It was a warm and sultry Saturday evening in early June as I walked out of a restaurant onto Sunset Boulevard. The hum of the Los Angeles traffic was electrifying and there was a frantic energy in the air as just a few blocks away on Santa Monica, WeHo Pride festivities were in full swing. This was only the second year since WeHo Pride split from LA Pride, but that just made the gays happier—intra-community drama coupled with another weekend to pretend their debaucherous activities were acceptable.
As I meandered toward the lights and sounds of raucous revelry, I stopped dead in my tracks at a very curious sight. On the lawn of one of the WeHo bungalows were large, life-sized cutouts of Winnie the Pooh characters. Each one held a different flag representing several of the subgroups of the community; of course as a gay man who has removed myself from that “community”, I was proudly ignorant as to their significance.
As I gazed on the woodland creatures familiar to me from my childhood, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of discomfort and malaise. It was another sign of the sexualization of childhood, a removal of the innocence that A. A. Milne so carefully crafted. I certainly don’t remember Christopher Robin popping puberty blockers while Piglet and Tigger donned spiked leashes and harnesses.
Upon reaching Santa Monica Boulevard, I was greeted unsurreptitiously by the hideous Progress Pride Flag crosswalks that garishly mark the boundaries of the gay-bourhood—as if you didn’t know where you were by the neon signs, drag queens, and scantily clad go-go dancers lining the street. This new version of the flag includes chevrons of brown and black to represent people of color as well as pink, blue, and white to denote the militant trans community. This chevron pattern appropriately acts as a dagger plunging into the traditional rainbow colors symbolizing our queer people of color overlords who have hijacked and are dividing our community. The ironically christened “Progress Pride” flag actually depicts the regressive and segregated nature of the community giving the minority top billing over the rest of us as if they were not included in the original rainbow design. As I crossed the street, I felt an odd sense of satisfaction stomping on the hideous perversion.
I proceeded to have my fun, met with some friends, shared some libations and laughter. And as any night out in WeHo for us ends, we found ourselves waling into the Abbey. As a cradle Catholic, I do not appreciate the satirization of my religion, but the Abbey and The Chapel at the Abbey are institutions of West Hollywood where I have met some of the most frighteningly fascinating people.
As it was Pride and there were people from all over the world congregating at this famous landmark, I was sure that night was to be no different. And I was not disappointed. Within ten minutes of walking in, a group of shockingly normal looking people began to converse with me and my friends. One of them— a female I assumed from the pendulous bosom and timbre of voice, although I dared not ask her pronouns—asked me what I did for a living. I admitted that I am now a writer though I had previously had a career in education.
Immediately a wave of friendliness and commiseration washed over her face. She too was a teacher who had decided to leave the profession. “I am just so sick of the Los Angeles Unified School District. They have left the teachers powerless and not supported,” she groaned leaning forward, the pungent smell of tequila burning my nose hairs.
As someone slightly more conservative than Atilla the Hun compared to California standards, I had a twinge of hope that she was finally waking up to the indoctrination going on in the state’s public schools. That hope melted faster than the ice in my cocktail as she open her mouth to say, “They just don’t care about Covid anymore. There are no more masks. The protocols are not being followed. I’m vaccinated and boosted, and I don’t feel safe. My fear and anxiety have led to stress seizures.”
I bit my tongue praying that it would not sever in my mouth. All I could force my vocal tract to say quietly was, “Oh really?” She proceeded with her diatribe, and I continued to smile and nod—the only acceptable response to abject insanity.
As I remained silent in my torture, somehow the conversation morphed into her desire to have children of her own, but she was afraid she was getting too old. Before I could speak and beg her not to water down our gene pool, she muttered something I will never forget.
“Women in their 40s have a higher risk of having children with congenital issues—although I would love to have a child with Down’s Syndrome,” she slurred as she polished off her drink.
I have a dark and twisted sense of humor, but I do not make it a habit of joking about Down’s Syndrome. It’s a bit gauche… Then I realized, she was not kidding. This was said in complete earnest. This is indicative of the state of mind of the prototypical liberal white woman. Oppression is now en vogue, and these women will do anything to gain more of it including wishing ill on her unborn child—if she allows it to be born at all.
I feigned the need to use the restroom and politely excused myself from fraternizing any further with this group of individuals. I quietly said a prayer of thanksgiving that one more insane teacher was leaving the profession in unintended deference to the children.
The clown show of WeHo Pride had just begun, and as I rode home in my Uber, I couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow had in store for me.