Previously in Neurodivergent Gumbo… We cracked open the pot with a look at Princess Tiana—how Disney bakes in expectations of labor, respectability, and invisibility for Black girls. In Part 2, we stirred deeper into the split girlhoods of Charlotte and Tiana, coded romance, and desirability politics. Now in Part 3, we shift our focus to the boys—and how even in a “love story,” Disney trains all of us to fear softness in men, especially if they’re brown.
Men Made of Smoke and Mirrors
On Absentee Fathers, Fumbling Princes, and the Erasure of Black Masculinity
In The Princess and the Frog, the women carry the story, the labor, the love—and the burden. The men, when you look closely, are either ornamental, useless, or dead.
Let’s start with the father figures.
Tiana’s daddy, James, is kind, grounded, and full of hope. He has the only decent monologue in the whole film—telling young Tiana that wishing on stars is fine, but "you gotta help that wish along with some hard work of your own." It’s a real moment. A layered truth. He’s not selling fantasy—he’s passing on wisdom forged in struggle.
And then… he’s gone.
Dead in the war. No funeral. No flashback. No mourning. Just a folded picture and a kitchen dream Tiana now has to chase alone.
It’s a classic move. Kill the good Black father early so the girl can be “strong” without ever being held. It’s generational messaging dressed in Disney sugar: You’ll have to carry the dream now, baby girl. Alone.
It teaches Black children—especially little girls—that stability is temporary. That love might exist, but protection is not guaranteed. It romanticizes the absent Black father, framing it not as loss, but as inspiration.
And then there’s Charlotte’s father, "Big Daddy" LaBouff—white, wealthy, indulgent, and laughably clueless. He showers Charlotte with everything she wants, not because she needs it, but because he can. He’s all power, no presence. A wallet in a tuxedo. His entire character is a joke—the bumbling rich man too dumb to notice how spoiled his daughter is.
He represents white patriarchy at its laziest: enabled, soft, and still on top. Nobody questions him. Nobody holds him accountable. He doesn’t grow, he doesn’t change, and he never has to.
And then we meet Prince Naveen, the smooth-talking, shallow womanizer who doesn’t want to work, doesn’t know how to cook, and apparently doesn’t even know how to function without a servant. He struts through the first act like the animated version of a red flag.
And then—like magic—he gets turned into a frog, and suddenly we’re supposed to believe this is growth?
He’s still annoying. He still flirts. But now he makes googly eyes at Tiana while she does all the planning, cooking, and problem-solving. His “transformation” isn’t about character—it’s about proximity to a hardworking Black woman who rehabilitates him through effort.
Tiana doesn’t get rescued. She gets saddled.
And let’s not forget Lawrence, Naveen’s servant. The only character who dares to challenge the class system, who dreams of power because he’s spent his whole life holding someone else’s coat. When he partners with Dr. Facilier, it’s not just greed—it’s desperation. He’s tired of being stepped on. Tired of being invisible. And of course, the narrative punishes him for even dreaming outside his place.
Because in Disney, uprisings are evil—unless they come with a tiara and a prince.
And then there’s Dr. Facilier—the Shadow Man. The villain. The embodiment of “evil magic.” He’s charismatic, slick, and soaked in Black spiritual aesthetics. He talks to spirits. He dances with shadows. He makes deals. And he’s portrayed as untrustworthy, deceptive, greedy.
Let’s be clear: he’s a caricature of Voodoo, stripped of its sacredness and repackaged as demonic spectacle. Disney takes the symbols of African spirituality and turns them into plot devices and horror visuals, all while never treating them with the reverence given to European fairytales and their magic.
And the final blow? He kills the Firefly.
Ray—this soft, tender, light-bringing character who loves a star that never answers back—becomes the sacrifice. And for what? A darker villain? A twist? A lesson?
In the end, every male character of substance is either corrupted, useless, or erased.
The only one who seems to grow is Naveen—and even then, he only grows through Tiana’s labor. He becomes good by absorbing her values.
So what does this teach anyone watching—especially Black boys, queer boys, or anyone trying to see themselves in a Disney story?
That your softness will be killed.
That your power will be feared.
That your worth will only be visible if a woman polishes it for you.
And for Black girls?
That you might have to build the restaurant, heal the prince, forgive the system, carry the grief, and cook the gumbo—with no guarantee that anyone will stay to help you clean the kitchen.
And just when you think the film might stop feeding us gender politics in quiet crumbs, there’s that quick, seemingly throwaway moment on the trolley.
A dapper, soft-mannered man offers a flower. It’s subtle, delicate—maybe romantic, maybe just kind. Tiana doesn’t even notice it. She’s focused. Driven. Moving on.
But right behind her, a burly man turns around, misreading the gesture as one meant for him. His response? Not confusion. Not humor. But a growl—an aggressive, guttural rejection.
This tiny moment—less than three seconds long—is doing a lot.
It plants a seed:
Don’t offer softness in public.
Don’t blur the lines.
Don’t let tenderness cross the wrong boundaries.
It’s the kind of scene that teaches boys, without a single word, that a flower given to the wrong person can make you a target. It tells them that masculinity is always under threat, and the response to that threat must be dominance, not dialogue.
That growl isn’t just about embarrassment—it’s about panic. It’s about male fragility, homophobic tension, and the policing of gendered behavior in public space.
Even the dapper man—who meant no harm—is shamed into silence.
And what does that say to the audience watching?
That softness must be earned.
That affection has rules.
That misdirected tenderness can lead to violence—even in cartoons.
This is how these messages get in.
Not through villain speeches or plot twists, but through the invisible choreography of side characters. Through moments we’re told are harmless, but that carry a full suitcase of cultural baggage.
So let’s be clear: The Princess and the Frog doesn’t just mishandle Black masculinity by omission. It codes fragility, violence, and fear into the silences, too.
And the only male character who shows consistent gentleness—Ray, the Firefly—gets crushed.
Closing Reflection: This Ain’t the Dream
So what are we left with?
A hardworking Black girl who’s told she can wish, but only if she scrubs.
A mother who sews fairytales she no longer believes in.
A white best friend who floats on privilege and pink tulle.
A prince who’s charming only because everyone else is exhausted.
A villain who wears our spirits like a costume.
A father who dies quietly, and a firefly who dies loudly—but both leave too soon.
And magic that only works once you’ve earned it with unpaid labor and unwavering grace.
Tiana got the restaurant, but what did she lose to get there?
This isn’t just a children’s movie. This is cultural messaging wrapped in jazz hands and fairy dust. It’s a carefully plated story meant to taste like representation but seasoned with bootstrap myths, gender policing, and spiritual erasure.
And when you watch it while Black, queer, neurodivergent—while awake—you don’t get to just enjoy the music.
You hear what’s missing.
You notice what’s softened.
You taste what’s been watered down.
Because this gumbo?
It’s got some of the right ingredients—but they forgot the soul.
So maybe the dream was never the restaurant.
Maybe it was community.
Maybe it was rest.
Maybe it was being allowed to exist without transforming—into a frog, into a fantasy, into a perfect Black girl just “grateful to be included.”
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we stop asking for a seat at Disney’s table—and start building a table that feeds us truth.💎
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for sitting at the table with me.
Neurodivergent Gumbo is not just cultural critique—it’s memory work, mirror work, and resistance in prose.
If you felt something while reading, say so. Share it. Start a conversation.
Next up: Mulan, gender performance, and the cost of code-switching.
Bring your mirror. We’re not done watching.