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A Clear Picture of Racism

African American Woman Holding a "Being Black Should Not Be A Death Sentence" Sign

A Legacy of Racially Disparate Executions

Oklahoma’s death penalty has always disproportionately targeted people of color. The earliest recorded execution in the state occurred in 1841, and of the 39 people executed in the 19th century, 79% were Native American men, while 15% were Black men. It wasn’t until 1899 that the state recorded the execution of a white person. This pattern of racial disparity has persisted into the modern era.

Since 1976, 41% of the 117 people executed in Oklahoma have been people of color, the majority of them Black—despite Black residents comprising only about 7% of the state’s population. The state’s own data reveals a staggering racial bias in sentencing: a person charged with murdering a white woman is 10 times more likely to receive a death sentence than if the victim is a minority male. 

From 1990 to 2012, just 3% of homicides in the state resulted in a death sentence, yet in 74% of those cases, the victim was white. These disparities reflect a long-standing truth—Oklahoma’s justice system, like much of the country, assigns more value to white lives than to Black and Native American lives. This pattern is evident in the stark contrast between executions for crimes involving white victims versus Black victims, where those convicted of killing white victims are far more likely to face the death penalty than those convicted of killing Black victims.

The Race-of-Victim Effect and Oklahoma’s Death Penalty Today

The racial disparities in Oklahoma’s death penalty reflect a longstanding history of racism in the state’s legal system. A study of Oklahoma’s execution data found that, in cases involving victims of a single race, 19 Black people were executed for the murder of white victims, while only two white people were executed for the murder of Black victims. These statistics highlight how racial bias in Oklahoma’s legal system aligns with patterns seen across the country, where people of color are disproportionately sentenced to death, especially when the victim is white.

Additionally, Oklahoma’s history as a site of forced Native American relocation has had a lasting impact on its death penalty system. The Trail of Tears led to a concentration of Native American populations in the region, and as a result, in the 19th century, most people executed were Native American. That legacy continues today—Oklahoma has sentenced more Native American people to death than any other state and is responsible for a third of all executions of Native Americans nationally.

Tremane Wood: A Case That Exemplifies This Broken System

The racial injustice embedded in Oklahoma’s death penalty isn’t just a relic of the past—it continues to destroy lives today. Tremane Wood’s case is a devastating example.

Tremane, a bi-racial Black and white man, was sentenced to death in Oklahoma County in 2004 for the murder of Ronnie Wipf, a white man from Montana. However, his older brother, Zjaiton “Jake” Wood, admitted to committing the murder and stated that Tremane killed no one. 

Unlike Tremane, Jake was represented by a competent legal team and was able to secure a life sentence. Tremane, on the other hand, was appointed a solo practitioner, John Albert, who was struggling with alcohol and substance use disorders while handling approximately 100 cases. At the time he represented Tremane, Albert was also defending two other people against the death penalty—both of whom later had their convictions overturned due to ineffective counsel. Tremane received no such relief.

Had Tremane’s lawyer properly investigated and presented mitigating evidence, the jury would have learned about the trauma that shaped his life—his struggles as a bi-racial child in a predominantly white community, the lingering effects of domestic violence on his mother, and his deep admiration for his older brother, Jake, who was a central figure in Tremane’s life. Tremane looked up to Jake, but his brother’s involvement in criminal activities exposed him to a world of violence and poor decisions that deeply affected Tremane’s own choices. Instead, Tremane was left defenseless against a system that disproportionately punishes people of color.

The racial bias in his case extended beyond his defense. The judge who presided over his trial and later denied his appeal, Judge Ray Elliott, has been overheard making horrific racist remarks, referring to Mexicans as “nothing but filthy animals” who “deserve to all be taken south of the border with a shotgun to their heads.” This is the judge who decided that Tremane Wood received a fair trial.

Moreover, only one Black juror served on Tremane’s jury, and she later revealed that she had been bullied into sentencing him to death.

