If a city refuses to see you, how do you reclaim your space?

That’s the question hanging in the air in St. Petersburg, Florida, where city leaders are preparing to vote on a proposal to add the Black heritage and LGBTQ+ Pride flags to its official municipal displays. The move, reported by ABC News, comes months after Governor Ron DeSantis’s administration ordered the removal of murals celebrating racial justice and queer pride from public spaces — part of a broader campaign to sanitize Florida’s visual and cultural landscape under the banner of “neutrality.”

But there’s no such thing as neutral when it comes to identity. Visibility is always political. And in St. Pete, the question isn’t just which flags will fly — it’s whose stories will.

The fight over flags might sound symbolic, and that’s exactly the point. Symbols are shorthand for power: who gets honored, who gets protected, who gets remembered. A flag hanging from a city hall or waving over a public plaza can say more about belonging than a hundred press releases.

When Florida officials stripped murals of their color — removing depictions of Black history, rainbow pride, and community slogans like “We Belong Here” — the message was clear. The state wasn’t just erasing paint. It was erasing presence.

Now, the citizens of St. Petersburg are pushing back.

Mayor Ken Welch, the city’s first Black mayor, has voiced support for inclusive symbolism. Opponents, including conservative lawmakers and some residents, claim that city symbols should remain “apolitical.” But to communities whose existence has always been politicized — Black, queer, immigrant, working-class — neutrality is just another word for silence.

Public art and iconography have always been contested terrain in America. From Confederate statues to BLM murals, from Columbus Day to Juneteenth, what we choose to display reflects what we choose to value. When marginalized communities demand visibility, it isn’t vanity — it’s self-defense.

For Black Floridians, the erasure of cultural imagery has become familiar under DeSantis’s rule. The so-called “Stop WOKE Act” limits how race can be discussed in schools and workplaces. Book bans have removed Black authors from classrooms. State agencies have been ordered to strip DEI programs. Against that backdrop, something as simple as a Black heritage flag fluttering beside the stars and stripes becomes an act of defiance — a declaration that we are still here.

And for the LGBTQ+ community, already targeted by Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” law and attacks on trans rights, the Pride flag carries similar weight. It’s not decoration; it’s proof of existence.

Art has always told the truth America tries to forget. During the civil rights era, murals became a form of public testimony. In neighborhoods ignored by policymakers, walls became canvases of survival — names, faces, fists raised in color. That tradition continued through the Black Lives Matter movement, when streets across the country were painted with messages of liberation.

In Florida, those same walls are being scrubbed clean under state orders — replaced by the beige of bureaucratic control.

So when St. Pete residents say they want to fly new flags, they’re not asking for inclusion in the status quo. They’re demanding to rewrite the visual story of their city.

Symbols, of course, don’t fix policy. A flag doesn’t end police brutality or housing discrimination. But it creates the climate where change becomes possible. Visibility opens the door to conversation — and conversation, when sustained, builds community.

Critics like to dismiss these gestures as “performative politics,” but performance has always been part of protest. Marches, murals, fashion, song — all are performances meant to confront power with presence. When the state tries to erase the performance, the answer isn’t retreat. It’s doubling down.

And that’s exactly what’s happening in St. Petersburg. The proposed resolution has sparked citywide debate, mobilizing activists, artists, and faith leaders. Local schools have launched discussions on symbolism and civic pride. Younger residents are showing up at council meetings, speaking about intersectionality and inclusion — many for the first time.

Whether the flags pass or not, something irreversible has already happened: a conversation that Florida’s leaders tried to silence has become louder than ever.

The tension in St. Pete mirrors a national truth. In 2025, identity itself is a frontline issue. From school boards to corporate offices, from voting rights to public art, Black and queer Americans are being asked to justify their existence — again. But history shows that every attempt at erasure eventually gives rise to new visibility. The more they paint over our colors, the brighter we return.

If the measure passes, St. Petersburg would join a growing list of cities — from Philadelphia to Minneapolis — that have reimagined civic symbols to reflect the diversity of their residents. It’s a small act, maybe, but small acts build movements.

And if it doesn’t pass? The push won’t stop. Because visibility isn’t granted — it’s claimed.

What’s unfolding in St. Petersburg is a reminder that culture wars are never just about culture. They’re about control. About who gets to define America’s image, and who’s told to live in the margins of it.

When Black and LGBTQ+ residents insist that their flags belong alongside the city’s, they’re not asking for special treatment. They’re asking for recognition in a state determined to unsee them.

In that sense, the vote isn’t just local politics — it’s a national mirror.

It asks all of us a simple, searing question: When the state paints over your story, will you disappear quietly? Or will you find new ways to make yourself seen?

Because history has already answered.
We always find a way to fly.