Progressivism's Sacrificial Lambs

Between butchering babies in the womb, brainwashing kids in the classroom, and letting the elite use them as playthings, liberals have revived an ancient barbarism to placate a very modern god.

Photo: @desmondisamazing Converse / Instagram

Of all the monsters to have slithered out of society’s closet over the last few years – from the Molotov-hurling peaceful protestor to the surgically-mutilated victims of transgender mania, from the aspiring medical tyrant to their unthinking armies of mask zombies – surely none can be more grotesque than those who breathe their venom into children.

There are many iterations of this evil. Most recently, we’ve seen it manifest in the form of abortion enthusiasts and blue-haired, dead-eyed elementary school teachers, as the names in Jeffery Epstein’s flight log, and yet more odious even than these, are the parents who meekly acquiesce.

As many readers are likely already aware, the kid in the video below is named Desmond Napoles, better known by his stage name, Desmond is Amazing. It is his mother’s contention, as it always is with these unhinged, unconstrained narcissists, that her son’s penchant for “gender play” revealed itself at an impossibly young age – just two years old, in fact, when Desmond would join her on the couch to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. This was grounds enough, she claims, to take the boy to his first “Pride” parade, the earliest steps on a path which would see Desmond (it genuinely pains me to type this) hanging out with murderers, being lusted after by pedophiles, and dancing for dollar bills in NYC gay bars.

Although filmed three years ago, when the boy was just eleven, the clip recently resurfaced in the wake of Disney’s Groomer Scandal, ABC a subsidiary of the company.

And let me tell you, it is nothing short of harrowing. For those unwilling to provoke the howling protestations of their soul, it shows Desmond (dressed in silvery heels, pink wig, and above-the-knee shift dress) sashaying through an audience of clapping, middle-aged degenerates, shrieks of pedophilic delight erupting as he collapses to the floor and strikes – I am loathe to even use the term – a provocative pose. Once on stage, the hosts take turns informing Desmond he is a hero. A little later, he is joined by three men dressed as the hideous caricatures of streetwalkers, each praising the boy’s parents for reasons no healthy mind could fathom.

The internet has been reassuringly enraged. While the media-entertainment complex might bury Desmond beneath words like “trailblazing”, “courageous”, and perhaps most nauseating of all, “fabulous”, it seems as though the general public still retains enough humanity to regard child drag queens as a symptom of a deep moral rot within our society, those who encourage such depravity deserving either to be on a register or in a woodchipper. And honestly, I don’t really have much to add. After all, whatever has not yet been said about child sexual exploitation probably wouldn’t prove all that illuminating, and so, for my own curiosity as much as anything, I will instead try to explain why the tragedy of Desmond Napoles reminds me so strikingly of Ursula Le Guin’s short story, The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas.

I first read the piece over a decade ago, while still floundering through a university degree I had long ago decided was pointless, counterproductive, and boring. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t much care for Le Guin’s work. Part of this, no doubt, was the compulsory nature of the assignment (required reading for my despised Women’s Literature module) – the plot simple insofar as it could be said to have a plot at all. In many ways, the story reads more like anthropological study, albeit one conducted by a researcher not wholly convinced of their findings. It describes the Festival of Summer celebrations in the fictional town of Omelas, “bright-towered by the sea”, the image of zig-zagging swallows, ornately festooned horses, “a cheerful faint sweetness of the air [and] the great joyous clanging of the bells” conjuring up the image of some idyllic medieval fete.

The author is quick to dispel this notion. Nothing specific is said about the level of technological advancement attained by the people of Omelas – indeed, the reader is invited to furnish the city with whatever amenities they would image paradise should come with. Whether inhabitants zip between skyscrapers in thought-propelled hovercars or whether they beat drums in primitive euphoria really is beside the point. Rather, what Le Guin is trying to express, is that the infrastructure of Omelas, as with all aspects of the city, is both an expression of and a lighting rod for citizens’ happiness, their architecture beautiful, their art profound and pervasive.

But neither is Omelas some bland utopia. As a matter of fact, all manner of indulgence is permissible there. In regards to sex, for instance, the population act without shame, pressure, guilt, or complication, without even the need for beautiful priestesses “offering themselves like divine soufflés to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh.” They are no more averse to a bit of revelry. Unlike the brain-deadening drugs adopted by our society, the narcotics indulged in by the people of Omelas first bring “a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limb” before giving way to a period of languid contemplation, and deep, satisfying insight. Needless to say, there are no after-effects. This might even be regarded to be the best illustration as to the miracle of Omelas, residents absolved, through some never-elaborated-on magic, from the crushing burden of consequence.

It would be wrong, however, to say they’d escaped it completely:

“In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded.”

The wretchedness of this child’s life is unremitting. It is kept alive on nothing more than a half bowl of grease and corn meal, its days spent cowering in fear of the mops which sit at the other end of their prison cell. It is naked, shivering, covered with sores from sitting in its own filth, memories of its mother’s voice registering just vividly enough to assure them that elsewhere, life must be better. Every now and then, the child cries out for help, promising God, his captor, whomever, that they will behave if only someone would free them. But of course, no one frees them. Neither does Le Guin explain why Omelas’s joy is contingent upon the child’s imprisonment, some readers interpreting this as evidence that the whole thing is all a cruel and misguided superstition. But no matter the reason, what we do know that the child’s torment will not just continue, but continue indefinitely, the citizens – who are all aware of the scapegoat's existence – having justified, rationalized, or repressed, the misery playing out beneath their feet.