A Call to Action

Tremane Wood’s case is a continuation of Oklahoma’s long history of racial injustice in capital punishment. The state has repeatedly shown that it is willing to execute people of color at a disproportionate rate while prioritizing the lives of white victims. These patterns are not accidental; they are deeply ingrained in the criminal legal system. 

Oklahoma’s history of racial violence, exemplified by the Tulsa Massacre of 1921, continues to haunt the state’s legal system, where Black residents have long faced systemic discrimination and violence. The legacy of that massacre, where Black lives were destroyed with impunity, lingers in the unequal application of justice today.

Oklahoma’s death penalty is a direct descendant of racial violence, from 19th-century executions of Native Americans to modern-day cases like Tremane’s, where inadequate defense, racist judges, and biased juries lead to unjust outcomes. Tremane’s case underscores why Oklahoma must abandon the death penalty entirely.

His case also highlights another deeply flawed aspect of Oklahoma’s legal system: the felony murder rule. Under this rule, a person can be sentenced to death even if they did not personally kill anyone, so long as the prosecution argues that the death was a foreseeable consequence of a felony. This rule disproportionately targets people of color and those with inadequate legal representation—like Tremane, who was sentenced to death while his brother, who admitted to the murder, received a life sentence.

We’ll be diving deeper into Oklahoma’s felony murder rule in an upcoming piece—stay tuned to learn how this outdated and unjust law continues to destroy lives, including Tremane Wood’s.

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Shifting the Narrative: Addressing Gun Violence as a Public Health Epidemic

48,000 people die each year from gun violence. Last June, U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy announced that gun violence is a public health crisis and he’s not alone. One of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s approaches to addressing this public health crisis is advancing collaboration across multiple sectors.

Collaboration through a public health perspective — focusing on the root causes of all types of violence — is the foundation of Equal Justice USA’s work building community-led public safety solutions.

To strengthen these efforts, EJUSA has added two new members to its board of trustees, Brenda Henry, PhD, and Faith Mitchell, PhD, both of whom bring decades of public health experience to the organization.

“Last year, gun violence took its rightful, official position among public health issues that demand research, systematic analysis, and scalable, far-reaching solutions,” said Jamila Hodge, CEO of EJUSA. “We have long held that such a perspective is vital if we’re going to truly make this country safer, and Brenda and Faith bring a depth of experience in the public health field that will strengthen EJUSA in measurable ways.”

Dr. Brenda Henry has worked across the public health sector, including at research centers, foundations, and in the government. From 2015 through 2019, she was chief operating officer for the Division of Child and Family Well-being at the New York City Administration for Children’s Services, which serves tens of thousands of children and families. She recently founded BLH Consulting, where she has supported the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, the David and Lucile Packard Foundation, and other clients to build strategies that advance equity.

“My entire public health career, I have worked to bring awareness of and address the social conditions that perpetuate inequities in health in the United States,” said Dr. Henry. “The work that EJUSA does is a natural extension of this work. I am excited to support the organization’s efforts to break cycles of trauma, centering healing and repair for individuals and communities.”

Dr. Faith Mitchell has been a mainstay in Washington DC’s public health space for three decades. She served as president and CEO of Grantmakers In Health from 2012-2019 after spending 12 years at the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine. Today she is an Institute Fellow in the LAB and Health Policy Division at the Urban Institute. She is also chair of the Jacob & Valeria Langeloth Foundation, which is a pioneer in fostering safe and healthy communities through public-safety solutions.

“As a medical anthropologist I’ve worked a lot with communities,” said Dr. Mitchell. “I’ve also seen that health is a part of everything. I was drawn to EJUSA because of its focus on community-led solutions and its commitment to finding solutions to violence rooted in healing and repair.”
For more information, please contact Venise Toussaint at veniset@ejusa.org.

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Who is Tremane Wood, Now?

