The Rainbow Didn’t Fall to Politics — It Gave Way to Permanence. Let’s Build Something That Lasts.

The morning after

By midday, the colors were gone, and the island seemed to hum with outrage. Headlines appeared before facts had time to breathe. Short videos looped on social feeds, and half-truths ricocheted through group chats faster than the paint could wash away. For many, the conclusion felt instant and certain: someone had caved, someone had betrayed Galveston’s LGBTQ+ community — and the rainbow was the casualty.

That story is tidy and is happening way too often. In the case of Galveston, it is also untrue.

What happened downtown this week is simpler and, in a way, harder: a community‑led retirement of a privately funded, always‑temporary gesture happened to land at the same time as a larger political storm. The coincidence muddied everything. But it did not cause the decision, and it certainly was not a case of the City spending tax dollars to erase a symbol.

From the person closest to the project, the facts are clear.

“The crosswalk was meant to be a short‑term gesture of solidarity and celebration… There was no intent or commitment for it to be permanent.” — Trey Click

“Since then, the crosswalk has faded and required frequent upkeep… paid for [by] a small group of private citizens—including the late Tom Schwenk and several others, myself among them.” — Trey Click

Those citizens covered the repaints for years. And when it came time to retire the crosswalks, Trey Click agreed to pay for their removal. The City will not spend a dime.

Despite reporting to the contrary, this was not the City’s call, and it was not intended to unfold in the manner people witnessed. The overlap with statewide headlines was just that—an unfortunate coincidence.

The internet rewards outrage. Galveston deserves better.

What the crosswalks were—and were not

In June 2019, the rainbow crosswalks rose to mark the 50th anniversary of Stonewall. They were a community gift, permitted by the City but funded and maintained by private citizens. They were never designed as a permanent public‑works installation, never placed on the City’s maintenance schedule, and never guaranteed to live forever under Gulf sun and constant traffic.

They were, in other words, exactly what the best public gestures often are: a bright marker that says you belong here—until weather and wheels have their say.

For six years, when the colors chalked and the edges frayed, neighbors paid to bring the vibrancy back. Few noticed the invoices; most noticed the joy.

The men behind the meaning

Ask anyone who worked beside Tom Schwenk why the rainbow mattered. They’ll talk about a neighbor who made room, a businessman who gave more than he took, a civic partner who saw Galveston not as a brand but as a promise. Tom’s belief in inclusion wasn’t a posture; it was a practice. He underwrote it with money, with time, with that rare kind of attention that quietly threads communities together.

Tom’s passing this summer left a tear in the city’s fabric. If the rainbow was color, Tom was the weave.

Trey’s statement does not mourn the crosswalks. It elevates them.

“Now, after six years, the rainbow crosswalks have been removed. And I’ll be honest — it’s extremely upsetting that the timing of their removal coincided with Governor Abbott’s edict from above to do this. I’ve been in discussions with Brian Maxwell for at least six months about creating a more permanent tribute to Tom. Removing the rainbow crosswalk should not be viewed as erasing or disrespecting the LGBTQ+ community. Quite the opposite — it offers a chance to replace a fading symbol with something truly lasting and worthy. A more permanent, city-sanctioned tribute to both equality and to Tom Schwenk’s legacy would carry far greater meaning.” “Symbols matter, but stewardship matters more.” — Trey Click

Stewardship: that is the assignment Tom and Trey hand us now.

Anger is a spark. Stewardship is the fire.

The instinct to be angry is human—and honorable when it’s rooted in love. But on this particular issue, the anger has been misdirected at the easiest surface available: a paint job, a rumor, a headline.

What Trey is asking for is harder and far more useful: take that energy and build.

A crosswalk is not a place. A crosswalk cannot hold a nameplate, a bench in the shade, a plaque where a teenager reads the story of a man who made this island kinder. A crosswalk cannot endow a scholarship, commission a sculpture, or create a pocket of public space where every neighbor can sit and feel seen.

Paint fades. Place endures.

What comes next (and how to help)

Trey Click is working—quietly and determinedly—on a permanent, city‑sanctioned tribute to honor Tom Schwenk and the values he championed: fairness, inclusion, and kindness and he’s inviting the rest of us to join him—not with rage, but with resolve.

Early concepts under consideration include:

• A landscaped public space
• A commissioned public artwork or sculpture
• A named fund or scholarship

How you can turn feeling into action right now:

1. Pledge support—financially if you can, vocally if you can’t. Small gifts seed big outcomes.
2. Offer your skills—urban design, legal, engineering, preservation, fundraising, fabrication, storytelling. Permanence is a multidisciplinary craft.
3. Share your stories—of Tom, of the crosswalks, of what belonging has meant in your life. Those testimonies will shape the design and the dedication.
4. Help endow maintenance—because the difference between a memorial and an eyesore is the plan to care for it.

When formal giving channels and design timelines are published by Trey’s team, support them. Share them. Treat them as the island’s greatest treasure. As soon as they are available, we will be publishing them here.

Two truths to carry forward

“There was no intent or commitment for it to be permanent.” — Trey Click

That is not cynicism. It’s clarity. Temporary art can do profound work. It did.

“Let’s move from paint on pavement to something enduring—just as Tom Schwenk’s legacy has proven to be.” — Trey Click

That is not resignation. It’s a blueprint.

The echo we choose

In 2019, color on concrete announced what the island had the courage to say: You belong here.

In 2025, our next act can make it impossible to forget: You always will.

If your heart sped up when the rollers came out, good. It means you care about this place. Now let that care do the slower, steadier work. Not the rush to blame, but the patience to build. Not the dopamine of outrage, but the discipline of stewardship.

The crosswalk did its job.

Now we do ours.

By David Landriault
The 1839

With direct quotations from Trey Click