At the end of the “Satanic Panic” of the 1980s, a man in my hometown was accused of sexually abusing children. The claims were bizarre: He had supposedly taken children to secret tunnels beneath a church, killed animals, and forced children to participate in satanic rituals. The trial became a public spectacle when the CEO of Jack in the Box pressured the prosecution.
After a seven-month trial, the man was acquitted on all charges. There was no physical evidence—no animal remains, no witnesses, no corroboration of any kind. The jury took just hours to reach its decision.
From the 1980s into the ’90s, more than 12,000 accusations of satanic or ritual child abuse were lodged—but not one was substantiated. The “Satanic Panic” revealed more about our capacity for fear than about actual abuse.
That history came to mind earlier this month at the Keller–Southlake Pride Festival, hosted by a local church. My wife and I went, unsure what to expect.
We found a warm community gathering—food trucks, live music, local artisans, and booths from counseling agencies and support groups. I was surprised—and pleased—to see several churches there. A group of moms offered hugs and encouragement to anyone who needed it. The organizers said more than 1,000 people attended.
The only thing that felt out of place was the protest at the edge of the property. About a dozen people held signs accusing festival-goers of “sexual immorality” and “grooming children.” A protester with a megaphone shouted insults at families inside the church grounds.
There were a few flamboyant characters—bright costumes and glitter—but I would judge the content far tamer than many primetime TV shows. And I’m still not sure what kind of grooming could possibly occur at a neighborhood festival where toddlers and grandparents dance to a B-52s cover band.
If the 1980s had its “Satanic Panic,” today’s protests feel like a kind of “Rainbow Panic.” LGBTQ+ people, drag performers, and even affirming parents are being accused of “grooming”—a claim that carries emotional weight but few facts. Children, it is said, will be “sexualized” and “scarred for life.” Yet PolitiFact found no evidence that exposure to LGBTQ+ people or topics influences a child’s sexual orientation or gender identity.
What began as a cultural fear is now shaping public policy. Texas recently passed a law restricting drag performances, though it is currently blocked by the courts. And Governor Greg Abbott has directed cities to remove street markings deemed “political,” prompting several to begin eliminating rainbow crosswalks. Both moves send the same message: that visibility itself is a threat.
I have no doubt that the lawmakers care about protecting children, but when fear drives the conversation, it drains energy from where it’s needed most—helping kids feel safe, seen, and supported. LGBTQ+ youth already experience much higher rates of bullying, depression, and suicide attempts than their peers, according to the Trevor Project. Research from the American Psychological Association shows that when LGBTQ+ young people feel accepted and supported at home, school, and in their communities, their mental health and suicide risk improve dramatically.
We humans are storytellers by nature. When our stories are driven by fear, we see monsters. When they are driven by love, we see neighbors.
The Satanic Panic ruined reputations and led to years of mistrust. Today’s Rainbow Panic risks dehumanizing our neighbors and turning kindness into a political statement.
One woman’s T-shirt at the Pride event summed up the spirit of the day: “Y’all Means All.” Fear can spread quickly, but love can move faster.
The post What a North Texas Pride Fest Taught Me About Today’s ‘Rainbow Panic’ appeared first on The Texas Observer.
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