Pertaining to The Secret History and the Death of Disney
A moi. L’histoire d’une de mes folies.
My turn. The tale of my madness.
I have on rare occasions told a friend or two in passing conversation that no, I have never been in love. I have loved other people, though not romantically. I am a romantic, though not the dozen roses, chocolates, and candlelit-dinner type. More the sitting in a graveyard, reciting poetry under the moon, would keep my dead lover’s heart in a box or immortalize them in a book of devastating proportions type. You get the picture. I have loved; I am a romantic—the two just haven’t intersected. Perhaps it would be more accurate, then, to say that I have not been in love with another person. But life? The sky? The sea? Those are different matters entirely. If love lends itself to such things, I suppose I have been in love. And one such recipient of my affection exists in the form of a certain dark and academic novel.
I discovered The Secret History quite on accident through some rabbit hole of Pinterest or literary threads (likely in a sleepy haze at 2 a.m.). After reading the synopsis I purchased it on the spot. This is highly unusual for me, and I must confess I still have only a vague sense of how exactly it came into my possession. But after—I remember everything after with striking clarity.
It is, putting words in a simple and clichéd fashion, a book that has changed my life—if not externally then certainly internally. These newly revived thought processes and dreams for the future—perhaps they were lurking shadowy and unacknowledged in the back of my mind all this time, but like the eye of a flashlight cast into murky waters, finding strange and glittering fish flicking about beneath, so has this story in great singularity done the same with the murky foggings of my mind.
A brief summary: Richard Papen transfers from a school in his suburban, Californian city to the private, mystery-aired Hampden College. Secluded in the sleepy mists and mountains of Vermont, it ushers him into a world of academic intrigue and aspirations. Richard befriends an exclusive circle of five other students who live in a self-cultivated world of higher thinking, striving always toward the Classics, especially as it relates to ancient Greek culture. Though magnetic at first, Richard soon comes to see the dark and even dangerous characteristics in these classmates, the only students at Hampden whom he considers his friends. By the time he makes this realization, it is too late for Richard to withdraw. He is too deeply invested—too captivated by them and the world they offer. What follows is the group’s dark and analytical decent into madness, ruin, and the cold, seemingly justified murder of a fellow classmate.
This book is far more intellectual than I am able to here convey in a single paragraph. But I assure you, this is no cheap thriller played out by raucous college kids. The Secret History is cold and seductive. It is not a mere tale of morality, warning against the dangers of peer pressure. It speaks to the greater dangers of idealization—of Richard’s “fatal flaw,” which he provides from the very opening of the book. A morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. Key phrase:
At all costs.
Written in the highly controlled yet elegant style of literary icon Donna Tartt, The Secret History provided a story that, though revelatory in nature, eerily mirrored the conflicts of my recent past—specifically in my time as an employee of the great Walt Disney World over the past year and a half.
I have written about this experience so extensively in several previous pieces (some of which I felt best to remove in light of the big picture) that I’m sure you must be tired of hearing about it by this point. I’m quite tired of writing about it, myself. I assure you, however, that this is the grand finale. The dark and bitter climax, the raison d’être of my time in such a detached and magical land converges here—with the reading of The Secret History and the revelations that followed.
Even after I was released from my service to this kingdom of hyper-unreality, after the initial grieving and rejoicing, still something felt lacking. It was The Secret History that not only rekindled my mind with its academic fantasies, but led me to the great and horrible truths of my most recent journey. Eureka. I know what it means. As Jordan Baker shouted to Nick over the buzz of a house party regarding their enigmatic host—by the name of Gatsby, if you remember: “It all makes sense!” Well, my dear friend, after reading The Secret History and much subsequent rumination, I can say for myself in firm and conclusive confidence, whether seated peacefully beside you in a living room chair or shouting over the sparkling din of the world’s most renowned theme park, it all makes sense. And this is how I know it, if you care to listen. And then, I swear, this chapter will be finished and you should likely never witness my writing of the word Disney again.
Let us start with the parallels, yes? I am endlessly fascinated by them. Though it is the closest book to a modern classic that I have yet to read, at its core, The Secret History mirrors the style of ancient Greek tragedy. Given the resulting parallels that I found between The Secret History and my own life, I like to imagine the past year as a sort of Greek tragedy in itself. This conclusion might be stretched, so I’ll leave that particular fantasy to your own judgement. But similarities there are indeed.
