The Gay Agenda (Includes Dole Whip and Rope Drop)
A MagicBand and a Mission
I've spent my last few blog posts dragging Disney like they forgot my mobile order. And listen, some of it was earned. I've also praised Universal's willingness to embrace change, their increasingly inclusive entertainment, and the fact that their specialty drinks don't taste like sadness. But today, I want to steer the monorail back to where this blog began: queer joy in the least expected places. And yes, that includes a pre-park-opening hustle to Fantasyland and a mid-afternoon pineapple soft serve.
It's easy—almost too easy—to critique the corporate failings of a company built on fantasy. There are plenty of fair points about performative allyship, pricing people out of magic, or the way some parks treat diversity like a seasonal offering instead of a foundational principle. But here's the thing: I'm still going. And not out of obligation or nostalgia or even spite. I go because sometimes, choosing joy as a queer person is an act of rebellion. Even if that joy comes served in a plastic cup with a little swirl on top.
Joy Is Political (Yes, Even in Line for Peter Pan)
Showing up as queer in a space that wasn't built for you is a statement, especially when that space is plastered in "family-friendly" signage that can sometimes read more like a warning label than a welcome mat.
I've felt the lingering glances when I hold my husband's hand in Tomorrowland. I've seen the subtle step-back when I compliment another man's Haunted Mansion shirt in a never-ending queue. But I've also seen eyes light up when a cast member quietly affirms us. I've watched queer teens find the courage to wear Pride pins on their lanyards. I've joined spontaneous dance parties during Gay Days where strangers become instant family.
It's messy and imperfect, but it's movement. Literal and figurative.
The Found Family FastPass
One of the most magical parts of the queer experience is how we create community wherever we go. In a world that's often told us we're too much—too loud, too soft, too different—we find each other. We form families out of friendship, fantasy, and shared playlists. And when we descend upon a park en masse, with matching tank tops and a game plan for Genie+, we're doing more than just riding Space Mountain. We're taking up space. Proudly.
My crew? We're a mix of theme park nerds, cosplay queens, snack connoisseurs, and roller coaster screamers. None of us have kids. Most of us don't want them. Still, we build traditions: annual trips, themed outfits, ridiculous photos in front of the purple wall. And that counts. That is family.
A Queer Kind of Magic
So yes, I'll continue to call out these parks when they fall short. When inclusivity feels like a seasonal offer or when queer visibility is treated like a footnote. It won't keep me away, and it shouldn't deter you either. I'll be there at rope drop, buzzing with caffeine and hope, chasing the promise of something joyful. I'll still cry at fireworks shows I've memorized by heart, not because they're new, but because they remind me how good it feels to feel.
We may not be the kind of families these parks were designed for. Though we show up anyway. And in doing so, we make space for others. Because queer joy is real, it's radiant, and it's absolutely worth celebrating (even with a Dole Whip in one hand and a Lightning Lane reservation in the other).
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.