Now, it goes without saying that Desmond Napoles’s prison cell is not quite so literal. In fact, far from being hidden away from the world, he is paraded shamelessly in front of it, in skimpy skirts and whorish, fluttering eyelashes, offered up like the Hijra, the child eunuchs of South Asia who, once castrated and celebrated in flower-strewn parades, are cast out into poverty and lives of squalid prostitution. And truthfully, I don’t know how Desmond suffers. What must be going on in that young, intentionally befuddled mind, none of us can really say, and yet what I do know is that his mother sees as surely as his manager sees as surely as the psychopaths who do his make-up see, that this boy is being sacrificed to satiate the delusions of adults.

Christopher F. Rufo ⚔️ @realchrisrufo

SHOCK: Disney+ promoted a drag queen special for children, encouraging kids as young as kindergarten to join the gender identity and trans activist organization GLSEN.

Some of a more utilitarian persuasion might even argue that the sorrow of the Omelas child is worth it - a small price to pay, they contend, for the unbound pleasure of so many.

The utopia which Desmond props up, however, exists solely in the mind of the progressive. His parents, alongside the rest of his vampiric entourage, know full well that their son’s fate is almost certain to mirror that of many child-stars, but so long as Desmond keeps simpering at the camera and remembers all the catchphrases he’s been drilled with, then this twisted pantomime will continue, enabling as it does, a society of emotionally and psychologically stunted adults to cling to their otherwise untenable worldview.

Not that this is limited to modern gender absurdity. Throughout the course of the Covid hoax, we saw western civilization deprive an entire generation of their most formative, precious years, guiltlessly instilling frailties and neuroses which no one yet fully comprehends. The lone motivation for this, at least among John and Jane Normie, was an anxiety they had slavishly absorbed from their televisions, parents (if such a noble term even still applies) lining up, as instructed by Bill Gates and Anthony Fauci, to inject their offspring with an experimental, unnecessary, and provably dangerous “vaccine”.

Hell, as if that’s not enough we’ve got an outgoing political paradigm intent on torching kids financial futures in order that they might continue to rule over the ashes, while some four months after Ghislaine Maxwell was sentenced, still not one of her clients has been named.

And just as most in our society seem to have lost interest in which celebrities, politicians, and business tycoons are involved in the industrial scale trafficking of children, so too do most within Omelas come to accept the conditions of their bliss:

“This (the details of the child’s imprisonment) is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms.”

Le Guin goes on to describe how most citizens grow to realize, not inaccurately, that even if the child were to be freed, it would remain incapable of experiencing anything like genuine happiness. Certainly, from a purely pragmatic point of view, there is no denying that the sum total of joy within Omelas (if the reader will permit some clumsy phrasing) reaches it optimal level by retaining the status quo, regardless of how abominably unjust that status quo may be. In a sense, the inhabitants of the city become almost grateful to the child, their contentment elevated by the compassion its pitifulness elicited, just as how, down in its fetid isolation, the child’s misery is deepened by the dim, diminishing memory of its mother.

Of course, not all citizens arrive at the same conclusion:

“At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or a woman much older falls silent for a day or two, then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman.”

Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow- lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.”

I have long advocated we do the same. But while there may indeed be pockets of grizzled off-griders thriving somewhere out in buttfuck, Wyoming, tending to their goat farm and solar powered vegetable patch atop an arsenal of weaponry, the reality is, for the majority of us, escape is quite a bit more complicated than simply walking out the city gates. Instead, we need to build. I have written previously, about some people who have done just that – the parallel economy, the homeschooling networks, the whole nine yards – but on a more fundamental level, the reason why Le Guin’s self-described “psychomyth” resonates with us today is because, at its core, the story is about rejecting the terms of a pact which society has presented us.

I suspect many readers have reached this point some quite time ago. This is a pact, after all, which promises us a utopia, if only a utopia of sorts – a world of fairytales and engrossing storylines, a world governed by empathy and benevolent, incorruptible reason; a nirvana where people live free from the consequences of their actions, where little boys can transform into little girls, where printing more money only means more money, and where rich, powerful people possess the same humanitarian goals we all do. It is a vision which becomes more preposterous the more you consider it, and yet it is a vision maintained so long as you just keep looking at the screen.

In academia (and, in particular, by my candidly Marxist Women’s Lit professor), Le Guin’s story is generally read as a rebuke of western imperialism, and not without some justification. Most of us know, after all, of the Chinese slaves who assembled our iPhones and the Indian sweatshops where our clothes are made, yet nevertheless, what I have tried to do throughout this article, is to illustrate how all around us, children are being sacrificed to sustain a fantasy that we should long ago have grown out of. We all know they are there. We all wish it could be different. But although there may not yet be enough of us sufficiently repulsed to tear down the pillars of Omelas, everyday more and more are waking up to discover that they are no longer able to accept the conditions of our intolerable paradise.

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