What a difference five years can make. In the months after the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor in the spring of 2020, millions of people across the country filled the streets both in protest and in celebration, exalting the value of Black life and celebrating a world ready to reckon with the ills that came before. Part of this reckoning was the shift toward a widespread recognition and endorsement of Juneteenth, the holiday commemorating the delayed liberation of enslaved Black Texans on June 19, 1865.
Suddenly, a celebration that had long been neglected in national discourse despite its prominence in Black communities was being honored with city-wide festivals, official proclamations, and federal recognition. For the first time in modern history, Juneteenth was seen as part of the American story. It was new to some people—OK, most people. And in all honesty, because I grew up attending mostly white schools, I did not learn about Juneteenth until my sophomore year of college at a pre-law summer institute for students of color. So, I wasn’t too far ahead of the curve myself.
But even if they came late to the party, starting in the summer of 2020, people came. By 2021, more than half of all states had declared Juneteenth an official holiday or observance. That June, President Joe Biden signed legislation making it a federal holiday—an act supported overwhelmingly in Congress. Cities like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles hosted large-scale public celebrations. In smaller Illinois towns like Plano and Elgin, community organizers held block parties, history panels, and musical performances—efforts often led by Black community leaders working in tandem with local governments.
But today, five years later, that hopeful momentum in the movement for racial justice that initially spurred Juneteenth’s broader recognition has died. The promises of progress have been broken, and in many ways forgotten as any hopeful momentum has largely vanished. Instead of expansion, we are witnessing a quiet retreat—one driven by fear, political backlash, and a renewed commitment to forgetting.
Today, cities across the country have canceled or scaled back Juneteenth events, citing everything from logistical challenges to safety concerns to rising costs. The underlying reason, however, seems clear: Without will, there is no way. And in these trying times of racial revocation, the will to push something of this nature is just not there—especially with the current presidential administration introducing punitive measures for anything they deem to be anti-American.
The tide began to turn last year in Akron, Ohio, where Mayor Shammas Malik canceled all Juneteenth-related events on city property following a letter from eight council members who raised safety concerns around security after a shooting a couple weeks prior. Community leaders criticized the move as reactionary and dismissive of the holiday’s significance. While concerns around safety may have seemed legitimate, the lack of community engagement and efforts on saving the event speaks to the seeming insignificance of the day. It showed that Juneteenth was something that could be canceled seemingly on a whim.
In the Illinois towns, Juneteenth celebrations were scrapped entirely. In Elgin, the city government permitted the event space on the date organizers requested instead to a music festival. In Plano, the annual event was canceled by organizers without a clear explanation, but citing negative feedback. The message is clear: Juneteenth is no longer seen as essential or even welcome in public life.
The broader political climate cannot be ignored. Since returning to the national stage, Donald Trump and his allies have made dismantling “woke culture” a central theme of their agenda. The term “woke,” once used by Black thought leaders and dating back decades to signify social awareness and anti-racist consciousness, has been weaponized by anti-Black conservatives loyal to Donald Trump and Elon Musk to discredit virtually all racial justice efforts. The right’s attack on “wokeness” has since extended into the world of policy, as the Trump Administration and Republican lawmakers engage in nonsensical attacks on perceived “diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI)” initiatives.
In Florida, Governor Ron DeSantis has led the charge in banning the Advanced Placement African American Studies course, restricting discussions of systemic racism in classrooms, and removing books from libraries that even mention race or racism. Across red states, lawmakers have defunded diversity programs, criminalized protest, and launched attacks on cultural institutions that commemorate Black history, including museums. Earlier this year, in sweeping Executive Orders claiming to bring “sanity” back to American history, the Trump team has threatened cuts to Smithsonian institutions like the National Museum of African American History and Culture, and has asked Vice President J.D. Vance to oversee efforts to remove ideology the administration doesn’t like from all areas of the institution, including museums, education and research centers, and even the National Zoo. Other cuts under the guise of waste threaten the education of Black history in states like Virginia with funding removed from numerous libraries and museums including African American history displays.
The rollback of Juneteenth celebrations is part of a much larger pattern: the narrowing of public memory. The same cities that issued resolutions in 2020 declaring racism a public health crisis are now quietly moving on. Media coverage is virtually nonexistent. Politicians who once stood on stages waving Pan-African flags, or, for some reason, donning kente cloth, are now silent—or worse, complicit.
These moves are not just political backlash—they are an orchestrated campaign to erase history and silence Black voices. Far beyond just undoing the policies passed during the “racial reckoning” of 2020, the instigators of this backlash are actively working to erase the memory of that period altogether.
But Juneteenth, by its very nature, is resistant to erasure. It is a holiday born of delay, of resistance, of the refusal to be forgotten. The first Juneteenth was not celebrated with the permission of power, but in defiance of it. That legacy endures, and in spite of cancellations, some communities are forging ahead, even absent the support they saw five years ago.
In Hamilton, Ohio, although last year’s Juneteenth celebration was canceled, local nonprofits stepped in to organize an alternative event that included a parade. A similar shift recently unfolded in Indianapolis, where the city’s annual Juneteenth parade was canceled due to what city officials described as scheduling conflicts and a lack of available public venues. The announcement was met with confusion and frustration from local organizers who had been preparing for months, leaving them feeling heartbroken.
Rather than abandon the celebration, organizers quickly pivoted and secured the Indiana State Fairgrounds for a large-scale Juneteenth festival. Though the change in venue will alter the familiar community feel of the parade, it will allow the event to continue with live performances, vendors, and educational booths, all refusing to let the day go unrecognized.
As local governments move further away from the promises made just a few years ago, the larger question of the future of Juneteenth commemoration is left to the communities themselves. What happens next depends on whether the communities that pushed Juneteenth into the national consciousness see the value of continuing to promote the advancement of the holiday, and will to push again. Part of that push means insisting that public memory is not a luxury, but a necessity. It means organizing locally, even when city halls close their doors. It means reminding both our leaders in government and the rest of the country—again—that no amount of censorship, budget-cutting, or political gaslighting can erase the truth.
Five years ago, our country seemed ready to reckon with a little bit of the truth. Today, it seems desperate to forget. But the story of Juneteenth, as with many stories in our history, is still being written. Whether we choose to celebrate it—or cancel it—will say more about our nation than any parade ever could.
Terrance Sullivan is the Vice Chair for Jefferson County Public Schools Advisory Council for Racial Equity (ACRE). He is the former executive director of the Kentucky Commission on Human Rights (KCHR).