I've got a secret.

I’ve got a secret. I’ve kept it for many years, but it’s time to fess up. No, it’s not an earth-shattering secret. It’s just something about me that I’ve kept hidden for several years. I’ve recently decided that in order to move on I must share this secret. Get it out in the open. I need to “own” it, as Oprah would say. Perhaps people not from Southern California won’t care about my secret. The locals probably won’t care either. The point is that I care and in the interest of clearing my conscious and recognizing that my secret doesn’t necessarily make me a bad person, I’m going to “out” myself.

I have many quirks. I’m a bit claustrophobic and I don’t like confined or crowded spaces. I always need to sit so that I can see the door…even if it means turning my back on a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. Not my secret. I am a native Californian, and no, that’s not my secret, either, but I’m getting close.

Let’s stay with the Californian theme, because it’s warm and getting warmer—and no, I’m not talking about an inconvenient truth. Native Californians of my age are hard to find. Plus, I’m not easily recognizable as a native, due to my absence of the blonde hair and blue eyes the Beach Boys branded California girls with back in the sixties. I’m a brunette (and sometimes a redhead) with green eyes, fair skin and naturally wavy (read: curly) hair. I’m Irish…with a few other nationalities thrown into the proverbial melting pot.

Other than living in Europe as a college student, I’ve lived my entire life in California. Yes, this surprises me as well. As a child, I lived in an area close to the beaches, close to Los Angeles, and close to some rather famous amusement parks. As an adult, I live behind the Orange Curtain, better known these days as the “O.C.” I won’t even touch on the perceptions, true or false, that Orange County evokes with outsiders, other than say sometimes life imitates art and art imitates life—and I always have plenty of material to write about at my disposal. Rest assured that I escape from behind the Orange Curtain monthly for a much needed reality check. I have to escape…or there would be no living with me, as I would go mad. The longest I’ve gone without venturing beyond the Orange Curtain is six weeks, and it wasn’t pretty. Talk about the good, the bad and the ugly. I morphed into all three and then tried to eat my young.

Currently, I live less than a mile from the beach. The trek to Los Angeles isn’t that bad—at 2:00 in the morning. I’m still conveniently located to those famous amusement parks that my out-of-state relatives visit annually. I find this ironic. They escape to where I live, while I desperately try to escape to somewhere else. I guess the grass is greener or rather oranger, wherever you live. Where do I go to escape all that the golden orange offers? It varies, but I can tell you where I don’t go. I don’t go to Disneyland.

There you have it. Finally, my secret is out in the open. I don’t like Disneyland…and I never really have. Wow. I actually feel better. You probably wonder what’s wrong with me. Everyone likes Disneyland…right? Not so much.

Before you get your knickers in a twist, it’s not that bad. I do like children, old people, dogs, cats and other furry creatures. I’m just not that fond of big mice, talking ducks or goofy dogs with disproportionate heads. Before you question my credentials to weigh in on this subject, let me assure you that I’ve had plenty of experience to speak knowledgeably on this issue.

I grew up going to the self-proclaimed “Happiest place on earth.” I went with my childhood family, with my teenage friends, and then with my adult family. I’ve probably been there close to a hundred times. Maybe more. Heck, I went to grad night twice and was present for the opening day of Space Mountain. I always had a smile on my face and went along for the “ride,” but it was all an act. I was afraid to admit that Disneyland wasn’t my happiest place on earth. I feared the stigma would remain with me forever. Plus, until recently, I thought something must be wrong with me. How could I not like Disneyland? What’s next? Kicking dogs?

As a child I have memories of Disneyland that involve getting lost, getting sick on the Tea Cups, running away from the Mad Hatter, and getting stuck for three hours on the Pirates of the Caribbean…and this was all on one visit. Sure, I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor in Tomorrowland and watching a phenomenal young blind singer perform “If you really love me.” Stevie Wonder was great. But, I also remember the Holiday Candle Lighting Ceremony on my 10th birthday. This is when my true unease with Disneyland began. My childhood idol, Rock Hudson, was the master of ceremonies. It was then that I learned that my idol was gay, compliments of my older brother. In fact, it was then that I learned what gay meant. I was devastated that I was never going to grow up and marry Rock Hudson. Up until then, I thought Doris Day was my only competition. When I realized she and I were in the same boat and Rock Hudson was kayaking on a completely different lake it was an awakening of sorts.

Some people remember where they were when JFK was shot. I was too young for this memory, but I do remember with perfect clarity the sounds, smells and scenery on that day when Rock Hudson was “outed” by my brother. From that point on, the imaginary tales of Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella paled in comparison to my own coming of age confusion. Sleepy, Dopey and Doc couldn’t compete with the conflicting emotions of a prepubescent girl trying to wrap her head around such a heavy subject back in the seventies. My brother swore me to secrecy. I couldn’t ask my parents about this, even if he hadn’t told me to zip my lip. I knew the subject was taboo without being told. And so it was, on that crisp winter day in Disneyland, that the real world and the imaginary Utopian world of Walt Disney collided on Main Street U.S.A. Of course, I didn’t realize I had these feelings at the time. I only knew that Disneyland wasn’t my Fantasyland anymore. It was a place that brought more questions than answers.

