In the heart of Houston’s Montrose neighborhood, the city’s first rainbow crosswalk—a vibrant symbol of LGBTQ pride—was quietly chipped away by construction crews before sunrise. The removal, the second in a single month, came not from vandalism or wear, but from a sweeping order issued by Texas Governor Greg Abbott earlier in October 2025. The directive, which gave cities and counties just 30 days to erase what Abbott called “political messaging” from public roadways, has ignited a fierce debate across Texas about the boundaries of public expression, the power of state mandates, and the meaning of community symbols.
“It was something that we had to do because of a mandate,” said Elizabeth Gonzalez Brock, chair of the Metropolitan Transit Authority of Harris County (METRO), at a board meeting on October 23, 2025. “And whether we did it in 12 days or whether we did it in 30 days, we had a responsibility and we met our responsibility.” According to Houston Public Media, METRO’s decision to comply with the governor’s order almost immediately—well before the 30-day window expired—has drawn sharp criticism from local LGBTQ activists and city leaders alike.
The order itself was unambiguous. Abbott instructed the Texas Department of Transportation to ensure all cities and counties removed any symbols, signs, flags, or markings that could be construed as conveying a message or communication. Rainbow crosswalks, which have become increasingly common in urban centers as a gesture of inclusion and pride, were specifically cited. The governor made clear that noncompliance would be met with severe consequences: the loss of state funding, a threat that left city officials with little room to maneuver. As Houston Mayor John Whitmire put it, “Houston could not afford to lose that funding, nor could it afford to push back against Abbott and risk losing future funding.”
The speed of Houston’s compliance, however, has become a flashpoint. Davis Mendoza, a Houston resident who addressed the METRO board, voiced disappointment not just at the removal itself, but at the haste with which it was carried out. “My concern is not that you followed orders, though by doing so with such unnecessary haste, you’ve added queer and trans Houstonians to y’all’s long list of collateral damage of your obedience,” Mendoza declared. “My primary concern is how quickly y’all allowed this to happen, without giving LGBTQ+ Houstonians to process this removal, to grieve.”
METRO Chair Brock, for her part, defended the agency’s actions as a matter of necessity. “A lot of decisions ... were made because we had to deal with the cards that we were dealt with,” she said. She also praised her team, adding, “I could not be more proud of the people that I work with that are here serving, giving and dedicating their personal time to be here to support our community.”
This local drama is playing out against a backdrop of broader state and national politics. According to NPR, Abbott’s order is part of a new federal initiative, announced by Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy in October 2025, that emphasizes roadways should be reserved for safety—not political messages or artwork. Duffy singled out rainbow crosswalks as a target of the policy in a post on X, formerly Twitter. The move has left cities across Texas scrambling to respond, each in their own way.
In Dallas, residents have protested the order while city officials weigh legal options. “I will continue to explore every legal tool at our disposal to stand up to this,” said Dallas City Council member Paul Ridley, according to NPR. Austin’s city leaders, by contrast, have signaled their intention to comply with the order, while San Antonio officials are seeking an exemption, arguing that their rainbow crosswalks have actually led to fewer traffic accidents—a safety benefit that might, ironically, align with the federal initiative’s stated goals.
The order’s reach extends beyond rainbow crosswalks. In Galveston, city spokesperson Marissa Barnett told NPR that officials are evaluating whether they can keep a road sign declaring Galveston as the birthplace of Juneteenth, a marker that has become a point of pride for the city. The sweeping language of Abbott’s directive—prohibiting symbols, signs, flags, and other markings that convey “any message or communications”—has sown confusion and concern about what else might be swept away in the name of neutrality.
Nationally, Texas is not alone in this approach. Florida has undertaken similar removals, including the elimination of a rainbow crosswalk in front of Orlando’s Pulse nightclub, the site of a tragic mass shooting in 2016. These actions have drawn criticism from LGBTQ advocates, who argue that such symbols are not mere political statements but affirmations of presence, resilience, and community identity.
Polling and political analysis suggest that Abbott’s move is part of a broader strategy to assert state authority over local expressions and to appeal to conservative constituencies. Joshua Blank, research director for the Texas Politics Project, noted, “For Abbott, in a lot of ways, he’s doing a lot of the same things at the Texas level that we’re seeing Trump try in different moments and spaces at the federal level.” The order, then, is not just about roadways; it’s about the ongoing struggle over who gets to define public space and whose voices are heard.
For many in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood, the removal of the rainbow crosswalk feels deeply personal. Chris Ordonez, a resident who witnessed the crews at work on his morning bike ride, summed up the sense of frustration and disbelief: “I mean, it feels petty, you know? This is the fight we’re having right now, really? Really?”
As Texas cities navigate the fallout, the debate over rainbow crosswalks has become a microcosm of larger questions facing communities across the country. What counts as political speech? Who decides? And at what cost to local identity and inclusion? While the paint may be gone from the intersection of Westheimer and Taft, the conversation it sparked is far from over.