Firstly, the novel starts with Richard, who is somewhat uninteresting, but he has his ambitions—his morbid longings. He enters a new but promising world, one of which he longs to be a part—not just by existing within it but by belonging to it. He achieves this to some extent, but at great cost. False expectations are revealed, harsh truths are confronted. There is great loss. There is murder. Fantasies are shattered, and betrayal seems inevitable. Sanity is a mere afterthought. Oh yes, and there’s a cult. Because of course.
All of these lovely features can likewise be traced and pinpointed across the map of my time at Disney—like some sinister connect-the-dots that silhouettes not failure, per se, but something akin to a harsh about-face. Irrevocable change, let’s say. Though the means to achieve it were painful, in my case it was necessary. I am fortunate enough to see that now, though I didn’t at the time.
Like Richard, I entered a new world around which I’d built my own morbid longings. And as melodramatic as it sounds, when I look back on the year in its entirety, I know I never did belong. Not really. I had a place, but that is not the same as belonging. The acting was easy; I excelled at what was required of me. But I have also found that lying to others is far easier than lying to yourself. Inevitably there will come a day when—like one sitting in the middle of the Enchanted Tiki Room watching scores of animatronic birds and flowers clicking away in a song sung for the hundredth time that day—you will wonder with startling lucidity: “How did I get here?” and then, “How do I get out?”
But staying put is so much easier than getting out. Were it not for the divine (if also accursed) intervention of a worldwide pandemic that lost me my key to the kingdoms, I very well would have rolled over into another year and another after that. Still wondering, dreaming of the day…
I’ll never know now, and I don’t care. What I learned from a professional standpoint I’ll carry on, but the rest has faded to shades of sun-bleached pastels, the magic sucked dry. I swore I’d never understand how certain people finished their internships with Disney “ruined” for them. Usually it stemmed from horrible work situations. In my case this shattering of a superimposed reality lies deeper.
The slow and steady digression into loss and alteration—that’s what shattered it. That’s what did me in. Everyone tells you that dreams can come true. No one tells you what to do after—when that dream does come true but into something you didn’t expect or want. As the non-Disney and true-to-life characters of a different fairytale say:
“Wishes come true. Not free.”
There comes a cost, just as Richard experienced. We were both forced to reconcile our expectations with our realities. (Which is fitting in my case, as Disney World itself is not a place of reality.) I realize I’m not a book character (though life often, and sometimes without question, imitates art), but I can undoubtedly trace a character arc through my dealings of the past year. Maybe that’s called personal growth. I also realize you must still be wondering how I claim to be tangled up in a cult and a murder. Let me assure you, they are merely metaphorical…ish.
The cult is easy enough to explain. If you’ve followed my previous writings or even been to Disney World yourself lately, you will understand the seemingly harmless but startling utopian, cult-like atmosphere of the parks and surrounding properties. You could easily go without encountering anything that wasn’t Disney-related. “Big Brother is always watching.” Most people don’t question it. They bathe in it, drown in it—to the point of dilution.
The Disney I wanted to believe in does not exist—not currently. Plenty of people still believe in Walt’s vision, in his gift for original storytelling and his goal to make the world a brighter, more magical place. But the company today operates from an underlying desire for an increase in money, not creativity. And all the adoring followers are happy to forgive any losses of original merit, happy to consume all the continuous, regurgitated storytelling material, as long as they can still get the latest spirit jersey and designer fanny pack.
Perhaps I’m being a bit too dramatic here—especially since I could care less about it all now, having come out the other side. Funny how much can change in such a short time. And that’s only the half of it. We have the cult, but what of the murder? Allow us now, if you will, to suspend our disbelief and travel into one of my many haunted and fantastical visions.
§
Picture the night: a haze of humidity, the stars drowned out by encircling waves of city lights. Main St. USA, the courtyard of Disney’s Magic Kingdom, finds its storefronts lit up in amber and retro violet, casting a runway to the heart of the park—that center point of the world around which everything here revolves. Tonight the castle’s gilded spires flicker a burnt sort of orange. A tunnel passes through the center, a patient but hungry mouth. To the left, Adventureland, whose torches seem to have multiplied and now populate the main square, dancing shadows about the floor. To the right, Tomorrowland, glittering in dizzy patters of neon red and green—rockets winding circles in the sky. All along Main St. a crowd has gathered. They are shadows, undistinguishable, but packed closely together. Their voices blend into a hum of anticipation.
