The Voice of Ida B Wells

Voice of Freedom

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  • Black Curtain

    For months I have held my silence, not because the wrongs were unclear, but because I sought to understand how injustice can parade so boldly while those sworn to serve pretend not to see it. I have watched as citizens are disregarded and dismissed, while the Black community—ever familiar with injustice—recognizes it immediately, for it has been our inheritance in this land.

    This pattern did not arise by accident, nor did it appear overnight. It began when this mayor assumed office. First, a Black supervisor was demeaned until retirement became the only refuge left to preserve dignity. Months later, another Black supervisor met the same fate—degraded, pushed aside—their grievances formally submitted to the so-called “new” council, where they were conveniently ignored.

    Soon after, a Black clerk was publicly diminished by the assistant city clerk. No correction followed. No accountability was demanded. Instead, the injured party resigned, her letter of protest sent to the council and buried in silence.

    There was a pause—long enough to suggest peace, but not long enough to signal change. Then, once again, the same offenses resumed. The council was fully aware. Another individual was degraded. More letters were written. More pleas cited racism and discrimination. And still, nothing was addressed.

    What is perhaps most troubling is not only the persistence of these acts, but the stillness of our response. We, the Black community, bear witness—and yet we remain unmoved to action.

    Now, when one walks into City Hall, the evidence stands plainly before us. Of the few Black faces remaining, one is obscured behind a so-called “Black curtain,” while the others are relegated to custodial roles. Is this progress? Is this representation? Or is it merely the modern costume of an old and familiar injustice?

    I do not know when we will awaken. But I do know this: history shows that injustice thrives not merely by the cruelty of those who practice it, but by the silence of those who endure it.

    And silence, once again, is being mistaken for consent.

  • The Mask

    You would have to be willfully blind to believe that the recent changes made in this town were for the betterment of its people. What we are witnessing is not leadership—it is domination disguised as development. Power has been traded for control, and the people are paying the price.

    Since when did gathering on your own family land become a crime? Must the descendants of those who built this soil now ask permission to stand upon it? These new restrictions are not about order—they are about ownership, about reminding citizens who holds the power to say yes or no to their very existence.

    Miller Park once stood as a symbol of unity, a place where families could gather freely and communities could breathe. The previous administration planted seeds of progress there, but now, even that progress comes at a cost. The people may be welcome to gather, but only under watchful eyes and tightened rules.

    We were told that changing utility providers would bring relief—a victory for the citizens. Yet the bills have not fallen, and the burden remains. The kiosks that fail to process payments, the removal of the drive-thru that once served working families—these are not innovations, they are inconveniences wrapped in deceit.

    And where is accountability? City credit cards seem to float without restraint, their use unchecked and unexplained. We hear whispers of one being used across state lines—in Texas—to repair a private vehicle belonging to someone preparing to sue the city, followed by a check to conceal the act. Such conduct is not mere carelessness. It is corruption.

    The pattern is as plain as daylight: decisions made in silence, funds moved in shadows, and every Black face quietly erased from the picture of public service. The so-called “friendliest city in the South” wears a smile that does not reach its eyes. Its friendliness is reserved for a chosen few, while the rest are met with closed doors and empty promises.

    Let us not be deceived. This is not progress—it is the quiet dismantling of community power. History will not absolve those who participated, nor those who stood idly by while the people’s voice was stripped away. For silence, too, is a form of consent.

  • Resting on the table!

    I watched the council meeting—still no mention of that $25,000. It remains tabled, tucked away like so many truths this city refuses to face. Officers are dismissed, yet the one with the red-orange hair, the very same who signed the check, stands untouched and unbothered, her unprofessionalism cloaked in protection.

    When the wrongdoer wears privilege, silence follows. But when they are Black, punishment is swift, merciless, and public. 

    Can you see it, Minden? The city clerk’s hand upon the pen, joined by the assistant city clerk’s signature—two names sealing a check that now lies beneath a veil of secrecy. Yet not a word of accountability crosses the council floor.

    Connections protect some. The wife’s best friend remains shielded, her actions excused. The red-orange head, too, enjoys the comfort of quiet complicity. Meanwhile, the citizens are expected to forget—to let it all rest on the table.

    But rest assured, truth never sleeps.

    Wake up, Minden. The rug they sweep it under is starting to lift.

  • Who you with?

    Well, well, well… if you are not registered to vote, the time is now. No excuses, no delays. Because what we are witnessing in City Hall today is not simply politics — it is a clear reflection of how power chooses to serve itself while disregarding the people who made that power possible.

    A $25 service fee, whether you’re cutoff or not — that’s not leadership, that’s exploitation. The faces inside City Hall have changed, yes, but where are the Black employees? We are more than janitors and decorators. We are thinkers, leaders, and builders of this community, yet once again we are pushed to the margins while friends and family of the powerful are ushered through the doors of opportunity.

