Account from the Magic Kingdom

            Briana Pride excitedly chatted away across the airwaves to her sister about the three months she spent working at Disneyland. Local advertisements pronounce that “The Happiest Place on Earth is also the Happiest Place to Work” and some cast members would agree. Briana worked in sales, donning a new costume and location for every shift. Her opinion on the subject was directly related to where she was scheduled to work.

            “I liked working the games on the pier. I could do a lot of obnoxious things at the games.” She detailed how she would climb on the counter and shout to people walking by, and the delight she felt the day Jessica Beil came walking down the board walk to play Briana’s basketball game.

            However, there was also the equal number of days that she worked at Pooh’s corner, which was not ideal.

            “The costume was hideous; a huge pink, puke, floral dress with a blue apron. I looked like I was wearing upholstery paper!”

            As a Cast Member who working in the stores, she continuously had to be mindful of the various cultures that visited the park. She remembered vividly a time when an Indian family came to PT Flea Market in California Adventure land.

            “How much for this Ball” Briana imitated the woman’s accent.

            “$8.98 after taxes” She replied.

            “Too much, should be $3. I make you deal, $3.50 that’s as high I go.”

Briana called her manager who insisted that this cultural difference was something that they could handle, but by the time they go there, the family had left.

            “I felt bad because so often families would come who you could tell had spent all the money they had to come to the park and they could not afford to buy their kids things, so I would give them extra discounts that I wasn’t supposed to. That shit was overpriced!”

            Briana’s account is just one of thousands of stories that cast members have about working for the Magic Kingdom.

Stranger /Sister

Jennifer was checking out at Barnes and Noble on 185^th street before I approached her. She was short and round and glowed with friendliness as she purchased her copy of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. I approached her and before I could say one word she said

            “Theta Nu Alpha.”

            Shocked, all I could say was “yes” as I looked down to see that yes, I was wearing my sweatshirt with my sorority letters.

            “I was a Theta back in the sixties. Do you go to Pacific?”

            “Oh my gosh, I do! How are you?” She was a sister, and president in 1968, back when students had to live on campus all four years and girls were not allowed to wear pants on campus.

            Jennifer confessed that she loved the show Greek and watched it every Monday night because it took her back to her days as a Theta. She turned the interview around with her questions about what our sisters are like now, and I dutifully answered by rattling off all of our community service activities and our relationship with the Gammas. She informed me that our brothers were the “goody-two-shoes” in her days and she much preferred the Phi Bates to the Gammas. We both chose not to bring to words the fateful history of those boys, who had their chapter revoked for running a brothel, among other things, but our knowing smiles gave it all away. There was no time lost between us sisters. She sang me her pledge songs and asked about “pinning.” I told her about our charms and  “Theta History days” and begged her to come meet with us.

            In my essay for my position at the bookstore on campus I explained how I was excited to be working for a community that fostered community among strangers, but on this day I found much more, I found a sister within a stranger.

What they don't tell you about Geese!

What they don’t tell you about Geese is that they are mean. Because they are in the same family as both swans and ducks, they are strangely equip with cranky middle child syndrome (only because Swans are larger and ducks are smaller), they take their against out on innocent bystanders. Do not leave your children unattended near these beasts! They will peck them to death, or at least try, since they are vegetarians.

 

These mean beasts have been around for over 10 million years in one form or another, adapting to suit their habitat, weather on the islands of Hawaii or Canada. Each bird lives for about 20 years, mating for life and breading more mean spawn just three years into his or her lives. They get even meaner, if you can believe that, when they are nesting. If you see one standing in a grassy area where there is water close by, stay away, there is a nest near and the goose will chase you away, wings out head held high and running after you! They do not scare easily when they are protecting their young, so it would do you well to abandon whatever you were doing and run!

 

Geese are mean, and will attack, so watch out!

