Leave it to me to turn a trip to Disneyland into a depressing reminder of how far behind me my childhood really is. As my friend Christopher paid for our entrance and the clerk handed us our tickets—or as she called them, “keys to the magical kingdom”—I should have been looking forward to visiting an amusement park that I had not been to since I was about 10 years old. And I was excited, but this excitement was mixed with a profound sense of disappointment that I could not enjoy “the happiest place on Earth” without remembering how much happier it was 20 years ago, before adulthood stole the rose-colored glasses I saw the world with as a little girl.
As I walked down Main Street, the stores seemed to scream greed and commercialism with their overpriced products. When I bought ice cream from the middle-aged woman at the corner stand, all I could do was imagine her miserable existence in a dirty apartment with cheap linoleum floors, peeling wallpaper, and too many cats. Those dressed up in Mickey Mouse costumes were probably angst-ridden teenagers, sweating profusely in their stuffy getups and glaring at the surrounding children through their smiling masks. And the girl that sang in a fake Mardi Gras band was probably counting down the days until she could once again stand in an eight-hour line for American Idol tryouts, only to once again be rejected and sent back to this mortifying job of singing at an amusement park for disinterested tourists. Oh yes, I was sure that everyone around me was as disillusioned with this place as I was... and I’d only arrived about 20 minutes prior.
I took this attitude with me as we climbed into the seats for our first ride, Pirates of the Caribbean. This used to be my favorite ride; as a child, I really felt like I was sailing the high seas, witness to a chaotic yet exotic and thrilling world. Now it was not the same. As much as I admired the lifelike qualities of the animated human figures, instead of imagining them as real, I questioned what kind of material they made the skin of. As I gazed around the dimly lit tunnel, I wondered how often they had to clean the ride, how they did it, and at what times they could do so. How different the ride must look with all the lights on! I was just about to turn to my friend and ask him if he thought the water was heavily chlorinated when I realized that the ride had come to an end. I was quickly ushered out of my seat by an angry man dressed as a pirate, irritated that I did not move fast enough to make room for some people who might actually appreciate the ride.
Next was the Haunted House. This ride used to be a close second to Pirates, and it had truly frightened me as a kid. It begins with those in line crowding into a circular elevator. The lights dim, a spooky voice echoes over the loudspeaker, and the elevator begins to descend. Once we hit the bottom, the room turned pitch black and the sound of thunder was loud and sudden. This time, as kids all around me screamed, and a little girl next to me began to cry, I rolled my eyes—is this really an appropriate ride for children? And why do we have to be crammed into this room like sardines?
It was the same experience for me as Pirates: Instead of enjoying the spectacle, I considered the technical logistics that went into making the ride. I remembered how impressive the ride was when I was 10 years old and compared that to my current disposition of unmoved disenchantment. It was depressing.
Not all the rides were as gloomy. Space Mountain was just as—if not more—fun as I’d remembered. Yes, there was a brief moment that I considered what the jolting might be doing to my back, but that was soon cancelled out by the pure exhilaration of being catapulted through complete darkness. Only on the fast and jostling rollercoaster rides could I be physically shaken out of my slump and forced to have a good time.
As time passed, I allowed myself to let go of the expectations I knew were unreasonable, and I began to enjoy myself. But I wasn’t completely immune to the intermittent attacks of sad nostalgia. The last one came when Christopher and I, on our way out, visited the princess store to buy presents for my friend’s five-year-old daughter and his one-year-old twin nieces. As I gazed around the room, I noticed several fairy-tale couples painted on the walls: Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, all with their perfect, smiling princes.
Christopher was standing beside me, looking up at the figures as well. “This is what’s wrong with women!” I exclaimed. “We’re raised on these fairy tales where we’re supposed to be rescued by Prince Charming, who is going to bring to us the happiness we were never able to have on our own. I spent a long time waiting for the guy to save me from myself, someone who would fix my life and make me happy. I finally learned that nobody was coming to rescue me, and only I could save myself. I firmly believe that you have to build your own happiness without a man, and then when you do meet someone, he adds to your life, but doesn’t necessarily define it.”
Christopher agreed, adding: “Well, also for men, it sets up this unrealistic ideal we are supposed to live up to. I’m far from perfect—how am I ever supposed to measure up to Prince Charming?”
As much as I agreed with him and believed in my own feminist political statement, I was still drawn to the glittery girlishness of the souvenirs that surrounded me. I picked out a beautiful, opulent blue dress, decked in sparkles and matched by a shimmering tiara. I held it up against me and stood in front of the floor-length mirror. If I bent my knees a bit and squinted my eyes just right, I could almost see the little girl I used to be staring back. I smiled at her. Perhaps she was still there, hidden somewhere among the cynicism, distrust, and worry that cluttered my life.
I know I cannot bring that little girl back out today. But that’s OK, because she will wait, dormant, deep inside of me. She will be patient, because she knows what can bring her back to life. When I am able to revisit Disneyland as a mother, I think that she will re-emerge amidst the laughter and the wonder that the children I hope to have someday will experience here. I think that then, through the eyes of my children, I will once again believe in Disneyland as the happiest place on Earth.