Hate rose to the surface

A reaction to the terrorist bombing in Palm Springs

I scrolled past an Instagram story on Saturday afternoon that stopped me in my tracks. I saw the fire, the blackened stucco, the ruptured clay tile roof. I saw the melted letters of the fertility clinic behind the local newscaster explaining that, while the investigation was ongoing, officials were assuming the bombing was an intentional act. One person was dead, and the fertility clinic unrecognizable.

I’d driven past the clinic hundreds of times. My own doctor’s office was across the street — you could see the pastel logo of the fertility clinic from most of the exam rooms I’d sat in. I’d been referred to that doctor’s office from the incredibly helpful and kind staff at the fertility clinic after a particularly bad experience with a gynecologist closer to home. Their patients trusted them with some of the most personal decisions of their lives.

The blast radius of the person’s bomb extended far beyond the clinic itself, affecting a hotel and several other businesses nearby. By Saturday, officials stated for the record that this was an “intentional act of violence,” and the FBI declared Saturday that the bomb detonated “in or near the vehicle” was a recognized act of terrorism. The clinic confirmed in a Facebook post that none of the clinic staff were harmed, though four other individuals were injured. The clinic also confirmed that it will be open regular hours on Monday, and that its lab, including all eggs, embryos, and reproductive materials, was not damaged.

Later Saturday, bomb squads swarmed a house that they believed was associated with the alleged bomber in Twentynine Palms, two towns over from where I lived and a few blocks away from one of the biggest Marine bases in the U.S. military system.

The hyperlocal system of politics in the California desert is one that often confuses folks that haven’t lived it. Palm Springs, well known for it’s support of the LGBTQ+ community, resides in a deeply red county. The city itself can just as easily vote for a Republican mayor as a Democrat one. Many residents don’t reside in Palm Springs full time, and likely vote where their other home is anchored in an effort to avoid paying California taxes. Those that are left are service industry folks, performers, and hospitality professionals. The surrounding towns are where those that work in Palm Springs often live or are hyper-exclusive gated golf communities catering to folks that have aged into retirement.

The high desert, where I lived, was a draw to artists, musicians, and folks generally living outside the bounds of corporate society. There were more than a handful of “get off my lawn” types, and others that referred to themselves by nickname only. Folks that worked with metal, clay, glass, porcelain, turning oft-discarded materials into art. There were the military folks, the careerist folks as well as the newly initiated. Folks that could help identify invasive weeds for pulling and those that spend long weekends in an RV camped at popular off-roading spots. There was the guy that sold Trump merchandise at the intersection, the guy with the word “Trump” woven into his fence. The neighbor with the growing collection of Trump flags that expanded to include more than one QAnon reference. The women who eschewed science and medical care and refused to vaccinate their children. The families that opted to home school their children to avoid “indoctrination” by public school officials. The ones that protested mask requirements and claimed COVID was a hoax. The ones that stormed the Capitol. The ones that casually called their dog the r-slur. The ones that included the r-slur in their trivia team name. The church that writes legislation for town council.

The undercurrent of hate, distrust, and conspiracy carries the community along as a growing group of folks push back. Representative Jay Obernolte, a Republican and one of the members of Congress who supported the false claim that the 2020 election was stolen, received swift, loud backlash at his only community meeting earlier this year. Constituents were furious over cuts to the National Park Service, funding for science and Medicaid, and the involvement of Elon Musk. As I wrote at the time, I was moved to tears to see the community showing such force in the face of the hate that had percolated there for so long. Our representative had taken his support for granted, and here he was facing the voters that wanted more. We were content to demand it, however we could, as long as it meant refusing to hand over our towns, our homes, to those determined to hate.

The Basin changed in the wake of the 2024 election. The number of Trump-affiliated flags tripled after the race was called; hateful rhetoric was commonly yelled out car windows and on sidewalks. All behavior that was common during the first Trump term that had subsided during the Biden years, now back with a vengeance. What was part of the undercurrent rose directly to the surface. Hate was directed at California state politics and the perception that the state was run by out-of-touch coastal elites. Hate was directed at women and people of color. The bar down the road from our house had to institute a “no politics” policy, complete with signs plastered on the front door, in the restrooms, and behind the bar. The man selling Trump merch quadrupled his inventory.

But then the Obernolte meeting happened. The protests happened. Folks took to the streets and the trails with homemade signs and well-thought out apparel to stand up for Gaza, for the Parks, for the country. Our little town, our little community, an epicenter of visibility and resistance when it counted.

It is unclear what officials will find in the home associated with the alleged bomber. It is unclear what their motives were, though it doesn’t take an expert to guess why a fertility clinic in a highly visible LGBTQ+ community was targeted. The hate is roiling at the surface even in blue states like California. On Saturday, it boiled over.

I want to be more surprised. I love the Basin with every fiber of my being. But that means that I know its flaws intimately. I know its shortcomings as well as I know my own. The hate of one can drown out the voices of the many — I’ve seen it happen at the post office and at the bar and in the parking lot. I don’t think it was an inevitable outcome; it’s the worst nightmare scenario. I just wish I was shocked, surprised. That the thought of violence in that community never crossed my mind, was never considered possible. That the well of hatred — for women, for LGBTQ+ folks, for people of color — ran as deep as it does.

At the same time, these places are not worth abandoning. The folks that live there, the folks that love there, the folks that try to start their families there, are not worth abandoning. They deserve more from their representatives, from their town councilors, and from their neighbors. That this kind of hate has been allowed to grow, to prosper, to take root in the shallow soil of the desert, is a systemic failure of generational proportions. It is a microcosm of the larger hard right turn some in this country are trying to force into existence. And it’s been overlooked because it’s stashed away into the margins of a blue state.

I’m furious. I’m despondent. I’m hopeful. I’m disappointed. I’m fucking terrified. I want better for every place like Twentynine Palms and for the town I moved to. I want better for all of us. I want the hate to sink to the bottom where it belongs. I want to feel safe going to the doctor. I want everyone to feel safe simply existing. I want this hateful rhetoric to be called what it is: terrorism. It is designed to inspire terror in specific groups of people. And it is about time that it is given the same amount of attention as a former president’s natural aging process.

More than anything, I want to be surprised. I want to forget the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw the video while absentmindedly scrolling Instagram. I want to rage and throw things and scream at the top of my lungs.

But I won’t give up. I am simply incapable. Because no one deserves this. No one deserves to turn a vibrant, diverse community into one ruled by hate. No one deserves to make that call for the rest of us. No one deserves to live in fear, and those that seek to inspire fear can show themselves the door.

Hate has no home here, now or ever.

- Megan