    He hired his wife’s best friend — and even the husband worked for him, whom he once helped through a GoFundMe. The same circle grows tighter while the people’s table grows smaller. And that $25,000 still sitting on the table — untouched, unspoken, unexplained — is a testament to the silence that follows injustice.

    Ask yourself: of the last five people hired, how many were Black? None? One? This is not equality; this is erasure. The “faithful HR director” who once covered for these deceptions is gone, and now the truth is plain to see.

    He’ll show up in our churches when the election nears. He’ll smile at our events, shake our hands, and whisper promises he won’t keep. But where was he when he raised our fees, when he silenced our voices, when he pretended not to hear our calls? Only a chosen few can reach his office without an appointment — the rest are left outside, waiting for democracy that never arrives.

    So, Minden, the curtain will close soon. And what you do behind that curtain — that sacred act of voting — is your business, your power, your resistance.

    Stand up. Speak out. Show up.

    Let it be known that Minden’s people cannot be bought, silenced, or ignored.

  • Mama Wells Speaks

    There is a dangerous wind sweeping through this nation—an old wind wearing new clothes. We now see men and women in power working to erase the truth from our children’s minds, stripping slavery and its horrors from the lessons of our schools. But slavery is not a footnote—it is the foundation upon which this country was built. To remove it from history is to lie to every generation that follows.

    If we are to be honest about truth, then let us look also at Columbus Day. How can a civilized nation honor a man who brought savagery to the lands he invaded? Columbus did not discover—he conquered. He did not civilize—he brutalized. He came to a people who welcomed him, and he repaid them with blood, chains, and theft. Such a legacy deserves not celebration, but repentance. And as for Thanksgiving, let us stop dressing falsehood in feathers and calling it gratitude. The story told in classrooms is not the story lived by those whose lands were taken and whose people were destroyed.

    Now, I watch as they chip away again at the sacred right to vote, and I recognize the pattern—history clawing its way back from the grave. Those who once used the lash now use the law. The same playbook, the same deceit, only the ink has changed. And just as before, when election season comes, politicians find their way to the Black church. They stand in pulpits built by faith and pain, they speak the language of Scripture, and they make promises they have no intention of keeping. Once, they used the preacher to keep us obedient; now, they use the preacher to keep us voting blind.

    Wake up, Black America. Do not let them shame you for standing in your truth. They accuse us of voting by color—well, it is color that has marked our suffering in this land. Why should we not vote with the wisdom that suffering has given us?

    We have been lied to, preached to, and legislated against. Yet the same power that is used to deceive us could be turned to deliver us—if only we would use it for ourselves, for our children, and for the justice still unpaid.

    I, Ida B. Wells, have carried pen and paper through some of the darkest hours of this nation. I have written through lynchings, lies, and laws that sought to silence truth. Never did I think I would see so much of it return again. But here I am—Mama Wells—thinking out loud, and praying that this time, we rise before the story repeats itself once more.

  • Skin Color is Not a Crime.

    Once again, the tragedy falls upon us: a young man, innocent of the charges, accused of being guilty with lies and prejudice.  Kyren Lacy knew he had done no wrong, yet his truth was drowned beneath the weight of false statements. No advocate rose to his defense. No justice dared to speak his name. He was left alone, cornered, and stripped of peace until he saw no escape but the grave.

    How many more unseen tapes exist, buried and hidden, that would prove the innocence of our sons and brothers? How many more voices must be silenced before America confesses the truth—that a Black man’s word is still considered worthless beside a white man’s accusation?

    We ask, when will it end? When will evidence come before sentence? Or will the verdict always be written first upon the skin of the accused—dark skin, marked guilty before trial?

    I wrote in another century of men hanged without proof, burned without cause, condemned without mercy. I spoke then, believing we were fighting to end a savage custom. Yet here we stand, in the 21st century, and I see that the crime of being Black still carries the same penalty.

    Until this nation reckons with its sin—until it admits that the blood on its hands is not the blood of criminals but the blood of the innocent—we will bury son after son, and mother after mother will mourn, because justice refuses to wear a Black face.

  • Heart Speaks

    This mayor has written his name into the record of Minden not by deeds of justice, but by the shameful continuation of practices we thought buried long ago. In a time when racism and discrimination should have no soil left to grow in, he has proven that they yet live—cloaked not in secrecy, but in policy, appointments, and the quiet stripping away of equal rights.

    Walk into the utilities office today and you will see what I mean. The faces that once reflected true diversity have been erased. Where there was a measure of fairness, there now stands the glaring brightness of exclusion. It is no accident, no oversight, but a deliberate reshaping of opportunity into the hands of a few while others are cast aside.