After that, I was into my teen years. Puberty set in and I was a late bloomer. Growing up in the seventies was an interesting time. My generation didn’t really have a cause. We were a little young for the peace and love crowd. We tried to talk the talk…or at least walk the walk. Bell-bottom jeans and perfectly straight hair parted down the middle a la Twiggy were the styles of the day.

I was different. Fitting in was not easy for a short girl with curly hair. If you don’t believe me, I have photos somewhere. It sounds shallow to say this now, but at the time it was devastating to be different. I realize now that my differences were a good thing. It was the “trying” to fit in with my friends that made me uncomfortable—it wasn’t because I didn’t fit in with them. All those years everyone thought I was shy and self-conscious. In reality, I was just uncomfortable with trying to be something (or someone) that I was not. All I wanted to do was find a way to be me. While my friends dreamed of big weddings and children, I dreamed of college and a career. I dreamed of finding answers to my questions. In other words, I was a misfit.

Today kids hang at the mall for hours. They meet up, hook up, and spend a ton of money that mysteriously comes from somewhere. We didn’t have malls. We had Disneyland. My girlfriends loved going to Disneyland. All of these friends were tall and well endowed at an early age. Me? Not so much. While my friends paired up for steamy petting sessions on Monsanto, I was invariably stuck holding their purses or making awkward small talk with some pimply guy even shorter than I was at the time.

I can’t say that I’m sorry that so much of my youth intertwines with Disney. It’s my past and I own it now. However, it’s not a place I want to “escape to,” and definitely not for a hundred bucks. It was at Disneyland that I had my first kiss. It was at Disneyland that I first fell in love. It was there that I experienced my first heartbreak. I broke a rib on Space Mountain. I cut open my heel with the help of a rude woman pushing a stroller, and I spent countless hours in their bathrooms trying to straighten the frizz out of my hair on those foggy nights. It was at Disneyland, on the night I graduated from High School, that I decided to go away to college and leave all of my big-bosomed Betty’s in the wind. It was that same night that I first broke someone’s heart when I told him I was leaving for good. I finally realized that I needed to find a way to be me. I’ve always thought it interesting that it was at Disneyland that I first learned that people are different…and years later, when I decided to leave my childhood friends behind, that it was at Disneyland that I learned that different is okay. From that day forward, I began marching to my own beat.

I went to college, went to Europe and fell in love many times…or so I thought. I experienced the world while all my friends were back home getting married and making babies. I was happy for them…and eventually they were happy for me. It was 10 years later that I met my husband…and it was then that I really fell in love. We’ve been together 17 years, and he’s the main reason I have stayed in Southern California…in such close proximity to these amusement parks. Throughout the following years, I did my Disneyland duty. I went with my stepsons several times during their childhood years. Someday I’m sure that I will venture into Disneyland again with my future grandchildren. Until then, I will keep my distance…the distance I struggled so hard to gain as an awkward teen that didn’t quite fit in with her friends and environment.

Sadly, this reminds me of Rock Hudson and my 10th birthday. He was different too. For the longest time, I thought heels and a hair straightener would make me fit in with the mix. Turns out all I needed was time. It suppose it was the same for Rock Hudson. I was more fortunate in this area. I was just a kid back then and had lots of time. Him? Not so much. Plus, my differences weren’t nearly as different as his differences. I just wasn’t a typical girl for back in my day.

I’ve never attempted to explain any of this to friends and family who regularly want me to go to Disneyland. Why would I? Therefore, they don’t understand my reluctance to enter the magical gates. A few family members suspect I don’t like Disneyland, and probably wonder if I do indeed kick dogs. No one has ever come right out and asked, “Do you like Disneyland?” And I’ve never volunteered this information until now. I guess it’s been a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

It’s true that Disneyland may not have been my happiest place on earth, but I came of age behind those gates while clutching a handful of coveted E tickets. I still have an original ticket book in a drawer somewhere. It reminds me that I have a ticket to ride whatever ride I want to ride…even if it’s not the ride of choice for the majority of other people. I’m okay with that…just as I’m finally okay with my curly hair. I’m also okay with the size of my endowment, because I learned one more valuable lesson at Disneyland. Being well endowed is a lot of responsibility. Way too much responsibility for me!

And so this week I give you my deepest and darkest secret. I don’t like Disneyland…and my thought process is different from most chicas of my age. In fact, you might even call me sideways. I’m not a traditional wife or mother, but I embrace both roles with a passion. I love my family and cherish their differences. I encourage them to travel and experience the world. I think Disneyland probably has something to do with this. I still remember that Candle Lighting Ceremony as if it was yesterday…not some 35 years ago.

If you wonder why I have chosen this moment in time to “out” myself, it is so that I may wish you all peace and tolerance for the world in which we live. I also wish you understanding for those who are different. Most importantly, I wish each of you acceptance of who you are…who you’ve become. There’s nothing worse than trying to shove a round peg in a square hole. It just won’t work unless we cheat. If we cheat, we cheat ourselves. If we cheat ourselves then we cheat all of those around us. It is a vicious cycle than can be broken. If I can do it, anyone can. If you need a little help, you might try visiting Disneyland. Nothing puts reality into perspective better than spending some time in Fantasyland. Trust me on this. I know.

Happy Holidays to you all. May your home be the happiest place on earth for you and your loved ones. And may peace be with you…inside and outside the magical gates of Disneyland.

© 2005 Teresa G. Franta