It’s well known that I’m a Disney apologist. Most folks in my life understand there isn’t much the Walt Disney Company can do to make me question my loyalty to their brand.
That’s not to say that I wholeheartedly agree with everything the corporate juggernaut says or does, but I’ll almost always buy whatever they sell. Disney’s mission is to entertain and inspire the world through storytelling, and I don’t think anyone is quite as successful at it on such a grand scale.
The origins of those feelings date back to childhood, when as a little gay boy I felt out of place and first connected with a little mermaid who felt the same. As I’ve aged it’s seemed like kismet, especially when Disney bought Marvel – my ultimate fandom – and when it acquired Star Wars, another of my earliest loves.
When I moved to Florida I told myself it was for the beaches, but I knew in part it was because I’d be closer to Disney World. I’d made the trek from Ohio to Orlando a few times in life and the idea of being just a few hours away was incredibly exciting.
A few intermittent visits as a Florida resident and about a decade later, I told myself I could finally afford to become an annual passholder. My husband, our friends and I all went regularly for a few years and it was magical, but my monthly dues to Disney World ended during the pandemic.
Even through my apologist lens I could tell they were bungling their early response to COVID-19. Theme parks and large crowds felt unsafe anyway, and while I recognize it was a very privileged decision to be able to make, we made the choice to cancel our passes.
I missed the parks but never really regretted it. After more than a year away, however, I was fortunate enough to attend Gay Day at Magic Kingdom this past June, my gayest red shirt in tow.
I was in town for Watermark’s coverage of Orlando’s big LGBTQ weekend, always a highlight of the year, and as a recovering passholder I couldn’t have been happier. Until the downpour.
The sky opened on a slightly unsuspecting parking lot when I was about halfway to the tram. Crowds shuffled and scattered, stuffing into the tiny transport as quickly as possible.
Through the rain I saw a row of largely open seats. I also saw a mother struggling with her stroller, unable to access the tram after helping her young child climb aboard.
In the spirit of Ariel I swam to her safety, holding the door and extending my hand as she hoisted herself upward. She tried to take a seat with the fully assembled stroller, but an employee joined us to stop her.
I stood there awkwardly as he demanded that she fold it to ride. She no longer needed my help but since every other seat was now gone, I waited so I could sit next to her.
The woman insisted the stroller didn’t fold, which was clearly a lie, but the worker was tired of drowning and gave up. She and I made eye contact as she settled into her seat, saying nothing as she closed the door I was still holding.
I was so dumbfounded I didn’t do a thing. The same worker yelled at me to board or back up, and when the woman turned away I just left. Defeated and drenched, I began my swim to the Magic Kingdom.
It wasn’t quite the homecoming I expected, and it certainly didn’t feel like the happiest place on Earth. I found what little shelter was available when thankfully, another man wearing a red shirt found me.
He approached with a smile, offering to show me a faster way to get to the Magic Kingdom than I’d likely take. I went with him and he was right.
Once we reached the monorail I was thankful for a little bit of warmth, both from the ride and person next to me. We were two strangers but because of our red shirts and their ties to the LGBTQ community, we were family.
I’ve been thinking about that ride a lot since then, about how our community can find you at any moment to lift you up in ways only they can. Sometimes it starts with a T-shirt and sometimes it’s through other means.
We examine one of those in this issue, highlighting LGBTQ-focused scholarships throughout Tampa Bay and Central Florida. Local nonprofits designed them to help students achieve their dreams.
In news, we say goodbye to Punky’s Bar and Grill after nearly seven years of serving the LGBTQ community, preview “Avenue Q” at the Straz Center in Tampa and detail the DeSantis administration’s latest anti-LGBTQ actions throughout the state. Make sure you vote on or before Aug. 23 to help make a difference.
Watermark strives to bring you a variety of stories, your stories. Please stay safe, stay informed and enjoy this latest issue.