Tremane Wood, the Oklahoma State penitentiary

Tremane Wood, currently on death row in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary with his execution scheduled for 2025, is a grandfather, a father, a partner, a mentor, a friend, and a man who believes in second chances — not just for himself and his family, but for everyone discarded by society. He is the kind of person who speaks life into those around him, even from behind the walls of death row. There have been moments where he wrapped his arms around his grandchildren, children, mother, and girlfriend. He felt something he never thought possible: hope. 

Every death penalty story is unique, but perhaps the most striking aspect of Tremane’s case is that Oklahoma plans to kill him in 2025 — even though he has never killed anyone.

Each year, the Death Penalty Information Center documents the personal histories of those executed. Between 70-100% of those executed suffer from a critical impairment: “serious mental illness; brain injury, developmental brain damage, or an IQ in the intellectually disabled range; and/or chronic serious childhood trauma, neglect, and/or abuse.”

For Tremane, it’s childhood trauma. 

Tremane’s parents, Linda Wood and Raymond Gross met in the 1970s in Guthrie, Oklahoma. Linda had moved there to escape abuse in Florida and to attend Job Corp. She found work at a fast food restaurant. She was just a 16-year-old student when she met Raymond, a 28-year-old police officer. Not long after they met, Linda and Raymond started a family. They had three sons, with nicknames that Tremane had for his siblings: Andre (nickname, dreno) and Zjaiton (also known as Jake, nickname “bro”).

All three siblings grew up witnessing domestic violence within the family. Raymond’s frequent rages left their mother battered — often with broken bones and busted lips. He once held Linda at gunpoint, threatening to kill her, leaving an imprint of horror on the entire family. 

By the time Tremane was eight, Linda had left Raymond, but the scars he left — on her body and her sons — remained. Despite struggling with the aftermath of trauma and a new post-traumatic disorder (PTSD) diagnosis, she fought to rebuild their lives, juggling three jobs while taking a college course.  

With their mother stretched thin, the boys had too much time on their hands and too many opportunities to get into trouble. And through it all, Tremane clung to his relationship with his brother Jake, who he looked up to. 

At the time, Jake struggled to find his place in the world, navigating his biracial identity in a predominantly white neighborhood. “Jake was a rebellious black sheep,” Tremane shares. As Jake wrestled with those dynamics, he introduced Tremane to guns at a young age. 

The brothers, still young, found themselves on a dangerous path. One time, Tremane, Jake, and two other women decided to rob a white man, Ronnie Wipf. The situation quickly spiraled out of control, ending in Mr. Wipf’s tragic death. 

Under the law, all four were charged with first-degree murder and treated as equally guilty despite their differing roles. Jake admitted to killing Mr. Wipf and received a life sentence, while the two women were given lesser sentences. But Tremane — a Black man who did not commit the murder — was sentenced to death. Reflecting on his experience at the trial, he said, “My life was on the line, and I was intimidated in court facing death row; it’s David and Goliath.” 

Despite the trauma of his youth and the injustice of his conviction, Tremane remains committed to his family today. Even behind the walls of death row, often sitting 100 feet away from the death chamber, he has taken the role of patriarch, pouring into the lives of his sons, nieces, and nephews to break the cycle of trauma, pain, and violence. “When I talk to my nieces, nephews, and family, I speak life to them. I tell them, ‘Do not take your life for granted.’” For Tremane, his past is only part of the story — one that does not fully define who he is today. 

Now 45, Tremane continues to approach life with an unbreakable positive mindset. “You find strength in the strangest places. I will talk to my family,” he says. His longtime partner, Leslie, describes him as “one of the most optimistic people I’ve ever met.” She explains that their relationship is a lifeline — they write letters, share dreams, and hold onto hope for a future that remains uncertain. 

Yet, even in optimism, Tremane carries the weight of the past. He often reflects on a difficult question: “How do I make up for how my bad choices at that time in my life affected so many families and lives? For what I put Arnie and the Wipfs and my family through? You can’t make up the time, but what I try to do is be positive in everyone’s life. If anyone needs me, I’m there for them. I give them words of wisdom even if I can’t be physically there.” 

