A Poem in Honor of the Cities That Refused to Hide Their Pride

It begins with cloth—
not silk, not satin,
but something stronger than cotton,
stitched with memory,
dyed in blood,
and kissed by joy.

Not a weapon.
Not a banner of war.
Not a slogan.
Not a sin.
A flag.
Rainbow-born.
Raised in June’s forgiving light.

They say it is just color.
Just a pattern.
Just a phase.

But we know better.
We who have bled for that color.
We who have buried lovers under silence.
We who have kissed in alleys
because main streets were not safe.

We who were told
again and again:
You do not belong here.

We who learned—
again and again—
how to stand anyway.

And now, in 2025,
they try again.
With gavels and bills,
with ink and fear,
with the polished precision
of men who have never had to hide.

They call it neutrality.
They call it tradition.
They say: “One flag fits all.”

But what they mean is:
“Some people do not.”

They write laws that erase us
without ever saying our names.
They say “official”
but mean “obedient.”
They say “uniform”
but mean “straight.”

They do not fear the flag.
They fear what it dares to represent:
Freedom they cannot control.
Love that laughs at their rules.
Truth that will not be censored.

And so they ban it.

They stand in their marble chambers,
red ties hanging like nooses of power,
and vote to strip us from the skyline.

They imagine we will fall quiet.
They imagine we will fold.

But—

In Tempe, they raise it.
In Somerville, they hoist it higher.
In Iowa City, they stand beneath it
with trembling hearts and wide eyes,
as if to say:
Try and stop us.

This is not rebellion.
This is remembrance.

Of the queer teen on the roof
with a flag tied around his shoulders
like a cape,
wishing he could fly
because the ground is no longer kind.

Of the trans girl in gym class
asked to hide.
Of the nonbinary teacher
forced out for daring to say “they.”

Of the two men
who married under threat.
Of the drag queens
who taught us how to survive.

Of the rainbow sticker
ripped from a library wall.
Of the books banned.
Of the stories burned.
Of the truth banned from bulletin boards.

We remember.
And we raise it anyway.

Because symbols matter.
Because they know it.
Because we know it.

Ask any tyrant:
Before they burn people,
they burn books.
Before they jail minds,
they jail colors.
Before they silence speech,
they silence symbols.

So do not tell me it is just a flag.

That flag is a lifeline
to a kid
in a red state town
where every billboard
is a warning,
every classroom
a battleground,
and every law
a razor edge.

That flag whispers:
You are not alone.
You are not a mistake.
You are the miracle
they fear most.

They ban it
because they see their control slipping
with every flutter of cloth.

Because one rainbow,
unfolded in the public square,
drowns out a thousand lies.

Because one small town
with a big heart
refusing to comply
is louder than a legislature
choked with cruelty.

And so the cities defy.

They risk the lawsuits.
They brave the threats.
They say:
“This flag will fly.
Even if only for one day.
Even if only for one hour.
Even if we must raise it
with our bare hands
and broken backs.”

Because every second it dances in the wind
is a second we breathe freer.

Because the sight of it
has stopped suicides.
Because its colors
are not decoration—
they are declaration.

They are not radical.
They are righteous.

This is not a protest.
It is a promise.

We have always been here.
We will not be erased.

We will not be legislated away.
We will not be folded into footnotes.

This is not about pride parades.
This is not about June.

This is about being seen
in December.
In courtrooms.
In hospitals.
In prisons.
In pulpits.

This is about the right
to exist out loud.

And if a flag
can make them tremble—
good.

Let them tremble.

Let them feel the storm we carry.

Let them learn
that fabric can be fire.

And when they try to tear it down,
we will raise it again.

Over courthouses.
Over classrooms.
Over community centers.
Over every place
they told us not to go.

We will raise it
until the sky is too full to ignore.

We will raise it
until no one ever again has to wonder
if they matter.

We will raise it
until it is not an act of courage—
but simply an act of being.

Raise it in red states.
Raise it in blue.
Raise it where they said you could not.
Raise it where they never thought to look.

Raise it for those who never saw it.
Raise it for those who never made it to this June.
Raise it for the ones still hiding.

Raise it like a prayer.
Raise it like a rebellion.
Raise it like your life depends on it—
because someone’s does.

Raise it anyway.