Utah just became the first state in the U.S. to slam the door on LGBTQ+ pride flags in all government buildings and public schools — a move critics say is less about “neutrality” and more about silencing queer expression under the guise of order.
Republican Governor Spencer Cox allowed the controversial measure to become law without his signature, sidestepping direct endorsement but avoiding what he admitted would’ve been a futile veto against the GOP-dominated Legislature. Starting May 7, any state or local government building flaunting an unapproved flag — including Pride — could face a $500 daily fine. Only a small roster of flags made the cut: the U.S. flag, Utah state flag, military flags, Olympic and Paralympic flags, and a few historical or educational ones. MAGA flags? Also a no-go, though opponents note the obvious target here.
The law’s arrival triggered a glitter-drenched standoff in Salt Lake City, where rainbow lights now bathe the iconic Salt Lake City and County Building in nightly defiance. “Our attorneys are reviewing the law,” said Andrew Wittenberg, a spokesperson for Mayor Erin Mendenhall. “We haven’t made any decisions yet on how we’ll respond.” Translation: they’re not about to let this slide quietly.
Neutrality or erasure?
The bill’s Republican sponsors, Rep. Trevor Lee and Sen. Dan McCay, claim it’s about keeping politics out of classrooms. But critics — and let’s be real, anyone with eyes — argue it’s a calculated swipe at LGBTQ+ communities and progressive cities like Salt Lake that don’t vibe with the state’s conservative majority.
Governor Cox’s attempt at damage control came in the form of a late-night love letter to the queer community. “I know these words may ring hollow to many of you,” he wrote, “but please know that I mean them sincerely.” It’s giving lukewarm ally energy, especially after letting a bill become law that quite literally sidelines LGBTQ+ visibility.
Beyond the symbolism, the ban has real implications. Pride flags aren’t just decorations — they’re lifelines. They signal safety, acceptance, and belonging in public spaces, especially for young queer people who may not feel seen elsewhere. Silencing that message in schools and civic institutions sends a chilling reminder that the fight for visibility is far from over.
Sundance skips town, cities push back
The move comes amid broader conservative crackdowns on LGBTQ+ expression in states like Florida and Idaho, which are pushing similar bans. Meanwhile, the fallout in Utah isn’t limited to flagpoles. The Sundance Film Festival announced it’s leaving Park City, Utah, after 40 years, trading the Beehive State for Boulder, Colorado. Organizers say politics didn’t sway their decision, but let’s not ignore the tea: they prioritized “ethos and equity values” in the move — and Boulder is serving welcoming, rainbow realness.
As the first state to codify such a sweeping restriction, Utah’s new law may embolden similar efforts nationwide. But it also galvanizes resistance. LGBTQ+ Utahns, allies, and local leaders aren’t staying silent — and neither should we.
Visibility isn’t a trend. It’s survival. And this law, no matter how politely worded or dressed up in “neutrality,” strikes at the heart of what Pride stands for.