I was leaving immigration court the other day, feeling fairly good about the fact two of my clients had avoided deportation orders, when I heard the words “Christine Flowers, you are a disgusting human being.”

At first, I thought it was a friend who was playing a joke, because we often connect in front of that building. But when I looked over, I saw a man with numerous tattoos, a beard, earrings and a Trader Joe’s bag staring directly at me. I’d never seen this rather fey specimen before in my life, and it was definitely not my friend. I approached him and said, “what did you call me?” He repeated “disgusting human being.”

And so I did what everyone does these days, pulled out my cell phone and posted a video of me asking him to tell the universe how he felt about your humble columnist. To his credit, he didn’t run away. He said, clearly and in a somewhat singsongy tone: “You are a disgusting human being Christine, inside and out.”

Ouch. It wasn’t my fault the humidity level was high and I looked like a cross between a Caucasian Chaka Khan and a Pomeranian. At the age of 63, I should be used to people insulting my looks when they dislike my politics, but I am particularly sensitive when it comes to my hair.

The interesting thing is, his attack on my character didn’t phase me at all. Since I’ve begun to express my opinions publicly years ago, I’ve been the target of a lot of anger and hatred from the sort of people who specialize in pearl clutching, even when they are exactly the sort of people who reject the whole concept of pearls, jewels, and affluence.

My words generally annoy the progressives who, like my Trader Joe fanboy, like to think that they represent a more evolved version of human. They love immigrants, especially the ones they pay to clean their studio apartments. They march for women’s rights, as long as those women make sure to consider babies an accessory like the ubiquitous Trader Joe bags. They believe in respecting minorities, except when those minorities end up having a mind of their own and don’t buy into the collective “we are victims” narrative. Then, they become obligingly preachy and Privilege-splain to the other folks just how victimized they are.

That is how I generally feel about progressives, and I am not upset when they reciprocate the “love.” As someone said to me, if you put yourself out there, expect not to be palatable to everyone.

The thing that bothers me, though, is the ones who so often embrace the concept of tolerance are incapable of tolerating those who don’t agree with them. While I have had some problems with conservatives over the years, particularly now that they seem to have just morphed into People’s Temple cult members who believe the mothership in the White House is the center of all goodness and reason, my biggest issue is with the leftists. I don’t say liberals, because some of my best friends are, you know, liberal, and they are capable of reasoning. One of my closest friends is a lifelong Democrat who has taught me more about integrity than many of my fellow travelers on the right.

But no conservative has accosted me on the street to tell me what a disgusting human I am. I’ve been called “squishy” and a RINO and Michael Smerconish in a skirt, but there has been more a sense of sadness and disappointment than anger.

It’s always the progressives, the entitled leftists who think they have a right to attack strangers. It is the spirit that allows them to march in the streets with masks on their faces, screaming about a genocide they can’t even spell correctly. It is the same thing that motivates them to hold signs saying “Abort that Jawn” in front of a pro life protest.

It’s what allows them to yell at me in a Wine and Spirits store that I am a homophobe, even when I’d just won an asylum case for a gay man from Guatemala. Obviously, I don’t hate gays. However, as I mentioned to my heckler pointing at his hands, I do hate people who buy pre-packaged Pina Colada Mix.

So while I am not exactly thrilled to have been yelled at, I chalk it up to the fact some people were raised by wolves and feel uncomfortable when they encounter another breed of animal outside of the pack. Someone like me, equally hairy in the humidity, but less feral and more articulate in her beliefs, more consistent in her values, and more inclined to avoid Trader Joe’s.

Copyright 2025 Christine Flowers