Confessions of a Disney Employee

Walking through the gates on my first day, I was awestruck by the vibrant energy around me. I entered the world of Disney with the spirit of a young adventurer, ready to embrace whatever came my way. There were layers to the Disney employee experience, a hierarchy of sorts that I quickly learned to navigate.

There were the veterans, employees who had spent over a decade at Disney, proudly wearing their pins that signified their years of service. Many of them had met their partners at work and were planning Disney-themed weddings, complete with Cinderella castles and fairy-tale dresses. Their camaraderie was palpable, and I admired their dedication.

Then, there were those who took their jobs far too seriously—like the “costume” characters. They lived and breathed their roles, embodying their characters in ways that bordered on the surreal. I remember one instance where a costumed performer, dressed as a Disney prince, ran up to a group of kids who were innocently sipping soda on a bench. With dramatic flair, he shouted, “Quick, kids! I just stole this loaf of bread from the marketplace! The Sultan's guards are coming! Let’s run!” It was both ridiculous and heartwarming, the kind of thing that made the job feel magical.

I, however, was part of the third group—those like me who simply clocked in, did our jobs, and clocked out. I was there to earn a paycheck and experience a slice of the Disney magic without taking on the burden of being overly enthusiastic. I enjoyed working alongside my fellow clock-punchers, who were equally committed to doing their jobs without creating drama.

But then, there were the snitches. Disney snitches were a breed unto themselves, lurking around like little spies, ready to report any minor infraction. One day, as I stood outside greeting guests, I caught the eye of one of my colleagues. He was tapping his foot, arms crossed, an ominous look on his face. I felt a wave of dread wash over me. Two minutes later, a manager appeared, and I received a reprimand for something trivial. I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, a sixteen-year-old, being ratted out by a thirty-eight-year-old. It felt absurd, and I found myself fuming.

The managers at MGM were a mixed bag. We had five, and they rotated weekly. Four out of the five seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to me. I’ll never forget one manager—a man who was Black. You would think he’d understand me better, but no. As soon as he had that clipboard in his hands, he turned into a miniature tyrant, wielding his authority like a weapon. The irony was not lost on me.

Initially, my time at Disney was a magical experience. The orientation was the best I’d ever attended. They grouped all the new hires together, letting us skip the lines and go on rides, play team-building games, and indulge in free food. The food was a highlight—70% off meals that were just as good as what the guests enjoyed. I often thought to myself that if they wanted me to do something outrageous, all they had to do was take me out for a meal.

However, the longer I worked there, the more I felt the pressure. Smiling for eight hours a day began to take its toll. The repetitive jingles, like the incessant “It’s a Small World” song, echoed in my mind, causing my eye to twitch. I began to feel like a zombie, trapped in a cheerful facade that wasn’t truly me.

I started showing up late to my shifts on purpose. Five minutes at first, then ten, then thirty. No one seemed to notice. I began to crave a little rebellion. The first thing I stole was a pencil—a small act of defiance that felt monumental. From there, I escalated my thievery to stealing show magnets from the Indiana Jones attraction. It was absurd and exhilarating, and I felt like a Disney-themed Robin Hood.

Then, one night, a manager from a different section approached me, asking me to help with a special event. A company had rented out half the park, and they needed me to stand in a dark corner by the Star Wars attraction to redirect lost guests. The request felt dehumanizing. I was a teenager, not a signpost. Frustrated, I thought about quitting on the spot.

But then I caught sight of something that changed everything. As I walked toward the exit, I noticed Disney chefs bustling around, preparing free food for the guests. The smell of pancakes wafted through the air. My heart raced. I was ready to give up on my dignity for the chance to indulge in a feast.

The next time a high school rented out the park, I concocted a plan. After finishing my shift, I quickly changed into civilian clothes, determined to blend in with the crowd. I had spent countless hours playing stealth video games, and now it was time to put those skills to use. I dodged security and made my way to the banquet area, where the food was laid out in a glorious spread.

I filled my plate with hamburgers, chicken, and seafood, savoring each bite. It felt like pure indulgence. As I stuffed my face, I realized I had transformed into one of the guests, enjoying the magical experience I had initially craved. I even managed to join a group of high school students and ride attractions together, feeling a sense of belonging I hadn’t experienced at work.

That night was one of the best experiences of my life, filled with laughter, excitement, and all the free food I could consume. Disney never caught me; they never suspected that one of their own had infiltrated the ranks of their guests.

Eventually, I quit my job at Disney. While it was an incredible experience filled with ups and downs, I knew it was time for a new adventure. But I left with a treasure trove of memories and a few valuable lessons about navigating the complexities of work, friendship, and rebellion.

Now, I often reflect on my time at Disney. It was a place of magic and dreams, but it was also a reminder that behind the sparkle, there were real people with their own struggles and triumphs. And while I may have left the fairy-tale world behind, I carried those lessons with me, ready to embrace whatever life had in store next.