Reg Hartt

Burbank, California. 1956.A young Black man walked through the gates of Walt Disney Studios carrying a portfolio and a quiet determination that would change animation history.His name was Floyd Norman. He was 21 years old.And Disney had never hired someone who looked like him before.There was no press conference. No diversity initiative. No corporate announcement about breaking barriers.Just one animator who saw Floyd’s talent and gave him a chance.

Floyd walked into that studio the same way he would work for the next seven decades: head down, focused, ready to prove himself through the only thing that mattered—the quality of his art.He had no idea he was about to spend the next 70 years making history, one drawing at a time.Floyd started at the bottom, as all animators did.He was an in-betweener on Sleeping Beauty—drawing the frames between the key poses created by senior animators. Meticulous, unglamorous work. Drawing woodland creatures frame by frame, making sure the movement flowed seamlessly.But Floyd loved it. He was inside the magic factory, learning from masters, watching characters come to life through pencil and paper.He was also the only Black person in the animation department. Probably the only Black person in the entire building.He didn’t talk about it much. He just worked.Harder than most. Better than many.And people noticed.

By the time The Sword in the Stone went into production in the early 1960s, Floyd had moved up. He was animating sequences, not just filling in frames. He helped create the charm andmischief of Merlin’s world—the talking animals, the magical transformations, the whimsy that made Disney films feel alive.Then came The Jungle Book.And that’s when Walt Disney himself took notice.Walt rarely interacted directly with junior animators. But he watched the work being produced, and he recognized story instinct when he saw it.Floyd Norman had it.Floyd had been creating gag sketches around the studio—funny drawings that poked fun at executives, at Walt himself. The drawings circulated, made people laugh, showed a sharp wit and visual storytelling gift.Walt promoted him to the story development department—one of the most coveted positions in the studio. Story artists didn’t just draw; they shaped narratives, created character arcs, built the emotional foundation of films.It was an extraordinary honor for any animator.For a Black animator in 1960s America, it was unprecedented.Floyd worked on The Jungle Book story team, helping craft one of Disney’s most beloved films. He contributed gags, character moments, and narrative beats that would entertain millions—including the “Trust in Me” sequence with Kaa the snake.He was living the dream. Working directly under Walt Disney. Creating magic.Then, in 1966, Walt Disney died.And everything changed.After Walt’s death, the studio felt different to Floyd.The creative energy shifted. The magic dimmed slightly.And Floyd, who had always been treated fairly by Walt personally, began feeling the limitations of being the “only one” in a predominantly white industry.In 1967, Floyd left Disney.But he didn’t leave defeated. He left to create something new.He co-founded Vignette Films with animator Leo Sullivan—one of the first animation studios dedicated to creating content featuring Black characters and telling stories from Black perspectives.This was years before Hollywood cared about diversity. Decades before “representation matters” became a phrase.Floyd and Leo were doing it because those stories deserved to be told, and nobody else was telling them.They created educational films, commercials, and content that showed Black children seeing themselves as heroes, adventurers, and protagonists—not sidekicks or stereotypes.They worked on Sesame Street, created the opening for Soul Train, and produced the original Hey, Hey, Hey, It’s Fat Albert special.Floyd was pioneering representation before it had a name.Eventually, Disney called him back.Then Pixar called.Then Disney again.Floyd’s career became a masterclass in longevity and adaptability.He worked through every era of animation:The classical hand-drawn era of Sleeping Beauty and The Jungle BookThe Disney Renaissance of the 1990s (The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Mulan)The digital revolution at Pixar (Toy Story 2, Monsters, Inc.)The modern Disney era continuing into the 2000s and beyondTechnology changed. Teams changed. Techniques evolved from pencil and paper to digital tablets and CGI.Floyd Norman never stopped creating.When Disney tried to retire him in 2000—he was 65, after all—Floyd refused to accept it.He didn’t call himself retired.He called himself “refired.”And he kept showing up.He found an empty office. He moved in. His colleagues affectionately coined the term “Floydering”—like loitering, but creating.Nobody questioned it. Floyd was family.At 90 years old, Floyd Norman still walks into Disney and Pixar studios with more energy than animators half his age.He sketches. He brainstorms. He pitches gags. He mentors young artists who grew up watching the films he helped create, never knowing his name.He’s not an executive. He’s not coasting on past glory.He’s still creating, still contributing, still proving that artistry doesn’t have an expiration date.In 2007, Disney officially named him a Disney Legend—the company’s highest honor, reserved for those who made extraordinary contributions to Disney’s legacy.Floyd accepted the award with his characteristic humility and humor, joking that he was just happy they remembered he existed.But the animation world knows. The artists know.The doors he opened, often without recognition, made space for generations of diverse storytellers.Floyd Norman’s legacy isn’t just in the films—though those films have touched hundreds of millions of lives.His legacy is in the young Black animators who now walk into Disney, Pixar, and other studios and see a path that didn’t exist before Floyd quietly carved it out.He didn’t demand spotlight. He didn’t stage protests or write manifestos about representation—though he would have had every right to.He just did the work.Brilliantly. Consistently. For seven decades.He showed up every day and proved that talent, imagination, and storytelling transcend any box society tries to put you in.He proved it so thoroughly that eventually, the industry had no choice but to recognize it.Floyd Norman once said: “I don’t want to be known as a Black animator. I want to be known as a good animator who happens to be Black.”He achieved both.He became one of the greatest storytellers in animation history—period.And he did it while being the first, the only, and eventually, the legend who opened doors for everyone who came after.From the pencil-and-paper era of Walt Disney’s golden age to the digital revolution of Pixar, Floyd Norman has lived through—and contributed to—every chapter of animation history.He animated fairy tales and jungle adventures. He created stories featuring Black heroes when Hollywood wouldn’t. He mentored generations of artists. He returned again and again to the studio where he started, each time bringing wisdom, humor, and an unshakeable love for the craft.At 90, he’s still “refired.”Still sketching.Still proving that creativity has no retirement age, and imagination has no color—though opportunity absolutely should.Floyd Norman drew himself into history, one frame at a time.Not with grand gestures or dramatic moments.Just with talent, persistence, and seven decades of showing up to do the work he loved.The opening scene of his story?A young man walking through studio gates in 1956, carrying a portfolio and a dream, stepping into a building that had never let someone like him in before.The closing scene?There isn’t one yet.Because Floyd Norman is still walking through those gates, still creating, still inspiring.Still refired.