On the Ride

          I sat at the only table in the breakroom and scribbled you are worth more than your job you are worth more than your job you are worth more than your job over and over and over again in an empty space in my planner. Praying that rote repetition might be enough for me to absorb and believe those words scrawled across my day, I bit back tears of frustration and disappointment. Another Casting Call wave was upon us, and everyone’s phones were ringing but mine. Every few hours another performer would come back from set to find a cheery, congratulatory voicemail or else they’d carry their phones closer than normal, willing every small happenstance to be a sign that they would be joining in the festivities of the new season. I had fallen victim to feeling phantom vibrations, keeping my screen down on the table or stored away somewhere when I was the one out “onstage” and obsessively checking it every few minutes I was in the breakroom. Facebook was an endless stream of cryptic messages and—to the unknowing eye—strange emojis with no context, my feed inundated with “vague-books” from my friends and acquaintances proud and excited about their new castings.

          As more of my daily companions rushed out of the room to take a call and came back beaming, it became harder for me to share in their pride, glee, and anticipation. I shoved my headphones in my ears and willed myself to look mildly pleasant while simultaneously tuning out the room around me. Without the ability to hide my expressions, it took too much focus and energy to twist my grimaces of pain and envy into congratulatory sentiments when I knew my eyes would give away my heartache and resentment. And so, I retreated inward, my eyes cast down on my notebook, still wishing with every breath and every moment that I might be next.

*

          It was my junior year in high school, and I was sixteen, when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my happily ever after—my destiny, my purpose—was to dance for Disney. Disney World had always been my own blissful haven, a land untouched by the tribulations of life and hardship and politics found everywhere else. Most of my youthful days were spent fantasizing about the next time we might visit, my parents sometimes surprising my brother and me with identical boxes under the Christmas tree, instructing us to open them at the exact same moment together while Mom held her Nikon at the ready. Though we only went a handful of times growing up, I held onto these memories, these moments, like a talisman—pulling them out when I needed something good, something solid to hold onto and wish upon.

          I could never find the appropriate words to express my infatuation—both when I was there, drinking in the sun, the beauty, the magic—and how much I ached and yearned to stay when the vacation was over. For weeks after we’d returned to the snow and monotony of our everyday, I’d get lost in the depths of my memories—remembering the way my parents and I cried when Tinker Bell flew from Cinderella’s castle or the way my little brother was somehow more tolerable when everything and everyone was cheerful, warm, and full to the brim with dream-like happiness. I’d search YouTube for the fireworks show when I was feeling particularly down and daydream about my future dancing down Main St, USA when I was high and hopeful.

          A few months before my college graduation—after applying to the Disney College Program and auditioning to be a performer— I received an email stating my future had been secured and in August I would be packing up to live my dream. I may not be dancing yet, per se, but I would be a Character Performer: spending my days in the minds of a couple mischievous chipmunks and a wholesome, loving, bright yellow, red crop top-clad bear. So unbelievably thrilled and shocked and proud that I had done it, I wasn’t even nervous about the 1200 miles that put me between my family; I had practically achieved the one biggest mission of my young life and all I had to do was wait it out and bust my ass once I got there. I was twenty-two and finally up next to get my highly anticipated front-row seat on this ride I’d been waiting in line for since before I could remember.

*

          Orlando, Florida has been my home for over four years now and Walt Disney World is still my employer. Knowing what I do now, it took longer than I would’ve thought for me to feel unseated, confused, and lost within the entertainment industry. I loved my “character friends”—the terminology used to preserve the integrity and magic of the company, the aura of disbelief and its beloved creations—and there were many days I enjoyed. Experiencing Disney and the Florida heat through the heavier and furrier lenses of my “friends,” there were moments that warmed my heart and others that tugged at my soul, so wrought with meaning and love, that I, too, was touched by the tangible magic. I reveled in the possibilities and indescribable impacts these age-old characters held and I had been chosen as a secret-keeper, holding the magic to harness at will.

          More often, though, as I packed my black rolling duffel full of sweat-soaked gray Gildan shirts and various costume pieces, I’d make conversation with other performers and feel my heartbeat increase as they spoke of upcoming auditions or the calls expected to be going out or workshops coming up, constantly on edge for how/when/where I’d make my big break, my whole purpose for moving across the country. I’d never been competitive and now, suddenly, I was constantly alert and eavesdropping and practically interviewing everyone I met on how they had manifested these things that I’d only ever dreamt of despite my endless, exhaustive effort to prove that I was of merit and worth; that the company might want me to aide in the delivery of their magical messages. I’d reach my car, hair slick with sweat, body sore and worn down, knowing that I had poured all the creativity and love and exhausting effort I had into my various interactions with guests. I was proud, but also sour with the understanding that Casting would never see me in these moments—when I was quick-thinking, funny, and good at my job— frustrated that they probably didn’t even know who I was.

