The routine was always the same. We’d arrive at the park full of enthusiasm–only to wither in the hot sun, waiting in line for hours to ride the featured attractions. The price of souvenirs and soft drinks would invariably set my father grumbling about “price gougers,” or worse. It all became so much more stressful than fun that one day I vowed never to return. And until recently I did not.
Disneyland became a mere blip on my cultural landscape. With the years, even its physical presence seemed to shrink. As children, we could gauge our distance from home by looking for the imposing peak of the Matterhorn, the Disney roller coaster artfully disguised as the famous Alpine landmark. It rose, jarringly, from the flatlands and meadows of the southland, visible far and wide. Slowly yet surely, its snow-capped majesty faded, slipping into what became the smoggy sprawl of Anaheim, laced with freeways and housing tracts, a suburban home for Mickey and friends–but not for me and mine.
Then came September 11, and then Christmas and the New Year. Brothers, sisters, relatives began to call. If terrorists are hitting symbols of America, we reasoned, you couldn’t ask for a better target than Disneyland. Its creator was the iconic American, after all, a risk taker who changed the world. People often say southern California has no culture, but they’re wrong. Thanks to Disney and other visionaries, we have the dream business. Last time I checked, it helps give our state the eighth largest economy in the world. So we told ourselves: Let’s take pride in our culture and our nation! Let’s do our patriotic duty and go to Disneyland for Christmas!
Seldom has a family holiday proved so seductive. None of us are kids anymore. We’re all in our 30s and early 40s, and not much given to fantasy. Yet this year was different. Escapism was much needed, we felt, and what better venue than the “Merriest Place on Earth,” as Disneyland bills itself this time of year? For a few days we could pretend that the world was at peace, that we had never heard of Osama bin Laden, that the insecurity that overtook our lives so suddenly had inexplicably melted away. And so off we went, eight of us, setting out for the Magic Kingdom we once derided, eager as young children visiting the holy site for the first time.
In a land of immigrants, can there be any such thing as a quintessentially American Christmas? Perhaps that’s why Disney created his idealized “Main Street U.S.A.,” complete with pristine storefronts in three-quarter scale. It could be Anytown America, today or yesteryear. There was a towering Christmas tree, resplendent with lights, in the town square. Synchronized fireworks burst in the star-twinkling night skies over a pink turreted castle. Schmaltzy music played everywhere. There was even a fake snowfall–in balmy Los Angeles, no less.
This America never existed, of course, except in our imaginations. Yet that troubled none in the cheerily jostling Christmas Eve crowds. Many, if not most, were grown men and women like us who wanted to be kids again. It was downright weird, in fact. You could see them everywhere. Adults wearing silly Disney character hats outnumbered children in such hats by about five to one. (In stark contrast to the old days, I noticed, when kids clamored for the distinctive Mickey Mouse ears as soon as they arrived at the park.) It was also the adults who screamed in unison in the Haunted Mansion, and who applauded loudest (some wiping away tears) at “Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln,” featuring a recreation of the Gettysburg Address.
“People are behaving in ways they never did before,” my sister Mary remarked. “There’s a need to connect with each other now, even among perfect strangers.” She’s a busy physician from Minneapolis. I’m a harried lawyer turned journalist. Maybe it was the sentimentality of holidays; perhaps it was the realization now that family and memories should not be taken for granted. But we walked around the park, appreciating it quite deliberately, remembering the Disneyland of our youth and noting the ways it had changed.
They serve Mexican food now, and have something called Fastpass to avoid waiting in lines. The faces are much more multinational. At one point we came upon a Muslim bowing to the ground in prayer–a sight that, in the present climate, might have seemed surreal, yet was not. As it happened, he was facing the wrong way. But surely he’ll be forgiven for thinking that “Big Thunder Mountain” faces east, not west. Cultural or directional confusion aside, the point is that he was there. He, too, has become part of the American experience, even (or perhaps especially) at Disneyland. Did I mention that I now have a love-love relationship with the place?
