In the Age of IP, Where's the Q?
IP, We See You (But Do You See Us?)
It was 2024, and as I sipped a $12 raspberry lemonade, served with a Mickey Mouse-shaped glow cube, it hit me: we're living in the age of Intellectual Property as Religion. The Mouse is the Messiah, and Pixar is gospel. If Zeus were rebooted by Disney today, he'd be locked into six films, a live-action remake, a Disney+ prequel, and a ride with modest motion sickness. The pantheon isn't Greek anymore—it's cinematic.
Themed lands used to be inspired by wonder or whimsy. Now, they're driven by whatever franchise is peaking on Nielsen or trending on TikTok. Innovation doesn't mean new characters, it means new synergy. The space once reserved for dreams is now packed with rainbow photo ops, collectible merch, and
"representation" from forgettable side characters.
And I'm not above it. I'll buy the overpriced popcorn bucket. I've cried on Rise of the Resistance. I've thirst-trapped in front of the Universal arch. But somewhere between Lightning Lane reservations and the fifth Frozen update, I couldn't help but wonder…
If Disney and Universal are shoving every IP under the sun into their parks, from yellow Minoins to B-tier Marvel heroes, could they toss a bone (or at least a well-groomed queer-coded villain) to the gays? If you're going to build entire lands around content, that content should include us, not as vague sidekicks or blink-and-you-miss-it Pride Month cameos, but as actual, canon, storyline-driving characters. Ones who don't require Tumblr discourse or a decoder ring to claim.
Queer Representation or Queer Imagination?
Enter: Disney's Pride Nite. And by "enter," I mean stumble in—past a DJ playing Sabrina Carpenter, through rainbow lighting that screamed "corporate off-site," and into a cavalcade of characters that felt more fever dream than celebration.
There she was: Terk from Tarzan, a gorilla voiced by Rosie O'Donnell. Not a stretch. That's gay algebra. It's the kind of mental gymnastics queer fans have mastered, pulling queerness from subtext like a magic eye puzzle. Then came C-3PO, the galaxy's shadiest droid and premier anxious twink, shuffling through Black Spire Outpost with the flair of a vintage opera queen whose husband just left her for a younger replicant. He sparkled, he shimmied, and in his gold-plated melancholy, we saw ourselves. But I had to ask: is this all we get?
Because here's the thing—if you squint and tilt your head, Pride Nite almost looks like progress. There's glitter. There's kissing. There's a DJ set that almost hits. But peel back the rainbow decals and what you're left with is a sanitized spectacle, where queerness is permitted only if it's palatable, marketable, and deniable.
Is "headcanon" the new canon? Are we really meant to accept a Pride churro and a sassy wave from a droid as meaningful inclusion?
It's like Disney saying, "You can have your pride party—but only after hours, and only if you don’t ask for more." No storylines. No stakes. Just safe gestures and a remix of "Born This Way" that conveniently skips the "gay, straight, or bi" line. For a company that prints money faster than Grindr loads torsos, that's not just lazy, it's insulting.
We know the difference between being celebrated and being sold to. We're not asking for merch, we're asking to exist.
The LEGO of It All (And Not in a Fun Way)
Meanwhile, over at LEGOLAND there's a golden opportunity just waiting to be snapped into place. The LEGO Friends line, a plastic middle-school melodrama with pastel career goals, is one of the most expansive kids' IPs around. These aren't just smiling figurines, they're characters with names, arcs, feelings, and even a cinematic universe (albeit made of ABS plastic). And yet—not one of them is queer. No crushes, no pronoun play, no "maybe I'm figuring it out." Just an endless loop of cis-straight normativity wrapped in progressive-lite storylines about recycling and teamwork.
So why not introduce a queer or trans character? The infrastructure is there. The audience is watching. The kids are ready. Parents who cross the faux-outrage Rubicon are now viewed as performing for an audience. If we can accept that one Friend speaks fluent dolphin and another wants to be a pop star/vet hybrid, surely we can handle a boy who likes skirts or a girl who's confused about why robotics club feels different lately.
Representation in kids' media isn't political. It's life-saving. Not in an After School Special way—in a quiet, foundational way. It tells kids: you're not broken. You don't have to grow up searching for yourself in villains and queerbait. If I'd been handed a rainbow brick instead of a cautionary tale, maybe I wouldn't have spent years searching for a version of myself I was told couldn't exist. Maybe I could've just been awkward, bright-eyed, and visible.
This Isn't Just for Kids (Or Families)
Theme parks aren't just for families. They're not the exclusive domain of strollers and spilled juice boxes. Queer adults show up—child-free, fully invested, emotionally attached to animatronics that cost more than our cars. We're here. In mouse ears. On purpose.
I'm not asking for a dark ride based on The L Word (though Dinah Shore Weekend: The Coaster writes itself). But give us something that doesn't feel like a pastel Sharpie ticked an "inclusivity" box. Even the adult spaces, like Oga's Cantina and Halloween Horror Nights, still feel cautious. Queerness is allowed if it's in costume, ironic, or sold as nightlife. We get "wink if you know" moments, villainous camp, and rainbow merch—but never the one thing we actually want: to be part of the narrative.
I want to slow dance with my partner at the castle, not have our queerness hidden beneath club lights and bass drops. I want to hear a ride's voiceover say "they/them" without feeling like I just spotted Bigfoot in a spirit jersey.
IP Isn't the Problem—Erasure Is
Look, I love a shared universe as much as the next gay who alphabetizes his Funkos by emotional damage. I've got a lightsaber in the closet and park passes in my digital wallet. I'm not mad at IP—I'm mad that it excludes us.
When companies own so much of the culture, our absence becomes structural erasure, not coincidence. Give us a gay Marvel hero in the parks who isn't a one-night cameo. Give us Star Wars characters who love, kiss, and live. Give us a princess who doesn't need a prince or a platonic gal-pal to "keep 'em guessing." And if you're not ready for that, fine, but stop pretending a gorilla voiced by a lesbian is your Pride offering. We've seen better drag at brunch. On a Tuesday. During a storm.
Until queer stories are fully woven into these parks (not slapped on for Pride Month) we'll keep doing what we always do. Showing up in glitter and headcanons. Turning Main Street into a runway. Queering the park one skipped hetero storyline at a time. Because if they won't make space for us, we'll just queer the park ourselves. One skipped hetero storyline at a time.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.