July 31, 1986

Just another Thursday evening around 7:05PM, when a tinny baby girl was born to Alvoye J. Pride Jr. and Eileen Mary McDermott-Pride. After much discussion, they named her Bridgett Kathryn Pride. Bridgett, because she is one of the patron saints of Ireland, as well as Eileen’s childhood best friend, Kathryn because that is Alvoye’s grandmother’s name and Pride, because Alvoye’s ancestors were proud to be slaves before they were set free.

            The fussy Leo had dark skin and a full head of hair and had no idea of what the world would have waiting for her. She did not yet know that she would share her birthday with the fictional character of Harry Potter, or that the headline of her local paper, The Daily Bulletin, would read “Drug War Prepared”. Or that the thought of the day was “the laws sometimes sleep, but never die” which was a legal maxim.

            Little Bridgett slept after a fight for her life, getting stuck and pulled out of her mother after hours of labor. She slept, did not die and was preparing herself for the war of life.

Dressing up and Making Pies

I grew up in a land of make-believe, of bedtime stories, dress-up, artwork and never-ending playtime. My mother was a preschool teacher and believed that play time was learning time. My younger sister, Briana, and I were constantly learning. My dress-up bin held a universe of possibilities, filled with gowns, and shoes, skirts and tank tops, costume jewelry and plastic swords. On a daily basis we would dawn an alter personality; I was usually a princess, my sister, a pirate. We would run around in the dry southern California heat, our skin growing darker by the moment, but never burning. We would run in and out of our playhouse in the backyard, collecting kittens, piling them into our wagon and take them on a parade of unexplored territory. In the area where the apple tree is now, we would leave the hose running and create a prehistoric world with dinosaurs and build mud structures, sitting in what we called a mud pie, covered head to toe with wet brown earth.

            Pictures decorate my parent’s home of my sister dressed as Batty from the movie Fern Gully, standing in the hallway, her long, awkward body, all legs, dressed in black with an antenna. Like wise, I am often depicted in a red silk dress with a cat in my lap, all smiles. Those were the days, when reality was too hot and too dull to live in, when shaving cream art and monster goop were supreme. Nothing could touch us here. Not our parents fighting, our racist teachers, nor our neighbors whom we could not understand. This world was ours, we created it.

Truth

There is no gray matter in truth. If something happened, then it is true and it can appear in nonfiction. If it did not happen, it is a lie and cannot appear in nonfiction. I don't really understand why this is an argument. If your memory is wrong then you don't know that it is not true, but I do feel there is a moral obligation of the author to seek the truth.

My memoir was truthful. If I did not remember something, I said that or left it out. I wanted to sick to the truth. I don't want to be one of those writers who lies to their audience.

Moving through space on a defiant ankle

 I had decided in fourth grade I was going to be a ballerina, a Prima Ballerina to be exact. I was entranced by The Nutcracker, the Red Shoes and various coloring books and stories about average girls who would strap on a pair of extraordinary point shoes and elongate the frame of their bodies into some amazing pose as they spun round and round, never tiring, or looking away from their audience. That would be me some day.

            My elementary school was based off of an arts-integrated model. This was fancy talk for twice a week when we got to spend an hour singing, or learning how to draw, make paper, act or dance. I loved dance class. My friends and I would crowd into the restroom and change into our leotards and tights, with white socks over them so the teacher could distinguish our feet from the black floor mat. You were not allowed to dance if you were not properly dressed.

            Once inside the portable classroom, we would line up around the room, each with a hand on the balance bar and plie in first and second position, bend back and forward and turn to the other direction and repeat. Then we would break up into groups and prance across the room doing whatever dance step or movement our teacher, Mrs. Yancy, would instruct us to. It was on a fateful day in fifth grade that the inevitable happened. I was paired up with Amy, a very nice girl with dark hair and freckles. We were galloping across the room “on horse back” when we tripped. She landed on top of me, or more specifically, my right leg and ankle, which was twisted and crushed under her large 10-year-old form. Our smiling giggling faces were soon transformed into wide-eyed looks of terror as I wailed, I was sure I heard something crunch or pop.

