Mother Viola Fletcher dies, leaves legacy of fighting for justice in Tulsa

"Today, our city mourns the loss of Mother Viola Fletcher - a survivor of one of the darkest chapters in our city’s history. Mother Fletcher endured more than anyone should, yet she spent her life lighting a path forward with purpose.

Mother Fletcher carried 111 years of truth, resilience, and grace and was a reminder of how far we’ve come and how far we must still go. She never stopped advocating for justice for the survivors and descendants of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre, and I hope we all can carry forward her legacy with the courage and conviction she modeled every day of her life.

On behalf of the city of Tulsa, I offer my heartfelt condolences to her family, loved ones, the Greenwood descendant community, and to every Tulsan who saw hope in her journey.

Rest in peace, Mother Fletcher."

I don’t really have the words today.

We’ve lost Viola Ford Fletcher — “Mother Fletcher” — one of the two longest-living known survivors of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. She was 111 years old. And she left this world without a single act of real redress from the City of Tulsa for what was taken from her as a little girl in Greenwood. 

When I think about Mother Fletcher, I don’t just see a historic figure or a symbol. I see a woman I sat with, prayed with, laughed with, and went to court with. I see a family that trusted us with their pain, their story, and their hope.

When we first took on this case — with Mother Fletcher, Mother Randle, and her late brother Hughes Van Ellis, “Uncle Redd” — there was no hesitation from them. None. They had every reason to be skeptical. They had been dismissed, ignored, and gaslit for decades. But when we laid out what we wanted to do, they got on board immediately. 

They said, in their own way: If there is still a road to justice, we are willing to walk it. 

I’ll never forget that. These were elders who had every right to rest. Instead, they chose to stand up and fight again — this time on a global stage — not just for themselves, but for every survivor and descendant whose name the world doesn’t know.

They opened the door for us to bring this case. They sat for interviews. They told stories they had carried in their bodies for over a century. They let the world into the most painful night of their lives so that no one could ever say, “We didn’t know.”

And they did it with humor, style, and grace. Court days and travel days weren’t just legal work — they were family time. We shared meals. We shared memories. We shared quiet moments where you could feel the weight of history and the stubborn, beautiful hope that justice was still possible.

Spending this past Friday night by her hospital bed, I saw that Mother Fletcher didn’t talk like someone who was ready to go.She wasn’t done.

She was tired — because this fight is exhausting — but her spirit was still in it. She wanted to keep going, to keep showing up, to keep pushing this movement forward. She still believed that in her lifetime, she might see the City of Tulsa do the right thing.

She deserved that. She earned it a thousand times over. And the fact that she died without receiving any meaningful redress — not for herself, her family, or her community — isn’t just a legal failure. It’s a moral one. It should trouble anyone who heard her story, watched her testify, or saw her sit upright in a courtroom and tell the truth about what was done to her as a seven-year-old child in Greenwood.

Today, we grieve. We grieve a woman who carried the memory of the massacre longer than most of us have been alive.

We grieve the fact that she left this earth still waiting on justice that should have come generations ago.

But grief is not the end of this story. 

Because if you knew Mother Fletcher — even a little — you know she would not want us to stop here. She would not want her passing to be the end of the fight. She would want it to light a fire under all of us.

She stood up at 100+ years old and said, I’m still here. I still remember. And I still want justice. 

Now it’s our responsibility to carry that forward. 

We honor her by refusing to let this city, this state, or this country look away. We honor her by continuing to fight for real repair for the survivors and descendants of Greenwood. We honor her by insisting that what happened in 1921 — and what has happened in the 100+ years since — is not just “history,” but a living obligation. 

Today, I am thankful for her life. 
I am humbled by the trust she placed in me and in our team.
And I am committed, more than ever, to making sure that the work she started does not end with her passing.

May Viola Ford Fletcher — Mother Fletcher — rest in power. 
May she be reunited with Uncle Redd and all those who didn’t live to see justice done. And may we be worthy of the path she walked ahead of us.