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The Voice of Ida B Wells
Voice of Freedom
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The people of Minden must learn to look beyond slogans and smiling faces, for behind the curtain of “progress” there often sits a hand pulling strings in plain sight.
Now we are told there is a new candidate for police chief—yet this is no ordinary candidate. This man is the brother-in-law of a sitting council member. And the citizens should not be naïve enough to believe that family ties in government come without influence.
Let us speak plainly.
This same individual has sued the city not once, but multiple times. He has been fired—yet returned. And now, with history trailing behind him like a shadow, he steps forward as though he is entitled to the position meant to protect and serve the public.
So I ask what any thinking citizen should ask:
Who gave him the courage to run?
Who assured him that the door would be opened for him—no matter his record, no matter the conflicts, no matter the questions?
Was it the same voice whispering behind the scenes, the one posing as a savior of Minden under the banner of “making Minden great again”?
Or is it the same power responsible for pushing the “colored” people out of the utilities office until the halls of employment look less like fairness and more like a calculated cleansing?
These are not accidents. These are patterns.
And patterns do not form without intention.
The people have been trained to dismiss their instincts, to silence their doubts, and to accept “business as usual” even when business is anything but honest.
But a town cannot be made great by removing its Black citizens from positions of visibility, dignity, and authority. A town cannot claim justice while placing power in the hands of those protected by bloodline and backroom deals.
These are the things that make a wise mind wonder—
and a brave heart speak.
So I say to Minden:
Watch closely. Ask questions. Demand answers.
Because what is happening is not simply politics—
it is power moving in darkness.
Minden, please stay woke.
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The handwriting is already etched upon the wall for all who dare to read it. The same council now recommends as mayor pro tempore the very man who approved the release of $25,000—an act carried out, we are told, without the mayor’s knowledge. Such a claim insults both reason and intelligence. Logic alone testifies otherwise.
This matter was not whispered in a corner. It was motioned. It was seconded. And yet, not one council member raised a single question to justify or defend an action that remains “tabled” in the public eye. Silence, in moments such as these, is not neutrality—it is complicity.
Look closely and the truth reveals itself plainly: these are not leaders exercising independent judgment. They are placeholders, arranged neatly beneath the command of one who rules by instruction rather than consent. Their charge is not to deliberate, but to obey. Not to represent the people, but to carry out orders.
History teaches us that tyranny does not always arrive with fanfare; often it moves quietly through compliant hands and unchallenged authority. And when those entrusted with oversight refuse to question, refuse to challenge, and refuse to explain, they become instruments of the very injustice they pretend not to see.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
The Voice of Ida B Wells 