An Excerpt from Progressland: Making Your Own Waffles

Image from Swans Down Cake Flour

“Part of my transition into fledgling adulthood was coming to the understanding that waffles are superior to pancakes.”

You may remember that about six years ago, I published my first book, Paradigms as a Second Language. It was a collection of short stories and personal essays from which I published two entries on this very website!

Well, I’m getting ready to publish my second book! I announced this in January, but I’m bringing the exciting news to Saoirse Ronan Deserves an Oscar because I’m sharing an exclusive first look at one of the chapters with you. First of all, though, Progressland is the name of my second book. It is a memoir about my time working at the Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida, during the spring 2018 Disney College Program. The eBook is currently available for pre-order on Amazon, and the hardcover and paperback editions will be available when the book goes live on Tuesday, February 17. That’s right, one week from today, and Progressland is available! Aren’t you glad I waited a bit to publish a first look? Click on any word in this sentence to find Progressland online.

Here is the full description of Progressland:

“Progressland is a travel memoir about Dave Wheelroute’s time in the Disney College Program internship, working at the Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida. It is equal parts a narrative nonfiction recounting of the experience working as a theme park employee at the “Most Magical Place on Earth” and a coming-of-age story about an introverted college student who searches for purpose, belonging, and the love of human connection. The story begins at the Magic Kingdom during his childhood when a kindly cast member inspires him to pursue a decades-long path to becoming a cast member himself.

Navigating intricate processes of self-doubt and isolation, Progressland explores the growth and determination Dave Wheelroute felt to work diligently at improving himself and uncovering the ability to make his home among strangers whom he would come to love and would love him in return. Throughout the memoir, Progressland follows such vital chapters in the story of the Disney internship as falling in love, losing a friend to deportation, and getting stranded without a shelter when a hurricane shuttered the airport. Fans of authors like Bill Bryson, Joe Posnanski, and Tina Fey will find merit in Progressland’s verve, humor, spirit, riveting subject matter, and raw sentiment of the human spirit.”

Without further ado, here is an excerpt from this very book! It is the second chapter, entitled, “Making Your Own Waffles.” Enjoy!

The music of Duke Ellington was blaring in the background of the classroom, but I didn’t care to pay attention to it. I was too busy combing the Internet for more information on the Disney College Program than my aged bookmark gave me. I was nineteen years old and still dewy-eyed about a company that mainly created products for children, but I had to feel that way. I’ve really imprinted Peter Pan’s philosophy of “never growing up” upon the smooth ridges of my brain — a semester as an employee of the Walt Disney Company seemed the best way of embracing that to its natural conclusion.

My giddiness when I learned that people in this world would pay you to live and work at Disney World for six months was nearly matched by the giddiness I felt when I learned that the University of Massachusetts — Amherst, my alma mater, allowed students to take a course on the history of jazz. My best friend, Lach, and I were eager to pursue this, but the only session that fit into our schedule was an hour after our previous classes concluded, leaving the two of us to secure our seats in the back of the allotted lecture hall early.

Finding the wait interminable, I opted to use the extra time to take the steps toward applying for the DCP. After all, I was finally a college student. If I didn’t try to get into the program now, I’d probably never get the chance again. The opportunity to drop out of school and move to Disney World is so rare they actually advise against it.

Truly clueless about the resources on campus that existed solely for studying off campus, I decided to begin my search for a faculty member in the study abroad department who might help. Of course, the internship I wished to pursue was located in the extremely domestic destination of Orlando, Florida, but I was doubtful that UMass had a “study at Disney” department that I could waltz into; I felt the study abroad staff could at least guide me in the right direction. Nevertheless, I could feel my legs shaking with anxiety as I knew my first step was already flawed.

In the back of my head — while I typed “UMass study abroad” into Google — was the fear of embarrassment. People who wanted to study abroad and people whose job was to help them get to other countries knew what they were doing in that building. But me? I was just some kid who was not even sure where to look on a campus he had already lived for a year. My obliviousness was in direct contrast with everyone else’s sense of purpose, and it began to weigh heavily on me. The last thing I wanted to be was the center of attention at UMass. I was just a sophomore who wanted to do something that was the least-attention demanding way to spend a semester: work at Walt Disney World.

