Trump and Feds Strike Back: 'Woke' Mascot Ban Faces National Backlash

Paul Riverbank, 1/23/2026Nationwide mascot ban ignites political clashes, federal pushback, and questions about identity and memory.

But this minor change was a flashpoint. Underneath the surface, voices in the community were less content—some grumbled on social media, others in the pickup line outside the school, about what was really being lost with that single switch. The district, after all, had tried to toe a tricky line: comply with Albany’s new policy banning Native American names in public schools, but preserve a thread of old identity.

It all began, at least officially, with a directive from the New York Board of Regents in 2023. The instruction was clear: public schools could no longer use mascots, names, or imagery linked to Native American traditions. Superintendents from about a dozen Long Island districts gathered in emergency board meetings that spring, consulting with legal counsel and leafing through decades-old yearbooks. Some districts, faced with little choice and less enthusiasm, changed mascots outright. Connetquot’s solution was crisp and calculated—“Thunderbirds” would become “T-Birds.” The scoreboard and cheerleader uniforms barely needed an adjustment.

Yet, as the months passed, outside forces took notice. A few months after the update, word filtered down from Washington. The U.S. Department of Education's Office for Civil Rights had completed a review. Their finding: the rebrand from “Thunderbirds” to “T-Birds” missed the mark, legally speaking. “The core origin persists,” insisted Kimberly Richey, assistant secretary for civil rights. “Eliminating one community’s symbol, while Huguenots and Dutchmen mascots remain elsewhere, isn’t just.” The implication was clear—if Native identities must be scrubbed, why are others carved in stone?

Pressure ballooned as federal officials, echoing national headlines, called for the full restoration of the “Thunderbirds” name. The district leadership, navigating between Albany’s firm hand and Washington’s equal-protection argument, responded with measured restraint. When pressed, Superintendent Joseph T. Centamore offered only, “We’re reviewing the report,” as if clarity could be found in committee rooms alone.

As if all this wasn’t tangled enough, the political tide pulled in bigger names. Donald Trump, never one to shy from a polarizing issue, dismissed the mascot debate as “absurd political correctness,” railing to cable news that these traditions deserved respect, not erasure. His former education secretary, Linda McMahon, turned up the pressure on the state board, lambasting what she called “woke obsessions” while arguing for consistent rules—if Dutch imagery is acceptable, why not “Thunderbirds”?

Native American advocacy groups, meanwhile, were blunt in their criticism. “The district gambled with a shortcut—and now they’re caught in the crossfire,” said attorney Oliver Roberts as he stood outside a federal building. For them, the compromise symbolized another overlooked chapter, another quiet erasure.

Back in Connetquot, talk turned practical—and anxious—as news that federal education dollars might dry up if things weren’t resolved. Science labs and after-school opportunities hung in the balance. Yet many parents, chatting at basketball games or checking the latest post on Facebook, found themselves arguing deeper questions. Is honoring a mascot a tribute to history, or is letting go the more meaningful act? Around kitchen tables, answers diverged.

In the end, the debate stretched well beyond Suffolk County. It was less a quarrel about team spirit, and more a collision of stories—who writes them, who erases them, and what gets remembered. A banner swap in a suburban gymnasium became the latest front in a sprawling national conversation. And, as winter settled in, Connetquot’s students picked up their pom-poms and hockey sticks, taking the court beneath new signage—cheering just as loud, uncertain what their team would be called when the dust finally settled.

On a brisk October morning in Central Suffolk County, a maintenance worker on a ladder quietly rolled up Connetquot High’s iconic Thunderbirds banner. In its place, shimmering under the fluorescent lights of the gym, a new sign with bold “T-Birds” lettering unfurled. For many students and staff, it hardly seemed worth more than a passing glance—a routine school update in the churn of fall activity.But this minor change was a flashpoint. Underneath the surface, voices in the community were less content—some grumbled on social media, others in the pickup line outside the school, about what was really being lost with that single switch. The district, after all, had tried to toe a tricky line: comply with Albany’s new policy banning Native American names in public schools, but preserve a thread of old identity.It all began, at least officially, with a directive from the New York Board of Regents in 2023. The instruction was clear: public schools could no longer use mascots, names, or imagery linked to Native American traditions. Superintendents from about a dozen Long Island districts gathered in emergency board meetings that spring, consulting with legal counsel and leafing through decades-old yearbooks. Some districts, faced with little choice and less enthusiasm, changed mascots outright. Connetquot’s solution was crisp and calculated—“Thunderbirds” would become “T-Birds.” The scoreboard and cheerleader uniforms barely needed an adjustment.Yet, as the months passed, outside forces took notice. A few months after the update, word filtered down from Washington. The U.S. Department of Education's Office for Civil Rights had completed a review. Their finding: the rebrand from “Thunderbirds” to “T-Birds” missed the mark, legally speaking. “The core origin persists,” insisted Kimberly Richey, assistant secretary for civil rights. “Eliminating one community’s symbol, while Huguenots and Dutchmen mascots remain elsewhere, isn’t just.” The implication was clear—if Native identities must be scrubbed, why are others carved in stone?Pressure ballooned as federal officials, echoing national headlines, called for the full restoration of the “Thunderbirds” name. The district leadership, navigating between Albany’s firm hand and Washington’s equal-protection argument, responded with measured restraint. When pressed, Superintendent Joseph T. Centamore offered only, “We’re reviewing the report,” as if clarity could be found in committee rooms alone.As if all this wasn’t tangled enough, the political tide pulled in bigger names. Donald Trump, never one to shy from a polarizing issue, dismissed the mascot debate as “absurd political correctness,” railing to cable news that these traditions deserved respect, not erasure. His former education secretary, Linda McMahon, turned up the pressure on the state board, lambasting what she called “woke obsessions” while arguing for consistent rules—if Dutch imagery is acceptable, why not “Thunderbirds”?Native American advocacy groups, meanwhile, were blunt in their criticism. “The district gambled with a shortcut—and now they’re caught in the crossfire,” said attorney Oliver Roberts as he stood outside a federal building. For them, the compromise symbolized another overlooked chapter, another quiet erasure.Back in Connetquot, talk turned practical—and anxious—as news that federal education dollars might dry up if things weren’t resolved. Science labs and after-school opportunities hung in the balance. Yet many parents, chatting at basketball games or checking the latest post on Facebook, found themselves arguing deeper questions. Is honoring a mascot a tribute to history, or is letting go the more meaningful act? Around kitchen tables, answers diverged.In the end, the debate stretched well beyond Suffolk County. It was less a quarrel about team spirit, and more a collision of stories—who writes them, who erases them, and what gets remembered. A banner swap in a suburban gymnasium became the latest front in a sprawling national conversation. And, as winter settled in, Connetquot’s students picked up their pom-poms and hockey sticks, taking the court beneath new signage—cheering just as loud, uncertain what their team would be called when the dust finally settled.