While our national clown show becomes more outrageous, it is still very funny. I guess that’s what they always say about clowns—they are much more frightening than funny.
Every time I see images of Drag Story Hours I think of clowns. It’s always the same thing—a few heavily made-up drag queens posing as grotesque caricatures of women, looking basically like a gay misogynist’s nightmare fantasy of a devouring, castrating bitch-mother; some librarians or other regime functionaries silently taking attendance; a bunch of downmarket loser parents trying desperately to opt out of their loathed cishet whiteness and score some cool points which they hope to roll over into the coming social credit system; and, finally and most importantly, a handful of children looking confused and bewildered.
What’s the point of this ritual, other than to own the cons? It is a great exercise in carnivalesque revelry but it doesn’t work very well. It’s just forced fun. Drag and literacy are not connected. The primary argument I’ve heard is that it teaches tolerance—but for what and for whom? Drag is not an identity; it’s a job…