            Amy rolled off of me and I struggled to get up. I was forced to sit out for the rest of the lesson, but did not want to go home. I spent the day limping from class, to recess and lunch until finally two o’clock hit and my mother arrived to pick my sister and I up. She examined me and told me I had sprained it. We knew then that my short-lived dream of dancing was over. My ankle would plague me for the rest of my days while nightmares of strange women cutting off my feet would haunt my dreams.

            In high school, every Monday we ran laps around the track, usually about two miles. Katie Dyke and I were the fastest girls, and faster than most of the boys too. We would quickly run our laps and then sit and gossip about movies and what we were going to do after high school and the fact that we were going to be friends forever. Except for the day my right ankle gave out.

            It was as if my foot had disappeared. I had only just picked up momentum. The entire class was around me because the whistle had just been blown to start running. I was trying to pass my ex-boyfriend, so he knew that things were defiantly over, when my foot vanished. The next thing I knew, I was slinging across the red track, arms out in front of me, 30 teenagers dodging me, while my knees and palms burned. I was a mess, covered in dry sand and wet blood.

            Three years later, after graduating high school, and denouncing my friendship with Katie, I found myself at Pacific University. One night, on my way to paint the spirit bench, I got in a fight with Hillary’s lap top cord. It had somehow coiled itself around my ankle so when I attempted to simply walk across the room (I have since given up any faster form of movement) I somehow ended up on my face in the Walter hall kitchen, tears streaming down my face, mouth agape with ugly cries. I decided I should not be allowed to move through space because I would surely trip on something, hurt myself, and make it impossible for my ankle to ever heal properly.

            I have since given up my dream of dancing and running tack. I do tempt fate when I paint the bench at ungodly hours of the night, but with a sorority of 20 in toe, I have faith they could spare me if I happened to trip during tug-o-war and ended up in tears. If anything, my disasters in movement have forced me to appreciate the finer things in life, such as sitting and laying down, where I can complete a wide variety of tasks from reading and writing papers, to sleeping, most of which involve very little movement and little risk of bodily harm. My ankle often ails me, which I feel is a good thing as a quiet reminder to take things slowly and enjoy the finer things in life.

The One Minute I Regret the Most...

         It only took seconds for the hateful words of a thirteen year old to come spewing out of my mouth, raining down upon the defenseless odd girl. The under-stimulating wallpaper and paintings of the hotel room aided me as I berated the girl who had told our principle that our bus driver was talking about sex with some of the students.

         "What’d you do that for? You are so stupid. He wasn't doing anything wrong!" I shouted as she began to cry, our other roommate backed away as my shouts echoed in the room.

         "I'm sorry. She just asked me." The girl apologized for being a tattletale. All I really wanted was for her to apologize for being there, for not being popular, and for making me want to be friends with her, who was somehow unworthy.

         "You know why she asked you? Because she knew none of us were your friends and you needed someone to be nice to you!" 

         That minute is forever burned into my memory. All of the pictures from my eight grade trip to Washington D.C., all of the souvenirs, everything, is tainted and made evil by the terrible words I said to that poor girl. A few years later I would apologize. We even went to senior prom together, but our relationship before that was ugly.

Hi, I'm singing.

Every time I come close to an elevator I get really excited. For at least ten seconds (depending on how high up or far down I'm going) I will be by myself in a box with great acoustics. Elevators are the perfect space to sing opera! The tinny box will fill and vibrate with just the smallest note followed by a big gush of air. 

         Once the doors open, and I step inside, I take a deep breath in and as they close I begin to let the first notes go. Italian, French, Russian whatever has stuck since my high school choir days. Once the doors are tightly secure, I let the sound come out with more force. I am surrounded by arias, and duets, hearing the full orchestra in the back of my head, until the elevator chimes, and I am at my destination floor. Reluctantly, I pull back my enthusiasm and voice down to a whisper, then silence. My private show has ended and I will have to wait for my return journey before it can begin again.