We are well into the month of June, and during this month, store windows and social-media feeds overflow with rainbow graphics and “Happy Juneteenth!” banners—proof that Pride and Black freedom have finally joined the American marketing calendar. Visibility matters, but celebrations can paper over hard truths: Freedom in the United States has always been delayed, partial, and conditional.
On June 19, 1865, Union troops arrived in Galveston, Texas, to tell 250,000 enslaved Black people they had been free for two and a half years. That footnote in history—now a federal holiday—reveals the first lesson of Juneteenth: emancipation does not arrive with the stroke of a pen; it arrives when people carry the news, risk backlash, and insist the promise be honored.
A century later, on a sweltering June night in 1969, Black and Brown trans women such as Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera hurled coins, bottles, and unvarnished rage at police raiding the Stonewall Inn. Pride Month began not as a parade but as a protest—a demand to be seen, protected, and allowed to live authentic lives without state violence.
And June is now Immigrant Heritage Month, honoring those who gamble everything for a shot at dignity. Their courage is not an abstract ideal. Asylum-seekers languish in detention facilities within miles of our backyard barbecues. Although all three are distinct in origin, they are grounded in legacies of resistance and community, as well as the enduring pursuit of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and justice espoused of the values of the United States.
Freedom has never been free and very seldom instant. These three observances share a single moral: freedom expands only when marginalized communities and unlikely allies act together, again and again. We know this not just from textbooks but from the numbers still confronting us:
- Black Americans represent 13% of the U.S. population but account for over 33% of the prison population.
- Native American women are murdered at ten times the national average.
- Latinx immigrants are regularly targeted through detention and denied access to education and healthcare.
- Asian Americans have endured a 339 percent spike in reported hate crimes since 2020.
- One in four 2SLGBTQ+ people reports verbal assault by police, and nearly one-third is falsely accused of a crime.
These are not historical artifacts—they are today’s realities. And with them comes a responsibility: Allyship is not a trend; it is a necessity. These figures expose what polished holiday posts conceal: oppression evolves. So must our coalitions.
In reflection on what successful coalition can look like, the Underground Railroad succeeded with the support of Quaker allies. The Civil Rights Movement thrived because of Black leadership and multiracial coalitions. The 2SLGBTQ+ movement has always relied on straight and cisgender allies willing to stand up for justice. The pattern is clear—liberation is a collective act.
As I reflect on Juneteenth, I honor my great-great-great-grandfather, Rev. James W.C. Pennington, the
first Black man to attend Yale University. Though barred from speaking in class or using the library, he
became a renowned abolitionist. Pennington authored:
- A Textbook of the Origin and History of the Colored People (1841), believed to be the first published history of African Americans written by a Black author.
- The Fugitive Blacksmith (1849), an autobiographical narrative, and
He also founded Talcott Street Congregational Church in Hartford, Connecticut—the oldest Black congregation in the state and a vital abolitionist center. Pennington did all of this while still legally considered a fugitive, risking recapture, re-enslavement, and death, with no resources. He even endured the trauma of denying his own son’s identity to keep him safe. More than 150 years later, Yale awarded him a posthumous Master of Divinity degree—thanks to a student’s determination to honor his legacy.
Pennington’s life is a powerful reminder that some of us are called by ancestry, while others are called by conscience. But all of us must remain called to the work. When we allow ourselves to be divided—by pain, politics, or pride—we strengthen the very systems we seek to dismantle.
We must also acknowledge that exclusion still exists within 2SLGBTQ+ spaces. The original rainbow flag did not include Black and Brown stripes. That inclusion came only after years of persistent advocacy. Liberation that leaves people behind is not liberation.
As we celebrate this month, let us remember that we have made progress and must continue to fight to preserve it and move the work forward. Questions to ask ourselves:
- Why am I doing this work? If patriotism motivates fireworks on July 4, it should also motivate dismantling systems that treat certain groups of people as permanent suspects.
- Am I creating harm or harmony? Performative allyship without risk can do more damage than silence.
- Am I building a baton the next generation can carry? Lasting change outlives hashtags, in-the moment solidarity posts, and presidential proclamations.
To honor both Pride and Juneteenth is to honor the African principle of Sankofa—reaching back to retrieve what was lost in order to move forward. We celebrate not to forget injustice, but to fuel our
resistance.
Through joy, remembrance, and collective responsibility—we create freedom.
With pride, memory, and purpose.
By: DonYeta Villavaso-Madden, Equity and Anti-Racist Strategist, CLS
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