The United States entered the 1920s amid widespread racial violence. In the Red Summer of 1919 alone, at least 25 separate outbreaks of White-on-Black mob violence—and perhaps as many as 38 different riots—occurred nationwide, serving as a prelude to the devastation that struck Tulsa two years later. The recent death of Viola Ford Fletcher at 111, one of the last known witnesses to the 1921 Tulsa Massacre, brings that history back into focus. Her passing narrows our living connection to an event that transformed a community, leaving us with a clear call to reflect on what was lost and what still needs healing.
In late May 1921, a rumor-driven confrontation in Tulsa, Oklahoma, sparked one of the most violent episodes of racial conflict in U.S. history. The immediate cause was a meeting between Dick Rowland, a Black teenager, and Sarah Page, a White elevator operator, on May 30. Tulsa’s afternoon paper, the Tulsa Tribune, published an inflammatory story the next day. As talk of lynching spread, an armed White mob gathered at the courthouse demanding that Rowland be turned over, and Black World War I veterans went there to defend Rowland. A struggle over a gun triggered the first shots, and the situation quickly escalated.
From the late evening of May 31 into June 1, White mobs attacked Greenwood—the prosperous Black district often called “Black Wall Street”—looting and burning homes and businesses. Local authorities failed to stop the chaos. Some White residents were deputized and armed. The National Guard detained Black residents instead of protecting their neighborhood. By the time the violence ended, about 35 city blocks were destroyed. Over 6,000 Black Tulsans were held in makeshift detention sites. More than 800 people were treated for injuries. The death toll, long reported as 36, is now credibly estimated to be between 100 and 300.
This was one of the worst acts of racial violence in American history. The physical destruction was enormous. A state commission later reported that about 1,256 homes and nearly every structure in Greenwood, including churches, schools, a hospital, and a library, were destroyed. No government agency mounted a genuine defense of the district, and no one was prosecuted. The American Red Cross led the relief effort, remaining in Tulsa for months to assist thousands who were left homeless.
Economic fallout worsened the damage. Black property owners filed lawsuits worth over $4 million in 1921 dollars, but insurers used “riot” clauses to deny their claims. Early city policies delayed rebuilding efforts until the courts intervened. The outcome was significant wealth loss and long-term displacement in a community that had been a hub of Black entrepreneurship.
This history is painful and, for those who don’t know it, shocking, but we cannot learn from history without honestly confronting it. As the last witnesses depart, the Tulsa Massacre and other tragic examples of racial violence challenge us to reflect on the past—still more recent than we often realize—its enduring legacy, the need for accountability, and the pursuit of true justice.