Peanuts In My Pocket

Back in the early 2000s, I was a blogger focused on the never-ending battle between Evangelical Christianity and my rights as an American and an atheist. I gave it up a decade ago to focus on work, family, and photography. I didn’t realize then that Evangelical Christianity would morph into the MAGA movement. After spending several weeks in Huntington Beach while my grandson learned to surf, just as I did in my youth, I now realize I never should have stopped writing. Rust never sleeps, as they say.

I set this essay aside for a few weeks before picking it back up. Initially, I felt I’d been excessively negative in my view of the city. But now, at the end of September, I realize I wasn’t leaning into the darkness enough. Huntington Beach is a deeply troubled city. There should be an edge in my voice.

I spent a lot of time in Huntington Beach this summer. It feels artificial, like Disneyland. Not fake, exactly, but curated. Carefully managed to project a specific image. I haven’t cracked the code on what that image is trying to say, mostly because I don’t think it’s meant for me. But I’m working on it.

I’m a photographer by nature. I notice things. There’s a small army of workers maintaining the city’s image. I’ve watched as brown-skinned laborers scrape stickers off utility poles, blow sand off sidewalks, and remove unauthorized signs from fences and light posts. Every public lawn is perfectly manicured. Every tree is trimmed. And beyond the landscaping, there are the police officers, ubiquitous, except when the skinheads march.

Downtown feels corporate, clean, orderly, and managed like an amusement park, yet tainted by a Trump-loving city council and its loyal citizens. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve encountered an old man in a MAGA hat or muscle-bound, flag-waving youths who share the same ideology. These aren’t tourists. Huntington Beach is a sanctuary for both visitors and, ironically, for political extremism.

Recently, the city council took things a step further by proposing a mural, or maybe a plaque, maybe even a statue, to honor Charlie Kirk. A man with no ties to Huntington Beach, lionized not for any service to the community, but for his role as a national culture warrior. They dressed it up as a “free speech” tribute, but it’s hard to miss the subtext: Huntington Beach is eager to brand itself as the capital of MAGA-land, a place where ideology matters more than local connection, more than community, more than history.

One afternoon, while walking along the state beach with my camera, I noticed tiny Jesus figurines, Lego-sized, perched on water fountains, fence posts, and bathroom ledges. After identifying who was placing them, I began collecting and disposing of them. The next day, more appeared. Wash, rinse, repeat. Now I see them everywhere, even in my own city.

I also observed who the police were stopping. My sample size was small, just eight cars, but all of the drivers were Hispanic males pulled from regular traffic around me. This coincided with increased ICE activity across Los Angeles over the summer. The pattern left me uneasy. Worse, it made me question whether I should bring my diverse family here at all.

As a teenager in the ’70s, I used to hang out here. I surfed off Newland Street near the power plant and at the pier. Times were simpler then, but even back in those days, Huntington Beach was overwhelmingly white and conservative. I was a sunburned ginger kid who slept in his car after work to catch waves before school. The cops occasionally hassled me, but nothing serious. Today, that wouldn’t fly. Sleeping in a car doesn’t fit the image anymore. I’d be arrested. My car impounded.

I’m not nostalgic for the so-called “good old days.” There were none. I did what I did because I was poor, and surfing was life. Today, the city corrals poor people into the public beaches, well away from downtown. I’m no longer poor, yet when I visit, I still feel it.

This summer, I visited Huntington Central Park several times to go birdwatching. It’s a gem and unlike anything else nearby. As I wandered with my camera, I saw families picnicking, birders like me, Pokémon Go players, hikers, and bikers. The park is a little slice of paradise in a suburban sprawl. But even here, MAGA fanatics abound, just as they do at the pier.

Anchoring the park is a world-class library, whose future is now at risk. A proposed monument to celebrate the park’s 50th anniversary, titled the “MAGA Monument” (Magical, Alluring, Galvanizing, Adventurous), awaits city council approval. It’s as absurd as it sounds. Don’t get me started on their crusade to ban books under the pretense of “protecting the children.”

I’m not a local. I never was. But Huntington Beach is woven into the broader Southern California experience I grew up with. I surfed and biked through this area. I still hike and bird at Bolsa Chica a few times a month. I’m around often, but it no longer feels like a place where I can relax or be myself. Not that it matters, I look like a retired redneck, so I blend in. The old guys here flash me white power “OK” signs far too often.

Huntington Beach isn’t dangerous, not in the traditional sense. But it’s like Disneyland with festering canker sores, maintained by Stepford wives dancing to a MAGA-themed Dixieland band.