I loved Disney movies as a kid. I vividly remember my sisters and I almost peeing our collective pants when Dad picked us up from school one day in 1991 and surprised us with The Little Mermaid on VHS (back when it took flicks almost a year to go from theater to VHS; they cost at least twenty bones; watching a movie was a BIG DEAL and a treat; and that distinct, oversized, white plastic [probably laced with inordinate amounts of BPA] case meant you had just gotten your grubby little paws on a Disney movie). I almost got excited just now. Jesus, that Disney cult shit runs deep.
And while the princesses aren’t exactly the greatest role models in the world (Ariel: you forfeited your literal voice in order to get with a dude you’ve only ever seen and who only reveres you because you’re a babe with a rack-to-waist ratio that would make Barbie look like she could lay off the second helpings; Snow White: your value lies in your ability to clean house and cook, and you’re utterly immobilized until a prince happens to wander by and pull you from your death sleep with a life-giving kiss [he gave life, he can also take it away], implying that he gets to keep you as his wife/cook/housecleaner forever; Jasmine: you are part of a caste system that regards women as male-owned, commodified chattel, and you reaffirm this system when you elevate your boyfriend to this level before you will marry him), a young girl’s burgeoning self-esteem relies more heavily on parents active in her life and an existence away from a television screen. Taken with a grain of salt, I dig a good Disney cartoon. And Libby’s face just lights the eff up and pretty much detonates my biological clock when she watches the opening credits to The Sword in the Stone.
But I tell you what. Disney needs some more queens working for them.
Rico, the little, gay man who lives inside of me who presents himself while I perform musical theater and/or need to decorate a space, just about shat himself.
And all is now right with the world.
