by Chris Peterson
I read the story this morning about Florida’s attorney general demanding the city of Pensacola cancel an upcoming drag show at the Saenger Theatre, calling it “obscene” and “anti-religious.”
The show, called A Drag Queen Christmas, is scheduled for two days before Christmas, and according to Attorney General James Uthmeier, it ridicules Christian traditions and shouldn’t be allowed to go on. He’s asking the city to step in and stop it, citing the morality clause in the theater’s management contract. And I have to admit, reading this left me uneasy. Not because drag performances are beyond critique, but because this feels like yet another moment where MAGA government officials confuse moral outrage with governance.
Uthmeier says, “While the First Amendment safeguards freedom of expression, it does not require a city to platform and endorse disgusting, obscene content that denigrates its residents’ religious beliefs.” It’s a tidy soundbite that’s technically true in the narrowest legal sense, but the spirit behind it tells another story. The statement isn’t really about contract language or logistics. It’s about control. It’s about who decides what counts as acceptable culture in a public space, and whether “protecting the community” really means silencing the parts of it some people find uncomfortable.
There’s always this tricky line between free expression and what the state calls “public decency.” And when we talk about drag, that line seems to move in ways that say a lot about who holds power. This show is marketed for adults. It’s ticketed. It’s happening inside a theater, not at a public park or a children’s event. Yet it’s being treated as though it’s some kind of moral emergency, as if the future of Christmas depends on preventing people in wigs and sequins from lip-syncing to Mariah Carey. That’s not about protecting kids or faith. That’s about signaling to a political base that certain identities, certain art forms, and certain communities are still fair game.
It’s worth asking what really makes something “obscene.” Because the answer tends to shift depending on who’s looking. Drag has been part of American entertainment for over a century. It’s parody, theater, exaggeration, joy. When an attorney general calls it “demonic” or “anti-religious,” what he’s really doing is marking it as deviant, as other. And that’s dangerous, not only for performers but for anyone who believes art should challenge or provoke instead of conform.
The letter to Pensacola’s city officials invokes family values, the holiday spirit, and the proximity to Winterfest. It paints a picture of innocence under siege, children strolling downtown as “men dressed as garish women in demonic costumes” defile Christmas nearby. It’s alarmist language designed to inflame, not inform. There’s no evidence the show endangers anyone, and certainly no reason to believe it’s an attack on Christianity. The real issue seems to be that queer joy and queer performance still make some people uncomfortable, especially when they take up visible space in small-city America.
If we’re going to talk about morality, we should talk about consistency. Strip clubs operate legally in Florida. R-rated concerts happen in public arenas. Plenty of comedians make jokes about religion that are far harsher than anything in a drag show. Yet those aren’t singled out for government intervention. What makes drag different? The answer isn’t subtle. It’s because drag carries with it a visible, unapologetic queerness, one that refuses to shrink to make others more comfortable.
Uthmeier argues the city has the legal discretion to cancel the event if it’s deemed injurious to public morals. But that kind of discretionary power has always been a slippery slope. If we allow governments to cancel performances because someone claims offense on religious grounds, what happens next? Do we cancel plays that depict same-sex love stories? Do we pull paintings that reinterpret biblical imagery? Do we shut down concerts because lyrics include profanity near a church? Once that door opens, it rarely closes quietly.
