The Magic is Calling
“There are children everywhere” I muttered under my breath, waiting for the monorail to Hollywood Studios. The compartments are small, much smaller than subway cars, smaller than the tram to Roosevelt Island. It’s like a very private karaoke room, except most of these people are not my friends. My mumble lacks discretion.
“Yeah, it’s Disney World, of course there are.” The woman next to me with a double-wide stroller snaps back as she pushes the behemoth in the compartment.
I need my utterances, I talk out loud to myself. Of course there are children, I know that. It’s Disney. That’s why I need to grumble, for my mental health. I have joined my mother and sisters on a family trip to Orlando, Florida to Disney World.1 Neither me nor my sisters have children. It’s just five adults over fifty. Vince joins, for emotional support, to witness this, to go to Olga’s Canteena at Star Wars in Hollywood Studios.
My sister is there for a work conference, weeks prior to the trip she gives me the discount they have at their disposal. I look over the offers, nothing makes sense. I refuse to purchase tickets, not for lack of trying, just for lack of comprehension, until we finally we arrive in Orlando. Once we’re there, I realize this is the point, nothing makes sense. It’s Disney rules, that’s the point. I come to the most important lesson of this trip. There is no Disney get-around, we’re in Disney’s house, and they will be taking our money, hand over fist. Just suck it up and pay. The more money you put into it, the more enjoyment you might experience.
Epcot is our first stop, upon arrival after 4 pm, which offers a discounted entrance fee. Disney is a formal situation, you can’t just amble about the different parks throughout the day. Well, you can, but it’ll cost you. I don’t care enough about being here to do so. Let’s call me a reluctant participant. Epcot seems like the best park to begin since it generally has the fewest children on any given day. Let it be known, I don’t hate children, I just don’t want to spend a lot of time in their proximity. I need to ease into this situation.
My mother reserves a wheelchair for each day, her bad knee isn’t up for this amusement park task. She refuses to pay $80 a day for the rascal, a far superior mode of transportation that just appears more fun. My sister is burned out from the previous hot day pushing her around, she’s also suspicious of how quickly our mother takes to the chair, perhaps envisioning her future. I offer to push. It’s sweaty work. Part of this work is ignoring the desire to just let go of the wheelchair on declining paths, an urge whose siren call surprises me. We are a family of four adult women. I’ve seen Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, starring real-life foes Bette Davis and Joan Crawford as contentious sisters, I’m not better than them. Each and every time we pass a person on a rascal I say “Look at how happy that person is.” Every rascal operator radiates happiness. Throughout these first hours, I learn my mother loves Walt Disney (her words), because he built this place, and he knew how to organize people (*her* words). She is of a generation that marvels in the vision and innovation of American entrepreneurs. Once again I mutter, saying that’s what fascists do, organize people. No one hears me, thank god.
Epcot is full of charming villages populated with cute shoppes and restaurants to explore. It dawns on me that massive corporatization, monopolies and globalizations has killed all of these actual things in earnest for suburbs and chain stores. I don’t share my notes with anyone because I am FUN to be around. The evening ends with a light show and fireworks too close for comfort, I can feel the explosions in my heart, little pows of panic, leftovers from COVID Summer 2020 when every night our neighborhood lit up with M-80s. I realize my sister Maggi threw out the cheese sauce for the massive pretzel we’re snacking on as we exit the park. “Our only way forward as a people is through the collective effort,” I yell to her. She can’t hear me over the fireworks. Once again, I do not share notes.
Contrary to what you may read here, I am a person capable of joy and merriment. Disney World just isn’t for me. I have referred to amusement parks before as ‘fun prisons,’ people compelled to do and experience as much as possible, even if they don’t want to. There’s a consumption frenzy that occurs, the same sort of illness when everything is ON SALE, even if you didn’t want it, it was on sale! That is its own accomplishment. I don’t really think people enjoy things, I think they do things, because if less is more, think how much more more is. I just don’t care, and in this regard I am in the minority. I have moments of being unkind to others, loud talkers, space hogs, patriots, but those are just moments, not all the time.
There’s a queer, fantasy element to Disney that my old stodgy take2 is pleasantly surprised by. When I refer to people as ‘kids’ I mean late teenagers, people in their 20s, maybe early 30s. I also mean that most of these folks are excited about being there, wearing various stuffed animals on their shoulders, creating dramatic sounds with clacker fans, evoking favorite characters, called Disney Bounding, a term created by a fan in 2011 on her Tumblr. The parks have strict rules regarding costumes and masks, they are not allowed, thank god. Can you imagine???3 When someone Disney Bounds, they’re dressed up to reference a character, through color scheme, light props, whatever they can do that still allows admittance to the park. These are sweet homages by people who have found a touchtone in any number of characters. Also, it seems like a real nerdy thing to do, and that generally beats the ‘rah rah USA #1’ sentiment in my book. I was asked if I was Disney Bounding in line for a ride, if I was referencing Princess Magara, the heroine of Hercules. This poor person then had to explain to me what it all meant. I was touched, she told me I looked cool, she thought was a part of her subculture, for someone who generally feels an imposter this is beautiful, this slightly subversive manner of expression to enjoy the trip.
Part of my dread before this trip is that I don’t love crowds, extensive togetherness, or America. My nurse practitioner prescribes klonopin for this trip. I don’t fuck around with more than one a day, but I am trying to chase something better than reality, so I take a mushroom micro-dose gummy through the day, and when that doesn’t seem to come to fruition, I nibble on a medicinal marijuana gummy from Vince. I’m chasing a light jovial relaxing high,4 but I just can’t seem to concoct it. My recipe is off. I am far too sober for It’s a Small World, a ride bursting with early Disney cultural appropriation coupled with that insidious song on loop that just won’t shake out of my cerebrum. I have moments of being mentally unkind to others, loud talkers, space hogs, patriots, but those are moments, not all the time.
I peak in line for Dumbo, my favorite story when I was young. There’s just something about elephants. The line is long and winding, I am nauseous and clammy, paranoid that people know I am either high or think I have COVID. Maybe a little food poisoning. Oh shit, do I have food poisoning? Pick one. I’m a victim of my own cocktail. I lean on every wall I can find for both emotional and physical support as the line slowly snakes its way forward.
Finally we’re at the front. Finally the various nibbles of drugs coalesce, peacefully coexisting inside my mind and body. I get my own Dumbo, something I recommend to everyone without a child. The nausea subsides. The layer of sweat encasing me is no longer toxic. The sun is setting and the air is less humid. Everything is perfect, I feel like I’m floating, life is transcendent.
Dumbo is a great trip sitter. I doubt it’s his first time.
We don’t really take family trips.
Corporate American Bad Blah Blah Blah.
Allow me to finish this sentence here—the amount of repressed white males who would take it too far and too creepy? Can you imagine?
I am FUN.
You ARE fun
Felt a real kinship with your attempts to not mutter about neoliberalism (and worse) for the sake of being fun. I’m glad it all ended with Dumbo, the rest was starting to hit too close to home, haha