Every December, the Kennedy Center Honors telecast offers the country a rare spectacle of bipartisan civility — or at least the illusion of it. Washington dresses for television. The political class rubs shoulders with Broadway and Hollywood. The nation’s capital becomes, for one evening, a cultural capital. But what viewers see on CBS — the ovations, the lavish tributes, the gleaming medals resting just below tuxedo lapels and bejeweled gowns — is not the whole story.
The real words, the ones that matter, are spoken the night before.
Traditionally, on the eve of the taping, the honorees are ushered into the East Room of the White House for a private reception with the president. This is the moment of gravity and ceremony. It’s here that the Commander-in-Chief delivers warm — sometimes canned — remarks, reflecting on the artist’s contributions to the national fabric. And it’s here, under the high ceilings and chandeliers, that the presidential hands slip the rainbow-colored ribbon over each honoree’s neck. The medal is not yet the television prop it will become the following night; it is, for that fleeting instant, a personal token.
It is also here, in this far less public space, that the honorees may respond. They do not speak from the Kennedy Center Opera House stage — the gala itself is a one-way performance, tributes to them, not from them. The reception is their one sanctioned opportunity to speak in their own voice.
If the White House tradition is still intact this year — and that is no small question, given recent administrative oddities that have seen everything from protocol shake-ups to the reported dismissal of the artisans who craft those famous ribbons — then Gloria Gaynor will have a singular, fleeting platform.
She should use it.
She should thank the community that has kept her not just relevant, but working — consistently, internationally, and lucratively — for more than four decades: the LGBT community. And she should do it while also naming the truth of this political moment — that the same community has been demonized, legislated against, and targeted for political gain.
The power of this pairing — gratitude coupled with truth-telling — cannot be overstated.
Gaynor’s anthem, “I Will Survive,” was not written as a gay liberation song. It was a disco heartbreak number, a universal tale of romantic resilience. But in the late 1970s, as gay men faced the twin storms of social stigma and the looming AIDS crisis, it became something else entirely. It became a rallying cry. It was played in clubs, at protests, at memorials. It scored coming-outs and breakups, Pride marches and drag routines. It was the soundtrack to survival in the most literal sense.
And the people who embraced it most fiercely did not just dance to it — they kept Gaynor’s career alive. The disco backlash of the early ’80s decimated many careers.
The “Disco Sucks” movement wasn’t just about music; it was about race, sexuality, and gender norms. Radio programmers abandoned the genre, but gay clubs, from New York to Berlin to Sydney, never stopped playing her. She toured on their stages when mainstream venues stopped calling. The rainbow flag and the rainbow ribbon have long been intertwined in her professional survival.
This is why the White House reception, not the televised gala, is her one true chance to say what the cameras won’t show: I see you. I remember who kept me standing. And I stand with you now.
Of course, there are risks. Speaking bluntly at a White House event — particularly one hosted by a president whose political machinery has actively pushed anti-LGBTQ policies — would make headlines. It would likely irritate the administration and perhaps lead to the kind of cold shoulder that Washington can deliver with devastating efficiency.
It could overshadow the rest of the honorees, whose own causes might be quieter.
But the risk is also the point. The Kennedy Center Honors have, in recent years, wrestled with their own political entanglements. In the first Trump years, the event was famously boycotted by artists who refused to attend a White House reception with a president openly hostile to their values. The Biden years restored a sense of tradition, but the very idea of what counts as a “safe” bipartisan celebration has frayed.
And that fraying is not limited to politics. The awards themselves are, in some ways, relics of a consensus culture that no longer exists — a culture where we agreed on who our “national treasures” were and what they represented. In this new era, the honorees are as likely to be criticized for what they don’t say as for what they do.
Which is why Gaynor’s voice, in that specific room, matters.
Imagine it: The President of the United States places the ribbon around her neck. Gaynor takes the microphone. She thanks the Kennedy Center. She thanks the fellow artists. Then she pivots. She looks at the LGBT community — not just the handful of people in the room, but the millions watching from afar who will read the transcript or see the clip online— and says: You saved my career. You gave me stages when others closed their doors. You made “I Will Survive” into something bigger than I ever imagined. And I see how you are being treated in this country today, and I will not be silent about it.
That is not just a thank-you. It is a reclamation of the Kennedy Center platform as a space for truth. It is, in fact, in keeping with the spirit of the event: to honor those whose work has shaped American culture. Because part of shaping culture is defending the people who made that culture possible in the first place.
Some will argue that this is not the time or place. That the Kennedy Center Honors, for all their pageantry, are an apolitical celebration. But this is a myth. The honorees are chosen through a process that is deeply embedded in Washington networks and cultural politics. The White House reception exists because the federal government, through the Kennedy Center’s unique status, is implicitly endorsing these artists as national icons. That act — deciding who belongs in the pantheon — is political, whether we admit it or not.
There is also the reality that silence can itself be political. For Gaynor to stand in that room and say nothing to the community that built her would itself be a choice — one that might read, fairly or not, as a betrayal to the very people who bought the tickets, streamed the music, and passed down her anthem like an heirloom of joy and defiance.
And it is not just about the past. The LGBT community remains one of her most reliable audiences. Pride festivals, circuit parties, and queer-run venues continue to book her. She headlines not because of nostalgia alone, but because the song still speaks to the same courage it always did. To omit them from her gratitude in this moment would be to airbrush history in real time.
If the ribbon-makers have indeed been dismissed, if the ceremony is altered beyond recognition this year, the symbolism might be even sharper. Without the familiar rainbow ribbon, the connection between the Kennedy Center stage and the rainbow flag may be purely metaphorical — which makes it all the more important for her to speak the words herself.
In the East Room, with the medal’s ribbon still warm from the president’s hands, Gloria Gaynor could choose politeness and passivity. Or she could choose the truth. A single sentence — “I survived because you did, and I stand with you now” — would echo far beyond those gilded walls.
It would honor not just the music, but the people who made the music matter. And in this political moment, survival without solidarity is just silence set to a beat.
Rob Shuter is a celebrity journalist, talk-show host, former publicist, and author of The 4 Word Answer. He hosts Naughty But Nice with Rob, a top 20 iTunes podcast. Follow his latest columns at robshuter.substack.com.
It is a disgraced that she supports a convicted felon! She is done 👎💀👎