Grotesque and glimmering figures move down the street. They pass through rays of light and shadow, moving in a manner of odd, impulsive beats. It’s as though their limbs are tied to invisible strings, moving at the whims of some puppet master with a serious case of the hiccups, which throws them all into unexplained spasms and contortions. Down the street they go—jerking, swaying, giant heads and limber arms silhouetted in the flames. A parade.
I push my way through the tangle of limbs, tiptoeing around the carnage of popcorn and melted popsicles. Squeezing myself against the shadows, I attempt to catch glimpses of the festivities. I see armored knights with flagpoles and banners that flicker like snake tongues in the wind. Horses with pumpkin-head riders clip-clop on the cobblestones. Dark fairies twirl in concentric circles. Ribbons and sequins; marching dwarfs and magical queens; dancing bears and ghosts laughing in their mirth—they all jive and jingle in some frantic quest to the entrance of the castle. And there! in the center—
Some lamppost or leg catches my next step, and I go sprawling into the ground. A great scream erupts from up ahead, echoed by the surrounding voices. It isn’t a sound of terror—but of power. A cry for blood. My breath catches in my throat.
Dusting the popcorn and bits of gravel off my elbows and knees, I surge against the mob, finally winning myself a place at the front of the crowd. The castle looms overhead, its court of jesters having gathered on the center stage and parapets. They continue in their revelry, hands open against the flames, eyes spinning, smiles casting deep shadows against their faces. Deep within the tunnel emerges the source of the scream: two pairs of devouring green eyes, a maw of sharp metal teeth, claws that scrape against the stone—a dragon made of dark machinations slithers out of the shadows. Its neck winds back and a plume of fire unfurls white hot into the night sky. The crowd surges forward, waiting for the rest.
The puppets on stage bend and twist away from the center, revealing a giant box wrapped in polka-dot paper, fastened with ribbons and bows. Two acrobatic figures tumble down from their towers, and in a single movement, grab hold of the ribbon ends and pull apart the gift. I am now aware of everything in horror-rending clarity.
I exist simultaneously. Here, pinned at the foot of the stage by an adoring crowd, and there—onstage, visibly younger, standing in what was just the center of the box. My hands and mouth are bound with more ribbons and strings. My eyes are glazed over, barely responsive to the encompassing swell of celebration. But watching it unfold from below, I am aware of all in aching detail.
The crowd chants, joined in songs and music from the spasmodic performers. The dragon claws forward, with a low swinging stomach that quite resembles a cage. Beyond the clockwork beast, through the far end of the tunnel, spins a dizzy carousel and a myriad of other ceaseless wonders. They merry-go merry-go on and on forever. Never ending, never ageing—a loop of stars and parades that will never change. This is some great ritual of theirs. They’re feeding me to the dragon, I reason. A sacrifice of soul on this altar of playtime and youth.
My plan unwinds in tandem with my actions. Hurling aside the wad of balloons and candy floss (that I have no memory of collecting), I throw my arms out against the spectators. Having cleared a space, I clasp the edge of the stage, then haul myself over the top. I refuse confinement to the belly of this beast; but the crowd demands satisfaction, and the court must be appeased. Escape means only one thing. Which is why, sprinting up a staircase into one of the open towers, I don’t even question my intentions.
I wrestle a small but wicked dagger from the fists of a scowling queen, her crown knocked loose and sent rolling across the stage in the process. With a vault from the tower, I land center stage between the great green eyes of the dragon and the helpless sacrifice. I have only to register the brief flash of hope in my mirrored eyes before I drive the dagger into the heart of my younger self without hesitation.
The body thumps to the floor, catches the lip of the stage, and tips off the edge. It hits the ground with a crack of finality, still wrapped in ribbons that turn red with blood. The dragon screams in horrified defeat, robbed of its spoils, before slinking back into its hole. The audience falls into a clamoring dismay, turning in great masses to dissipate. The performers scuttle back into their glittering caves or whatever tunnels from which they emerged. Smoke undulates into the night, torches still flickering across the square. And I just stand there. I stand there and watch. Watch the blood drip from the dagger in my hand. Watch it seep out of my younger body, pooling around the abandoned golden crown. It pitter patters the cobblestones red and runs in little rivulets down Main St. USA. Somewhere in the distance fireworks blossom in the haze, illuminating the clouds in great magnanimous cotton ball swaths of color.
A pop of yellow, a flash of white, and the vision vacates my mental premises.
