Picture it. 1991. Dollywood. A little queer boy.
It was one of the best days of the 11-year-old’s life, until it was his worst.
His grandparents liked to take the cousins in the van for a week. This time they loaded up 3 out of 4 cousins to Dolly Parton’s 5-year-old amusement park. The rides were a blast. The boy was stewarding his 6-year-old and 4-year-old cousins around the park as the big kid. They rode all the rides. Watched videos of Dolly perform. Looked at her glamorous dresses. It was the boy’s first time experiencing drag. It was the perfect day, almost.
He played all the carnival games. He did great without his 9-day-older cousin competing with him. He racked up the tickets. Anytime, to this day, that the boy sees a fair or carnival, he thinks back to that big wad of tickets in his juvenile little hands. When he finally got enough tickets, he slapped his hand on the counter and pointed up at the giant stuffed unicorn. That was his prize.
On the walk back to the car, his grandmother wanted to carry the unicorn he’d won. When they got back to the motel, they bluntly explained that it wasn’t proper for a boy to want it, and they’d send it home with the 6-year-old girl cousin instead. After prying it from his protesting grip, they snuggled it into hers and wished them both goodnight. She barely even remembers it; they tossed it by the time she became his age.
As an adult today I believe deeply in my heart, in 1991 or 1972, Dolly would have looked my grandmother dead in the eyes and said, “Well now, sugar, the boy worked really hard for it, won it fair and square. It means a lot to him, so why don’t you let him keep it.”
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