          I’d been working full-time for years, continuously telling myself that perhaps this voluntary “assessment” I’d get noticed and chosen to learn more challenging choreography or that workshop might showcase my skills and I’d be on the radar. Maybe, this time, it’d been long enough now and finally, finally, I’d be cast in a parade—even if I wasn’t twirling down the route with my own face and makeup, I’d be closer to my ultimate goal and I’d have learned and grown through a new experience. But, time continued to crawl forward and eventually, nearly everyone I knew with the same general seniority as myself had either increased the value of their “movement” and “animation” skills, earned a specialty training in some sort of daily operational show or parade, or was fit in a gorgeous princess dress complete with picture-perfect hair and sweat-proof makeup. And no matter what or how I tried so desperately to be noticed, to be valued, to be picked, I wasn’t.

          I’d gone to every internal audition and every workshop, introduced myself through email and in person, praying that my good attitude and positive energy and hard work would warrant a tailored response with feedback on how I could possibly be considered for other roles, other ways to make magic for the guests and for myself. Usually, if I got an answer at all, it was to thank me for the message and tell me all the things I’d already known and already been doing for the years I’d been working. If my biggest desire, my purpose, my dream, was a large, expensive Mickey Mouse-shaped balloon, all I wanted was to wrap my fingers around its string and bring it back to me, to hold it at my heart with love and pride. But every day, every month, every year that I remained unnoticed, a vehicle suspended, wheels spinning tirelessly, the dream, the desire, drifted further and higher from my reach.

          I so desperately wanted the magic—magic that I worked hard to create and share all day, magic that had fueled my every “big” decision thus far—to be enough, but I felt myself slowly hardening, bitter resentment began to rise; a sourness flavoring every word, every thought. Because I had enrolled in a master’s program through the company, I knew that at least until I finished my degree, I had no choice but to remain in what began to feel like toxic, stagnant water. When the pandemic finally reached the country and Disney publicized its closure—two weeks, all employees to be paid as normal—while all of my friends and peers expressed distress, I was silently relieved and grateful.

          My body healed and rested—freed from the acutely intense burden of carrying excess weight in strange places and I felt gifted with space, the ability to think and ponder and situate the company in a way that was outside myself. I had distance with which to approach different angles and think with a level of perspective I didn’t have when I spent every workday attempting to regulate and balance my gurgling, virulent, insides with my outward persona: my integrous drive to create special moments with every person I met and hugged and shared a memory with. Every morning that I awoke, the mirroring aches of my gut and shoulders/back/neck dissipated a little more. The dread of my everyday routine was gone and replaced with vast opportunity. I had been ceaselessly trying to manifest and believe my innate worth as a person, a human, as something entirely separate and unrelated to the way I earned a meager living, but until I had the ability to remain outside of the bubble for more than two days a week, I had found it nearly impossible.

          After the first weeks of the shutdown bled together and time became endless, I remembered why I loved my job and was relieved to find that I missed my characters and the strange minutiae my day-to-day entailed with a heartburning pang. The grins from tiny infants, the silly tales children would tell Chip and Dale, the way adults would tear up when wrapping their arms around Pooh Bear’s big belly or Sadness’s soft, plush sweater, whispering in her ear that her movie saved their lives, taught them that it’s ok to feel sad. I grieved these slivers of myself—character-shaped pieces of little bits of my heart and soul that were now only preserved in photos or memories.

          Slowly, though, two weeks became two months and then as if overnight, I had been on furlough for over six months and many of my closest friends had been let go. Without intention, I began to retreat inward and observe and weigh my mental health, my age and ability, my dreams, goals, and passions. As if being slowly woken awake from a fitful night’s sleep, I felt shaken out of a robotic trance and I attempted to make sense of my surroundings. I noticed trends of tear-filled days translated into dark, sad words in my dingy journal followed by smaller, increasingly less frequent prose of satisfaction and happiness. For the past few years, I realized, I’d been tightly buckled into this rollercoaster—with skyward highs and hellish lows—that I just couldn’t seem to get off, justifying that eventually it would level out, but never once considering I even had the power, the agency, to stop it and unbuckle.