§
I stand on solid ground, sweeping the now-tiny landscape with my eyes. Drinking it in, but incapable of drowning as I once did. It is but a toy box. A giant, paper pop-up toy box with a toy castle and a toy beanstalk and toy princesses and toy boats, all bouncing on the summer breeze. The castle is pink and purple, as though having absorbed the dusk into herself. How we gaze at each other, like two victors across a battlefield. Death and loss mutilated, strewn about the grass and stone. A monstrous, beautiful picture of innocence and age. We regard each other with mutual amounts of respect and disdain. I to her for all that she represents, both the good and the bad. She to me for refusing to bow down. We will carry on now, an inseparable part of the past, but with nothing more to do with each other’s futures.
The sweet blossoms of music don’t invoke a swell of happiness like they have every night before. The balloons twisting in the night air, the bright, blinking spaceships, these tangible stars, tantalizing like the flashes of fireflies—their charm is gone. If I feel anything, standing here in the middle of Main Street, seeing the layers and layers of memories play out on top of each other like rewinding VHS tapes, years of memories and years of dreams—if I feel anything now, it’s the smallest bit of sadness over not feeling anything at all.
It is a reconciliation with the truth. I will never experience this place as I did before. Those nights are locked away now, out of reach in a treasure chest of memory, sinking to the bottom of reality’s ocean. All I wanted was to be a part of this world. Maybe for a bright glorious moment, I was. Maybe that too was just a dream. The gates shut behind me, but I don’t plan to return, not for a long time. The monorail slides out of the station, carrying me out across the horizon to the edge of this world. I step off. I know this is loss. I know this is relief. But I still don’t feel a thing.
In a fit of passion, before this accepted farewell took place, I burned all my certificates. I stuffed most of my collected t-shirts into a garbage bag and left them in a donation bin. I hurled my pins into the depths of the lake, watching the tiny flashes of steel spin toward the city skyline before sinking with the weight of all the false hopes cast out with them. Expulsion. Exorcism. No more black magic. No more cults of capitalism. There’s been a murder committed here. A murder of my former self. Stabbed in the chest. Thrown off the edge. Nothing personal, you see. I did only what I had to.
Is he okay? you’re probably thinking. To which I would reply with the words of Mary Shelley, who said, “Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.” I’ve spent the better part of my life resisting age, telling myself I would never grow up. It took getting what I wanted, getting to live in a timeless, ageless fairy-never-never land to finally convince me otherwise. I could have stayed. I could have kept on and persevered and lived under an illusion that everyone wants to believe in. But in the end, I couldn’t suffer myself to that mentality, couldn’t reduce myself to a custom-made, paper-mache avatar of perpetual glamour and childishness. I’m not saying this is the reality of every young cast member, but that was the experience I witnessed. It promised to be something it wasn’t, and I believed in more than what it was. We betrayed each other in turn, and in the end, I had to rip it out. Rip it right out of myself. It is a violent thing, and not without grief—especially when tied to so much nostalgia, so many years of childhood dreams. But childhood is over, and who would have thought it took killing my darlings to make it happen? That is what I’ve endured—mentally, emotionally. A parade of dreams thrown, disassembled, dissected on the stage of reality. I killed my darlings, yes. I killed them. Those dreams are dead. But again, I see the change now for what it was: necessary.
I never regret chasing the visions I’ve had, the dreams I’ve fulfilled. Sometimes I regret certain choices I made to get there, but I will never know any end except the one I reach, so even then… The only regret of the whole situation would be if I never tried, if I never dreamed at all.
I can say, thankfully, that this particular not-so-secret history of my own ends on a much better note than Richard Papen’s. I have learned invaluable things from both—though I tend to cherish one over the other, if all is to be shared in candor. Fiction and reality will always exist in a conflicted relationship in my soul.
Though they are now married to the reality through which I walk, I still have my resounding spirit, my powerful dreams. My imagination has begun to crackle once again in its dark electricity. I’ve left much behind—a portrait of secrets: metaphorical death, actual change, a loss of innocence, and a coming of age—broken dreams, though fulfilled. I was searching for belonging where I didn’t belong. I was looking for love in things that weren’t love. We are broken dreamers.
But I have that much more to rediscover now, to find anew in the future. And as I step into the dark and unmapped landscape of this newfound reality, I hear the soft, resolute voice of the Ghost of Childhood Past whisper as it fades forever behind me, its lifeblood seeping across the stars:
“To have lived and died has been an awfully big adventure.”
Yours,
Andrew
// Featured Photo Courtesy of Elijah Doss //
a literary labyrinth 