I spent a week of jazz class preambles learning the name of the study abroad building, locating it on the official campus map for UMass, and practicing the questions I was going to ask the receptionist. Eventually working up the nerve to pursue the first step of my Disney dreams, I dropped my backpack off next to Lach one Monday afternoon and told him I would return shortly.

“Headed out?” he asked.

“I’m going to the study abroad building to ask about Disney,” I replied.

“You know that Disney World isn’t abroad, right?” he said to me.

The anxiety came rushing back with the force of a Taylor Swift anthem. “All too well,” I said, grimacing and forcing myself to turn around and leave, knowing that the longer I put it off, the more I would worry about inanity. Deep within me, I knew that the people who worked in that department received foolish questions every day that never warranted a second thought. But if I was not thinking overdramatically, then I was not acting on brand. The fate of my Disney world hung in the balance.

After pinpointing the study abroad building on the map, I realized it was directly adjacent to my freshman dorm building. All those days spent walking past it, and I never realized what it was actually used for, but as a sophomore, it had been consuming my every thought. (Similar to how failed presidential candidates feel about the midwest.) Navigating the familiar paths to the central area of campus, I continued to recite what I wanted to say, mouthing the words to eyebrow-raising students along the way.

When I finally turned the corner of the street to face the building, I found myself frozen and staring across the crosswalk. It was as if I had spilled waffle batter all over again.

Part of my transition into fledgling adulthood was coming to the understanding that waffles are superior to pancakes. (The emphasis UMass places on them is evidence enough to support such an argument.) However, I only became truly comfortable using the dining halls’ waffle makers during my junior year, a time when I was already beginning to wean myself off of university food altogether. As a senior, I loved to make waffles, and it was a frequently enticing station, but when I was a freshman, the waffle makers were tainted with fear and humiliation.

During my early weeks as a UMass student, I would tentatively watch other, more confident students pour themselves a cup of batter, empty it into the machine, and finish the process with a delicious breakfast three minutes later. When I finally felt that I understood how the waffle process was conducted, I reluctantly — with eyes darting around the dining hall to see if I was being judged — poured batter into the machine and closed the lid. Startled when the machine loudly began beeping, I flipped the waffle over. I could feel the flustered frustration settling into my skin.

My mortification was further palpable when I turned the machine too aggressively and one of its legs slipped from its position of support into mid-air, sending the lid of the machine dangling and the waffle batter gushing onto the floor; my grip was the only thing that saved the machine from clattering altogether.

“Happens all the time,” said one of the dining hall employees reassuringly, even though my own experience with spying on the station from afar taught me otherwise.

I helped him clean the mess, returned the waffle maker to its upright position, and spent the next two years like a skittish dog, refusing to even consider a return to the station. Waffle makers were something to be terrified of, and I was clearly not equipped to handle them. Everyone who thought I was ready for manufactured independence was wrong. My parents were wrong, the teachers who had written my recommendation letters to UMass in the first place were wrong, and I was wrong, too. If I couldn’t make a waffle, how could I ever graduate? Staunchly afraid of a process I did not understand, I gave up and turned my back on waffles, promising myself that I would never again attempt to do anything that deviated from my comfortable routine.

Fixating on the memory of dripping waffle batter, I could not find the memory of what the study abroad building looked like as a freshman, but I knew it was not this. A metal fence surrounded the facility and its empty lot that was filled with construction equipment and machinery. The crew seemed prepared to demolish the building altogether.

Maybe the sidewalk is just getting renovated, I thought naively as I spent my time circling the building, never once finding an entrance that was approved for students. This time, I didn’t need to do anything to embarrass myself; UMass had taken care of it for me.

I felt like I wanted to willfully interpret this as an act of some higher power giving me a sign that the pursuit of Disney was sure to be a fruitless one. I wanted to give up again.

Instead, I found an article on my phone about the university’s construction plans for the building, and I learned where the study abroad building had been relocated. When I found it on the map, I realized it was directly next to the hall that housed my fellow jazz enthusiasts. Taking a deep breath, I reunited pocket and cell phone before retracing my steps to class, accounting mentally for one small detour.