Against Disneyland
By Barbara Louise Ungar
Disneyland is there to conceal the fact that it is the ‘real’ country, all of ‘real’ America, which is Disneyland.—Jean Beaudrillard
An iconography of excrement,
I might have said, at seven,
had I known the words.
Instead, I sulked in baleful silenceto torment my family all day.
Precocious, I knew how to ruin car trips
by getting carsick, but that was involuntary
genius; this, deliberate retribution:How dare they bring me there?
I who scorned birthday parties,
even as a tot resisting
coerced laughter. Tiny pilgrimdragged through the Inferno of California
sun on asphalt: each new line
descending to a deeper circle; each ride,
a worse contrapasso punishment.A diminutive French critic
lacking only a candy Gauloise Bleu
dangling from my disdainful lips:
My townspeople, what are you thinking!No more Mickey Mousse,
I might have signified, had I
known how. Like any cartoon animal,
I recognized bad magic by instinct.Instead, I simply cried.
From Charlotte Brontë, You Ruined My Life.
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