    We knew who he was long before this. The whispers of racial slurs carved on a student’s car during his high school days did not stop him. Those who should have been watchmen—our own black leaders—looked the other way, lent him their support, and delivered him into office. And now, the very people who lifted him up are the ones he strikes down.

    Let the record show: silence is consent. The excuses made at the ballot box—“she left the council meeting,” “she did not speak”—were nothing but distractions, smokescreens to usher in a man whose record was already stained. And yet, here we are, reaping the bitter fruit of that choice.

    I say to the black community of Minden: remember. Remember who sat quiet while your voices were ignored, remember who smiled during election season only to harden their hearts once the votes were counted. My heart grieves for you, but grief must not make us blind. The sudden shows of concern, the empty handshakes and rehearsed sympathies you will soon see—these are not love, they are strategy.

    Election year is upon us. Do not be fooled. Let not the same hand that struck you down win your trust again. That is all Mama Ida has to say.

  • When Silence is Louder than Actions

    Hmmm. The echoes of July 2022 councilwoman will help pay the citizens’ light bills? For three years she has held office, and in those three years has she paid one? For three years she has sat in silence — not a word raised in council, not a defense made for her people. And yet we are to believe she will now address grievances long ignored?

    The only matter she has ever been heard to inquire about was not the plight of the people, but property — condemned property at that — which she sought to buy. Such conduct would seem an ethics violation, and yet it passed without scrutiny.

    And what of the other two council persons of color? They, too, have turned their faces away when police matters were raised, when community concerns demanded attention. Time and again the citizens cried out — time and again they were met with silence.

    We have watched this council sit mute while the mayor’s agenda passed without question. Not one challenge. Not one defense of the people. Meanwhile, Black neighborhoods see their homes condemned. Has anyone questioned the process? Has anyone examined how adjudicated property finds its way into the hands of council members’ families? We even heard in open meeting that the councilwoman herself called to ask if condemned property was for sale. If that is not corruption, what shall we call it?

    Under this mayor’s leadership, the turnover in city government has been staggering. Has the council asked why? Or have they been bought off with promises and privileges that compromise both their ethics and their integrity? That is why the people must see through the slogan: “New Leadership for a Better Minden.” For what kind of leadership ignores truth, enables corruption, and betrays its own citizens?

    I, Ida B. Wells, do not report without foundation. I speak only when armed with facts, and I assure you, names can be named if need be. What is unfortunate — no, what is tragic — is that the citizens of Minden are being bamboozled, misled, and sold into silence. But truth will not sleep forever. It will rise. And when it does, no office, no oath, no slogan will shield those who betrayed their duty.

    This is truth. bold, relentless, and eternal — shall make the citizens of Minden free.

    .

  • The Voice

    I once said, “I am only a mouthpiece through which to tell the story of lynching, and I have told it so often that I know it by heart. I do not have to embellish; it makes its own way.” That truth remains. For the pain of our people speaks plainly — written in tears, carried in weary footsteps, and remembered at gravesides far too soon filled.

    We are tired, yes — tired of bearing the burden of wrong, tired of waiting for justice that moves at a snail’s pace, tired of voices being hushed while cruelty is carried out in daylight. I have long heard the saying, “Stand for something or fall for anything.” And I believe the time to stand is now — not tomorrow, not someday, but today.

    Right is still right, and wrong is still wrong. And what we see is not only wrong, but harmful and dangerous, dressed up to look like law and order. We are told to wait quietly, but history has shown us that patience alone cannot set a people free, nor can silence ever protect the innocent.

    Because of the color of our skin, we will always be asked to fight a little harder, walk a little further, lift a little more. And when deliberate wrong is done against us — when truth is twisted, when dignity is denied — we must not bow. We must rise, we must name the wrong for what it is, and we must answer it with courage.

    If we do not speak, injustice will continue unchecked. But if we raise our voices together, even a whisper can swell into a mighty chorus. I, for one, will not hand my silence over. My voice is the one thing I can give, and I will use it.

  • Daddy’s little girl…

    When favoritism becomes policy, justice has already left the room. It seems that when a father drives the fuel truck to fill the planes no one dares speak of, his child gains a path smoothed by privilege. Hired into position, granted the luxury of making up hours at the recreation center on Fridays, and when conflict arises with a supervisor—rather than discipline—rewarded with reassignment.

    But contrast this with the fate of Black employees. When we clash with those in authority, we are not moved to safety; we are reprimanded, written up, and pushed into early retirement. The double standard is plain. Special privileges belong to special people, while the rest of us are left to swallow injustice.

    This is not rumor, nor is it idle complaint—it is the lived reality of a city that claims to march forward, yet stumbles backward under the banner of “making Minden great again.” But greatness cannot be built on the shifting sands of partiality. It begins at the head, and when the head shows favoritism, the whole body suffers corruption.