The Fantasyland Dilemma
Too Old for Pixie Dust, Too Gay to Care
Fantasyland. Just saying it conjures images of pastel pinks, twirling teacups, and that relentless, cheerful soundtrack that follows you like a sentient parade float. It's the place where fairy tales aren't just stories—they're real. Princesses glide by like they own the place, and childhood wonder is bottled up, sold at a premium, and sprinkled everywhere. But as a gay man in his 30s, standing in line for Peter Pan's Flight, it's hard not to question: Do I really belong here?
Let's be honest. Fantasyland is made for kids. For those young dreamers who still believe in the magic of a perfectly timed "happily ever after," not for someone who's too busy analyzing the emotional symbolism of a glass slipper to even notice the crowds of children bouncing around. As I queue next to a little girl who has been reluctantly transformed into a princess at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, I feel... well, like a fish out of water. Like a grown adult playing pretend in a world that's not quite meant for him. And when the parents throw me a side-eye, I can't help but think, yep, this is the cost of admission.
The Queer Allure of Fantasyland
But here's the twist: despite everything, Fantasyland is pure camp. It's the exaggerated pageantry, the manicured topiaries, and the unapologetic dedication to glitter. To put it plainly, it’s fabulous. Where else can you see a grown woman twirling in a ballgown at 10am, while a fairy godmother-in-training showers glitter into the air like it's as essential as oxygen?
Queer people have always had an uncanny knack for finding ourselves in spaces that weren't necessarily made for us. We gravitate toward the villains who are too fabulous for their own good—the ones who dared to live outside the lines. We see ourselves in the princesses yearning for something more, in the magic that exists just beyond the edges of reality. For all of its traditional fairy-tale trappings, Fantasyland is just another one of those places.
Rewriting the Storybook
Let's be honest… childhood fairy tales didn't offer much in the way of representation. We weren't the ones waking up with a true love's kiss; we were the sidekicks, the misunderstood villains, the ones who bent the rules of the story. But adulthood offers us something rare: the chance to step back into those stories, to shape them to our will, and make them ours.
That's why I make my own pixie dust. I craft princess keychains, string together themed loop bracelets, and hand them out like little tokens of magic. Maybe it takes the edge off for someone else, offering a small, glittery reminder that fantasy isn’t just for one kind of person. But, if I'm being honest, sometimes it feels exhausting. Shouldn't we all just be able to exist in the magic without feeling like we have to make others feel comfortable? You rode in on the same tram as I did. We both slip our Loungefly bags on, one strap at a time.
So, yes, I may be the only solo adult in line for It's a Small World, surrounded by families who don’t quite know what to make of me. But I'll still wave at every animatronic, still buy the overpriced Mickey-shaped treat, still hum along to When You Wish Upon a Star. Because those fairy tales belong to everyone, especially the queer adults who didn't see themselves in them the first time around.
Too old for pixie dust? Maybe. Too gay to care? Absolutely not.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.