An Open Letter to Six Flags

This letter is address to you, Six Flags, but in truth it’s more fair to say this is an open letter to all public establishments and amusement parks.

Six Flags, it’s been real. I’ve spent years and many thousands of dollars within your gates. From family days in long hot summers to birthday trips with friends to field trips with school, Six Flags meant fun. It meant wind on my face, stomach in my throat, screaming with joy as I raced across the tracks. Some of my happiest memories were formed over the hills and twists of your coasters.

I’m sorry, Six Flags, but it’s over. And it’s not me, it’s definitely you.

You have been heard: I am not welcome.

It took a couple years for me to realize I was slowly and literally being squeezed out, and a couple more to accept what I was hearing.  But this year the message is crystal. I am not welcome at your park. People who look like me are not welcome at your park.

Sure, you will take our money. You will let us walk around and spend our money on rigged games. You will let us buy your over-priced DC merch, but that is all. You are unconcerned about us and the quality of our time spent in your parks after we’ve forked over our entry fees.

The last time I bought a tshirt from you, I was twelve. You still carry fun designs featuring some of my favorite characters, but I haven’t bought any for myself in nearly two decades. Why? Because the biggest size you carry in any of your clothing is 2XL.

How can I state this so baldly, you might ask yourselves. How can I know this? The answer is simple: I am listening to you.

When I returned to your park as a young adult, I could no longer ride the Screaming Eagle. Your claim to fame, the staple of my childhood. I was embarrassed as you were quick to tell me, it’s because I’m too big. I was the problem. You of course left out the part that you changed the design of the seats. The bench seat and belts were replaced by narrow, molded seats. I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter because there were other coasters, coasters that I liked better.

One by one, you took those from me, too. Year after year, my list of rides shrank, even as more coasters were added to the park. Eventually all I was left with was the Mine Train. Sure, it’s a coaster for the undaring and the young but it gave me the ghost of the feelings I sought and so missed. But this year you took even the mild-mannered Mine Train from me. You changed the seats and shortened them, and I no longer fit.

But it’s your fault, you might want to reply. You’re too pig. We focus on averages. It’s too hard to accommodate you. You are wrong.

I am aware that me and my body may present a challenge but it’s not insurmountable. Cars for Passengers of Size could be added. That’s no more difficult that finding rides safe for the tiny bodies of children, and yet you found a way to overcome the obstacle of their bodies to the point you have an entire park-in-a-park just for their scaled-down fun. I admit my knowledge of roller coaster physics is limited, but I don’t see how it’s more difficult to do this than choose a coaster or two that accommodate bigger bodies, or even a couple cars to existing rides.

Instead you have chosen to actively make it impossible for me to join the fun my family and friends are so busy having. At every turn you box me in. You resign me to the fate of purse-holder and drink guardian. And I pay for these privileges.

I doubt you’ll care about me. You already have my money for another year. I alone will not affect your bottom line. But although this letter is addressed directly to you, my real hope is that others like me—those who look like me and still love the thrill of a wild ride—might read this. Together we are strong. Together we can make a point. Together we can carve a spot for us. We do not have to make ourselves smaller in any way.

I will not shrink for you.