More Than a Survivor

Some people live in history books. Others live in the hearts of their neighbors. Mrs. Viola Fletcher lived in both.

To the world, she became known as one of the last living survivors of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. Her voice helped awaken a nation to truths that had been buried for far too long. But long before cameras ever found her, and long before the world called her a symbol, she was simply Mrs. Vi to us.

She lived just one block over from the Westside Community Center.

That mattered because it meant she was present. Not just nearby, but involved. Watching. Caring. Showing up in ways that shape children and steady neighborhoods. She was the woman who made sure kids got where they were going and made it back home safely. If there was an event, she had a car full. And she did not drop them off and leave. She stayed in that car and waited, every time, until the event was over and every child was safely back with her. Long before the world began to call her Mother Fletcher, this was already her ministry, quietly lived out in parking lots and neighborhoods. The name simply caught up to who she had been all along, a mother to many, not just her own family. She never needed a title or a stage to serve. She simply did.

One of the photos we treasure shows her here at WCC, standing tall in full cultural pride during our annual Black History Fashion Show. There is strength in that image. Quiet confidence. A woman who understood the importance of being seen without ever needing the spotlight. She showed the next generation that history is not only something you learn about. It is something you step into.

Another photo tells the story even deeper. Mrs. Vi stands with her granddaughter, Mona. You can see it instantly. The protection in Mrs. Vi’s posture. The pure joy on Mona’s face. It is love without performance. Covering without condition. The kind of presence that makes children feel safe just by standing near you. That was her gift.

She carried that same spirit everywhere she went. We remember her chaperoning youth trips in the 1990s, including visits to the Kirkpatrick Center, known today as Science Museum Oklahoma. Even then, she was doing what she had always done. Watching over children. Making sure they were exposed to more than their immediate world. Making sure they were safe while they discovered it.

So many people came to know her later in life through the lens of survival and justice. At just seven years old, she fled Greenwood as her community burned. She lost everything except her life. She carried memories no child should ever have to carry. For decades, she lived quietly, working hard, raising children, and helping others without telling the fullness of her own pain.

We often speak of her as a survivor, and that is true. But survival did not mean the trauma ever left her. She lived with it. She carried it. And perhaps it is because of what she walked through that her love ran as deep as it did. I will never fully understand how the Tulsa Race Massacre reshaped those who lived through it, how it rewired their sense of safety, trust, and belonging. What I do know is this. The survivors I came to know personally, people like Dad Clark and Mother Fletcher, carried none of the bitterness the world would have understood. To witness what they saw, to carry what they carried, and still choose tenderness, still choose care, still choose to show up for others, challenges me. It calls me to love harder, forgive more, seek understanding with grace, and never underestimate the quiet power of presence.

Her heart never hardened.
She chose love. Over and over again.
She chose care when bitterness would have made sense.
She chose to protect children when her own childhood had been stolen. That is who she was. Not only a survivor of unspeakable trauma, but a builder of everyday goodness.

Her life reminds us that history is not only stored in courtrooms and archives. It lives in carpools. It lives in community centers. It lives on neighborhood streets and in the back seats of cars full of children headed to their next adventure. It lives in the quiet, faithful work of women who pour into children that are not biologically theirs, but belong to them just the same.

Mrs. Vi was not only a witness to tragedy. She was a creator of safety. A keeper of children. A neighbor who became family.

Westside Community Center honors her not just for what she endured, but for how she lived. With steadiness. With watchfulness. With a heart that always made room for one more.

To the world, she was Viola Fletcher.
To us, she will always be Mrs. Vi.

Thank you for loving us as children.
Thank you for covering us with care.
Thank you for being part of the soul of Westside.

Your legacy lives on in every child you ever loaded into that car, knees touching, laughter filling the backseat, every student you ever chaperoned, every grandchild you ever protected, and every neighborhood child who knew they were safe because you were watching.

Rest well, Mrs. Vi.
You were deeply loved.