Mascot Showdown: Trump, Feds Blast State’s ‘Woke’ War on Tradition

Paul Riverbank, 1/23/2026Mascot rename ignites national clash over tradition, identity, and who decides which stories persist.

The story, at first glance, is tangled up in paperwork: New York’s statewide ban on mascots linked to Indigenous imagery left some leeway for district-level improvisation. “Thunderbirds”—as some longtime residents will remind you—was a name meant to stir spirit in the bleachers, not controversy in a courtroom. The school board’s compromise? Hack off those first five letters and keep the “T-Birds.” It satisfied, for a time, both those hungry for tradition and state officials trying to steer clear of the legal crosshairs.

Except, compromises have a way of pleasing nobody when the rules above you collide, and this one ran squarely into the federal government’s latest interpretation of civil rights law. The Office for Civil Rights at the Department of Education, which you might imagine is preoccupied with larger crises, zeroed in on Connetquot’s subtle rebranding. Their point: Changing “Thunderbirds” to “T-Birds”—but only because the former referenced Native American heritage, while Dutch and French mascots survived untouched—transgressed Title VI protections against discrimination. Assistant Secretary Kimberly Richey, in telling terms, called equal treatment “non-negotiable.”

The debate quickly shed its local skin. In stepped former President Trump, never one to mince words, who called such re-namings “an affront” and “ridiculous”—flipping the script and arguing that eradicating these names does more harm than good to native pride. Meanwhile, Education Secretary Linda McMahon threw her support behind the district, branding New York’s ban as the work of “woke ideologues.” In political shorthand, a school mascot became a referendum on national identity.

But try telling that to the kids on the soccer field, or to parents bewildered by the fight over a nickname. Where some see a proud symbol immortalized in banners and yearbooks, others see caricature or insensitivity—evidence, in their view, of history told at someone else’s expense.

Local Native American advocacy groups—through attorneys Oliver Roberts and Chap Peterson—warned the district not to proceed, describing the renaming spectacle as “sad and disgraceful.” Their language was unambiguous, predicting federal blowback and perhaps legal aftershocks, not only for Connetquot but for other districts poised to follow.

Money looms in the background. Should Connetquot refuse to revise its decision, federal funding could dry up. It’s no small threat: For public schools, those dollars help pay for everything from after-school tutoring to science labs. But the real stakes, at least as many folks here would tell you, are symbolic. Whose stories are retold in gymnasiums, who gets to decide whose heritage is honored (or erased), and what’s lost when compromise breeds only more conflict.

Zoom out further, and Connetquot’s mascot battle slots neatly into a broader national reckoning over symbols and stories in public spaces. When the legal dust settles—if it ever does—it’ll leave a precedent for communities far from Long Island. What looks, at first blush, like a simple name change, is in reality a running debate over fairness, memory, and who gets to hold the chalk when rewriting history.

For now, the school board is wedged between Albany and Washington, fielding demands from two levels of government with sharply conflicting expectations. The road ahead promises either more legal maneuvering or a reluctant shift in district tradition. Whatever path Connetquot takes, one thing’s certain: this mascot debate is a reminder that, even in suburbia, the culture wars are very much alive, and sometimes the fiercest battles happen right above the gym floor.

If you stopped by the Connetquot Central School District last fall, you might’ve found few folks talking about team names. Another season was kicking off, students milling around, and the “Thunderbirds” banner quietly swapped for one that read “T-Birds.” Most barely blinked at the change. To an outsider, it probably looked like just another day in suburbia. But in the months since, what began as almost a bureaucratic exercise—scrubbing Native American mascots from New York's schools—has ballooned into a legal skirmish with echoes well beyond Long Island.The story, at first glance, is tangled up in paperwork: New York’s statewide ban on mascots linked to Indigenous imagery left some leeway for district-level improvisation. “Thunderbirds”—as some longtime residents will remind you—was a name meant to stir spirit in the bleachers, not controversy in a courtroom. The school board’s compromise? Hack off those first five letters and keep the “T-Birds.” It satisfied, for a time, both those hungry for tradition and state officials trying to steer clear of the legal crosshairs.Except, compromises have a way of pleasing nobody when the rules above you collide, and this one ran squarely into the federal government’s latest interpretation of civil rights law. The Office for Civil Rights at the Department of Education, which you might imagine is preoccupied with larger crises, zeroed in on Connetquot’s subtle rebranding. Their point: Changing “Thunderbirds” to “T-Birds”—but only because the former referenced Native American heritage, while Dutch and French mascots survived untouched—transgressed Title VI protections against discrimination. Assistant Secretary Kimberly Richey, in telling terms, called equal treatment “non-negotiable.”The debate quickly shed its local skin. In stepped former President Trump, never one to mince words, who called such re-namings “an affront” and “ridiculous”—flipping the script and arguing that eradicating these names does more harm than good to native pride. Meanwhile, Education Secretary Linda McMahon threw her support behind the district, branding New York’s ban as the work of “woke ideologues.” In political shorthand, a school mascot became a referendum on national identity.But try telling that to the kids on the soccer field, or to parents bewildered by the fight over a nickname. Where some see a proud symbol immortalized in banners and yearbooks, others see caricature or insensitivity—evidence, in their view, of history told at someone else’s expense.Local Native American advocacy groups—through attorneys Oliver Roberts and Chap Peterson—warned the district not to proceed, describing the renaming spectacle as “sad and disgraceful.” Their language was unambiguous, predicting federal blowback and perhaps legal aftershocks, not only for Connetquot but for other districts poised to follow.Money looms in the background. Should Connetquot refuse to revise its decision, federal funding could dry up. It’s no small threat: For public schools, those dollars help pay for everything from after-school tutoring to science labs. But the real stakes, at least as many folks here would tell you, are symbolic. Whose stories are retold in gymnasiums, who gets to decide whose heritage is honored (or erased), and what’s lost when compromise breeds only more conflict.Zoom out further, and Connetquot’s mascot battle slots neatly into a broader national reckoning over symbols and stories in public spaces. When the legal dust settles—if it ever does—it’ll leave a precedent for communities far from Long Island. What looks, at first blush, like a simple name change, is in reality a running debate over fairness, memory, and who gets to hold the chalk when rewriting history.For now, the school board is wedged between Albany and Washington, fielding demands from two levels of government with sharply conflicting expectations. The road ahead promises either more legal maneuvering or a reluctant shift in district tradition. Whatever path Connetquot takes, one thing’s certain: this mascot debate is a reminder that, even in suburbia, the culture wars are very much alive, and sometimes the fiercest battles happen right above the gym floor.