July 2004

Once upon a time, I met Cinderella on the red carpet.

The Cinderella.

And the red carpet. (At least as close as a middle-aged teacher from rural Ohio would ever get to it.)

I was one of thirty-nine teacher-winners attending the prestigious DisneyHAND national teaching awards ceremony in Disneyland, “the happiest place on Earth,” and two of my dreams were coming true. Since college, I had hoped that one day I could be so loved and lucky as a teacher to win something like this, but even more than that, I was meeting my fairy-tale heroine, a permanent fixture of my life since early childhood.

I was only four years old, fresh out of the bath and cozy in pajamas, when my little brother and I were loaded into the family station wagon, duped into thinking we were going for an evening drive to see one of Dad’s summertime paint jobs. Probably a barn. The summer sun was setting as our young groans—surely this would be the most boring drive of our lives—turned to shrieks of excitement when we pulled into the Springmill Drive-In. Walt Disney’s Cinderella was playing on the big screen!

Mom and Dad rolled down the car windows, hooked up the speakers, and we jumped into the front seat. Enchantment ensued, and I haven’t been the same since.

Cinderella. Her name was beautiful, her story fanciful, and I wanted to be just like her.

Now here I was next to her, as a teacher celebrating my DisneyHAND award, cameras flashing, a string quartet playing, and Minnie and Goofy frolicking nearby. We stood side by side, Cinderella and I, two perfect princesses with arms around each other’s waists, both dressed to kill. She wore vintage, one-of-a-kind ball attire, and I sparkled in a glamorous, beaded, black gown.

We smiled and posed for photographers, and someone snapped our photo just in time to capture the unmistakable, childlike look on my face that said it all: Ohmygod, it’s Cinderella!

I was in awe of her, unable to speak.

And then, as if it had turned midnight, she was gone, and I hadn’t gotten to talk to her. I wanted to tell her she was my favorite princess and that I felt like her that night. That this small-town high school teacher and mom of three had been transformed into a lovely sight for all in the Land to see. And that I was attending this grand celebration with family, too: my parents, my brother and his wife, and my could-be-charming husband.

Wait a second. Where was Prince Charming? And why wasn’t he with Cinderella? Uh oh. Something wasn’t right.

But I was distracted, and she moved on.

Then I saw her, selfishly searching out others for flirting and photo ops on the red carpet, and I knew I had been fooled. That Cinderella, no longer partnered with her fairy-tale mate and only interested in getting attention, was a fake. That Cinderella turned out to be a disappointment.

Years later, I would realize why the lingering mark of that symbolic moment stood out to me: that moment of foreshadowing took root in my own story. A seed was planted, a transformation began, and I grew into an image of the Cinderella I’d met in person: a perfectly fake disappointment.