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Tulsa’s First Black Mayor Unveils $100M “Road to Repair” Plan for Greenwood’s Legacy

In a landmark moment rooted in remembrance and resolve, Tulsa’s newly elected mayor, Monroe Nichols—the city’s first Black mayor—has introduced a sweeping $100 million initiative designed to confront the enduring scars left by the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre.

Speaking at the historic Greenwood Cultural Center on Sunday, Nichols received a standing ovation from hundreds gathered to mark the anniversary of the attack that decimated one of America’s most prosperous Black communities. Rather than calling the proposal “reparations,” Nichols framed it as a bold “road to repair”—a strategy he believes will honor history while building economic opportunity for future generations.

“For 104 years, this city has carried a wound it never properly treated,” Nichols said. “We’re not just reckoning with what happened in 1921—we’re taking responsibility for what followed: redlining, disinvestment, and policies that quietly continued the damage.”

A Community-Backed Trust to Rebuild What Was Lost

At the heart of Nichols’ plan is a privately managed charitable trust that aims to raise $105 million in assets by June 2026. While it won’t include direct cash payments to survivors or descendants, the trust would focus on long-term investments—most notably, $60 million earmarked for rebuilding and restoring the neglected north side of Tulsa.

Nichols emphasized that the initiative would not require a city council vote to create the trust, though council approval would be needed for transferring any city-owned properties into the fund. He expressed confidence that such approval was “very likely.”

The effort, Nichols said, is not about symbolic gestures—it’s about real, tangible outcomes.

“Greenwood was once a world-class hub of Black enterprise and self-sufficiency,” Nichols told reporters. “When that was destroyed, it didn’t just hurt the Black community. It robbed the entire city of economic greatness. This is a chance to get some of that back.”

No Easy Answers—But Urgency Remains

The announcement lands in a fraught political climate. With national backlash against diversity and equity programs, Nichols acknowledged that his proposal faces an uphill battle in public opinion. Still, he remains undeterred.

“Yes, these are complicated times politically,” he said. “But the truth is, people have waited over a century. That’s longer than anyone should wait for justice.”

Among those listening closely were 110-year-old Lessie Benningfield Randle and 111-year-old Viola Fletcher, the last known living survivors of the 1921 massacre. Both women have previously received financial support from private philanthropic organizations but have never been compensated by the city or state.

Their attorney, Damario Solomon-Simmons, has long advocated for direct payments and was disappointed last year when the Oklahoma Supreme Court dismissed a lawsuit seeking redress for survivors. While he praised Nichols’ intent, Solomon-Simmons maintains that justice must include compensation for Randle and Fletcher.

“You cannot build a legacy of justice on a foundation that ignores the last living witnesses,” he said.

A Complex History, A New Chapter

For descendants like Jacqueline Weary, the plan brings mixed emotions. Her grandfather, John R. Emerson Sr., lost his hotel and cab business in the massacre. While she sees the value in community investment, she can’t help but reflect on what was taken from her family.

“If Greenwood had been allowed to thrive, we’d be living a different life,” she said. “That hotel was supposed to be our inheritance.”

Tulsa’s efforts place it among a growing number of U.S. cities exploring different paths to restitution. Evanston, Illinois, was the first to implement a reparations program using revenue from recreational marijuana taxes. Other cities and institutions—from Amherst, Massachusetts, to Georgetown University—have launched their own forms of redress.

But in Tulsa, where the trauma of Greenwood is deeply woven into the city’s identity, Nichols’ initiative could mark a turning point—if it delivers on its promise.

“We can’t undo what happened,” Nichols told the crowd. “But we can make sure our future is built on something more honest, more just, and more inclusive than our past ever was.”

As the candlelight vigil began Sunday evening in Greenwood, the words of Nichols still hung in the air: “This is not a handout. This is a down payment on dignity.”

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