sit?” Dick nodded, a little surprised as Alfred pulled out the desk chair so he could face the boy. “It’s come to my attention, ahem, I’ve heard that you’ve been having some problems at school with regards to you—with some of the other students belittling your heritage.”

“Oh, no big deal.” Was that all this was about?

“I hope you know that your background is a proud one, one which reflects well on you and your family.”

“Sure, I know that, the kids who were making waves are assho…jerks.”

“Miss Ashley, I take it she isn’t included in the group who were the source of the situation?”

“Alf, there isn’t any situation, they’ve all backed off but, no, Ashley isn’t part of that group; she’s part of a different group.”

Indeed? “Might I ask which group that may be?”

Dick gave Alfred a smile with a little too much understanding in it. “She’s in the group who wonders what Gypsies are really like, especially when combined with Bruce’s net worth.”

“I see.” But…“You’re not upset about any of this?”

“They’re just Townies, Alf, I’ve been dealing them all my life. It’s not a big deal.”

“’Townies’? But surely you realize that not everyone…”

Dick shook his head, Alfred didn’t get it. “Townies hate Carnies, always have, always will. When you add ‘Gypsy’ to that you get what you get. My father said it and he was right; sure, there are exceptions, but for the most part? Yeah, it is what it is.”

“I can’t believe that you genuinely have this sort of adversarial attitude, Master Dick. Surely you see the problems that you open yourself to with it, aside from it simply being wrong to make this sort of blanket generalizations.”

“‘Blanket generalizations’? Yeah, right; have you ever seen it rain up?”

But…“Would you care to talk about what happened?”

Dick shrugged dismissively and made a face. “No. Thanks, but I’m fine—honest. Let’s just drop it, okay?”

Alfred looked at his knees for a moment. “…In that event I’ll leave you to it then.” He replaced the chair under the desk then paused at the door, “Dinner at the usual time.”

Down in the kitchen, basting the chicken, he was disturbed by the conversation with Dick. While it was certainly good that the boy wasn’t upset he wasn’t pleased about his attitude, especially in light of the fate of members of his family during the war. This was simply wrong, no matter what may have lead to his conclusions and he had assumed better of the boy—wrongly, so it seemed.

‘Townies’, indeed.

This wasn’t the end of this, not by a long shot.


8/2/09
 

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