We had spent the morning with our children at the magnificent Sacré-Cœur Basilica, where we attended Mass. Then we went for a long walk in Père Lachaise, the remarkable cemetery where, among others, are buried Chopin and Jim Morrison. We visited both of their graves.
After a very long and blistering hot morning, we boarded the Metro for St. Michel on the Left Bank, not far from our apartment. As soon as we came out of the Metro, I heard that unmistakable thunka thunka thunka that passes for music in some quarters. There was an incessant pounding of drums, shouting, and a sea of rainbow flags. This was June. This was the Paris “pride” parade. Ugh. I should have known.
We were in the final days of a two-week vacation that took us to Scotland, England, and now France. Europe is filthy with corporate “rainbowism”—even the grocery store Sainsbury near our apartment in Edinburgh and Enterprise, who rented us a car to drive down through Jolly Old England.
Our daughters know something about the “rainbow,” but not what it truly means, in that it is more about hate than love and more about slavery than freedom and that it is undoubtedly against orthodox Christianity, especially Catholicism. But they had never even heard of a “pride” parade and therefore had never seen or heard of all the vile pornographic degradation that inevitably accompanies it.
This was something we needed to avoid. The march was a few blocks away, so we could steer them away. But the problem was that the parade was running south to north, cutting the city in two, and our apartment was on the other side of the parade. We either had to go through it—not an acceptable option—or around it.
We chose to try and go around it. But where did it start? How big a detour did we need to make? How would we find the source of this raging river? And how would we do this through the warren of streets which is Paris, especially the Latin Quarter and the Left Bank?
The start of a solution presented itself: scooters. They are everywhere in Paris. And we had talked about renting them. What’s more, the streets were all closed for the parade, so it was safe. We found three of them, paired our youngest with her mother, revved them up, and scooted away, always keeping the parade a few blocks to our left. We went looking for the source of this vile river with hopes we could loop around it.
It was like a movie or a video game with the good guys racing through town trying to avoid the evil.
We saw only one true horror: a young man dressed as a female stripper, thong up his bare keister, fishnet stockings, high heels, and a wig. He smirked at us. Except for this, for the most part, we did not see anything offensive.
And for that perfect cinematic twist, our youngest daughter, 10 years old, needed a bathroom, so there was some urgency to getting home.
Southward we rode, weaving in and out of streets, always keeping the thunka thunka to our left, and still just out of sight. And just like in a movie, we ran into a roadblock—the Luxembourg Gardens, a 56-acre park we could not ride through because scooters are banned. To the left was the parade, now one block away. We could have headed around the garden to the right—they are immense—but we could not be sure whether this would do us any good. Where was the beginning of the parade? And there was that looming potty emergency.
We decided all we could do was go right through the parade, which we could see was a solid mass of humanity. They were packed tight, shoulder to shoulder across a broad avenue, and moving fast.
Within view, we could see a double-decker bus with dozens of shirtless men robotically swaying back and forth to that hideous music, but it was far enough away that we could avoid close contact.
We prepared our daughters. Keep your eyes down. If you see anything bad, just pray for them for they are in pain.
Here is the thing. I did not participate, but I observed the homosexual parade for years in New York. I saw all manner of vile behavior. Our fear was that our daughters would somehow see something like that. You think drag queen story hour is foul? Well, you have seen nothing like what goes on at these parades. Most people have no idea. Organized Homosexuality and the media have conspired to keep you in the dark about what really goes on at these parades. They want you to know it is all lollypops and white picket fences in “Gayworld” and that these parades are as anodyne as anything on Independence Day. This is not remotely true. For an unblinkered essay about these shameful parades, read homosexual Chadwick Moore’s recent essay at the Spectator.
So, we went slowly, cautiously up to the edge of the parade. We scanned the marchers, waited for a break, and as there was none, we squeezed in. We purposefully but politely walked our scooters through the mass of marchers. I went first. Our eldest daughter, 14, was behind me. Cathy and our youngest, ten, behind us.
It was somewhere in the middle of the broad avenue that we became separated. My daughter and I had crossed but found we were blocked from continuing because the police had barricaded the street running perpendicular to the Pantheon. We had to join the parade downstream for twenty yards until we found an opening to the sidewalk. We looked behind. Cathy and our youngest were nowhere to be seen. We shouted their names. Nothing. Panic.
Finally, our youngest came running up. Cathy had had her squeeze through the barricade. But still no Cathy, not for a few minutes anyway. And then she arrived and told us this:
“Someone spit on me.” She said it was almost like a vomit of blue liquid spit on her neck.
Someone spit on a woman—a mother—crossing a parade with her arms encircling and protecting her 10-year-old child from the crush of revelers. Why would anyone spit on her?
He had spit on her neck where hanging from a chain was her gold crucifix. This is the only thing that occurred to us. He spit on her because of the crucified Christ. Angry gays know the only institutional bulwark against their ideology is Christ and his body on earth, the Catholic Church. And they know the Church is under attack right now from without and within.
If this was so—that it was the Crucifix that so enraged him (and we can figure no other explanation) then his act was purely demonic. It was an automatic reflex from the pits of hell.
We gathered our shaken little family and proceeded to our apartment in a minor state of shock.
That night we went to Mass at the Church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. It was the vigil for the next day, and the second reading included this: “For freedom, Christ set us free; so, stand firm and do not submit again to the yoke of slavery. For you were called for freedom, brothers and sisters. But do not use this freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, rather, serve one another through love.”
What we know about those who participate in “pride” parades is they are not free; they are enslaved. Only Christ, who is always spit on, can make them free.
What a blessing to be spit upon for him.
Editor’s note: Pictured above, the head of the statue of St. Jeanne d’Arc (Joan of Arc) is covered with a black cloth as people wave rainbow flags in front of it during the Gay Pride parade in Paris on June 30, 2018. (Photo credit: Geoffroy van der Hasselt / AFP/ Gettyimages)