          Rollercoasters are fine, fun even. But, I’m not an adrenaline junkie; I don’t live for the fear and the thrill and while I generally enjoy them, sometimes they make me nauseous. The thought of being accidentally-on-purpose strapped to a train that keeps climbing and falling, looping and speeding…is petrifying. Somehow, along the way, on my path to supposed victory, my stubborn perseverance had begun to slightly cloud my vision and I hypnotized myself. Before the pandemic, it had never once occurred to me to think about what might happen, how I would feel, what it would mean if I ever was given the chance to live out my adolescent dream. Would I feel fulfilled? Content? Worthy? After the 394,200 minutes (or so) of nearly uninterrupted contemplation during my nine months of nothing, I’m not so sure.

          What I know of myself now, I expect that at first, it would be everything I’d dreamt it to be, but after a few months, once the dust and glitter had settled around me, I’d be back wondering about my next step on the ladder toward true fulfillment, toward a viable career and sense of purpose. I have a habit of looking too far ahead and focusing on the next thing—the next day, the next assignment, the next ride—rather than enjoying the time and space of the present. This has always been a strange dichotomy for me: the murky space between self-enlightenment, fruitful living and numb, brainwashing complacency.

*

          Sometime during the late summer, various departmental labor unions had negotiated with company executives and while performers who were not full-time and represented by a union were laid off, the rest of us remained on furlough to be transferred to an entirely new department, the location and timing of which dependent upon both the seniority of the performer and company need. By the time everything was settled, it was nearly the end of the year; I had just moved into a new house, was working a part-time job, spending time with my family in celebration of my birthday and Thanksgiving, desperately trying to keep my mind clear enough to finish out the fall term of school, and now, suddenly, navigating a new role in a new department I’d never previously considered. I was grateful to remain employed when so many were not so lucky, but I was also terrified. After endless days of free time to waste, I was launched full force into a brand-new world.

          Permanently relocated to sales in Animal Kingdom’s Asia, I have until October of 2022 to be recalled back to my “home” in entertainment. In the meantime, for the first time, I am paid to speak and verbally interact with guests. Because of the current circumstances, Disney’s operations are quite severely altered. Characters (still) aren’t approachable, parades have been replaced by “cavalcades,” and prices noticeably increase what feels like every six months. Many performers, like myself, have watched countless friends get called back, while we remain on hold still, a year later. Cast Members who were once positive and cheerful are now downtrodden, drained, exhausted. The tasks expected of us to maintain the “magic” as well as the CDC guidelines too challenging and burdensome for the compensation we receive, the spark of light and life dangerously flickers behind everyone’s eyes. For the first time since the park’s inception fifty years ago, the outside world has permeated the aura of make-believe and fantasy, happiness and folly. A reality that stings us all.

          Every day, people make rude comments, outwardly and openly disrespect the Cast and the rules and they’re tired and run down and angry that they’ve spent so much to receive so little. And I get it—this virus has changed our lives and the ways in which we respond and relate to other people; all they want is a vacation from the endless reminder that nothing is as it was. I want that too. More than anything. But we’re fighting fire with fire, without large spread compliance, we remain relatively stagnant. No longer can I enforce safety precautions and go above and beyond for everyone I interact with. I don’t make eye contact much anymore and it’s probably clear that I’m deeply unhappy. Even when I make a purposeful effort to preserve my heart, my compassion, my happy, myself for those that I love, I still come home defeated and exhausted by the overwhelming lack of basic human kindness and empathy and the sickening number of people who care for no one but themselves.

          Merchandise has given me opportunities I would have never been afforded had I remained in Entertainment. I became a trainer and honed my ability to not only relate to my peers in a personal, supportive way, but I learned ways to instruct effectively. I created and maintained relationships with my leaders and coordinators who recognized and appreciated me both personally and professionally. I met and spoke with the chairman of all six global theme parks and properties after sharing with him company-related research I wrote for a class. None of this would have happened had it not been for the shutdown, for the COVID-19 shuffle.

          Hard and challenged and downright miserable as I am right now, I know that it is these times that wield grit, resilience, and appreciation for life. Yet, I also know that my time on this particular rollercoaster is coming to an end. I feel the lap bar loosening and my vision growing clearer as I complete my obligation to the entity that afforded me my graduate degree—the tools I’ve crafted and sharpened for use in this next phase of life. Many of my friends and acquaintances still wait anxiously, longingly, for the call to return and I feel for them. But I find myself occupying a different space, actively pursuing external positions that are in line with my goals and passions; exploring what else this wild and crazy life has to offer me. I am finally ready and willing and waiting to unbuckle my seat and get off the ride.

Written for Master of Arts in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing at the University of Denver; November ’21