Leslie sees his resilience firsthand. “Despite everything, he motivates me,” she says. “His spirit, his hope — it’s remarkable.”

Leslie’s admiration reflects the depth of Tremane’s evolution, particularly in the years since his brother Jake’s death — a loss that became a turning point. “I’d been attached to my brother for so long,” Tremane reflected. “When he passed away, I felt lonely, and I began to look at myself.”  

In the continued search for growth, Tremane forged connections with others on death row, including exoneree Paris Powell. “He was my big brother because my brother wasn’t here,” Tremane said. “He taught me to be a leader, not a follower.” 

Leslie shared that after Jake’s passing, Tremane began to see himself in a new life. “He talks about coming into his own person since his brother passed away,” she said. No longer living in Jake’s shadow, Tremane focused on stepping outside the trauma of his family’s past, pouring energy and love into the family he has built. 

As he worked to carve out his own identity, Tremane turned to books, devouring anything that would empower him — from political discourse to personal development. “He likes to be informed, and he loves conversations about politics and empowerment,” Leslie says. “It’s important to him to keep learning, to stay sharp.”

The drive for self-improvement extended into his bonds with others, especially younger men in prison. Many of them arrive disoriented and unsure of their future, but Tremane mentors them, offering advice and motivation. “Keep going,” he tells them. “You get up and put your foot forward, not six days a week, but seven days a week.”

Tremane’s self-driven motivation isn’t fueled by external validation but by his strong sense of integrity. “I feel privileged that people in the penitentiary trust me,” he said. This internal compass has earned him the trust of prison officials, who selected him to work as an assistant orderly and participate in pilot programs. It has also garnered the respect of those around him. “I find a lot of strength in helping people,” Tremane shared. 

Tremane’s story does more than illustrate personal growth — it exposes the flaws in a system that prioritizes punishment over healing. His experiences reveal the deep racial and socioeconomic inequities that mark the criminal legal system. 

Tremane’s journey raises difficult questions about justice and accountability. Leslie, who has stood by him through it all, reflects on his resilience with a mixture of awe and frustration. “He’s gone through so much, and yet, here he is — still fighting, still pushing forward,” she says. “But at what cost?”

Tremane’s life now, nearly two decades after receiving a death sentence, stands as a testament to the possibility of justice. Tremane’s family, friends, and loved ones describe him as a kind soul. And despite being placed in a system that seeks to respond to violence with more violence, his story suggests a different path — a path of healing, of accountability that focuses not on punishment but on growth and transformation.

What Tremane’s life reveals is a broader truth: that the death penalty system only extends the cycle of trauma and misses the chance to foster healing and genuine change. Tremane’s experience, like that of many others on death row, magnifies the racial and class inequities embedded in the criminal legal system. It also challenges the notion that justice can be found in retribution.

Leslie hopes that Tremane’s story will encourage others to rethink what accountability can look like. “He’s not just some person on death row,” she says. “He’s a father, a grandfather, a mentor. He’s human. And he’s changed.”

The question remains whether the system will allow that change to matter.

“I want to be a redemption story, especially when people see death row inmates as monsters. I want to redeem that narrative,” Tremane says. 

To learn more about Tremane’s case, please read this deeply reported story from Jessica Schulberg at HuffPost, which helped inform our story. Sign the petition here to stop his execution! 

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Words Shape the World

By: Mona Cadena, Advocacy and Campaigns Director; Jaylah Cosby, Research and Impact Manager

The words we use matter. When politicians and policymakers describe people as “heinous,” “vile criminals,” “evil,” “barbaric,” or “alien,” they aren’t just speaking in extremes. They’re laying the groundwork for policies that increase punishment, expand incarceration, and ultimately makes all of us less safe.

We’ve seen this before. The “superpredator” myth of the 1990s fueled mass incarceration. The first Trump administration’s “Zero-Tolerance” immigration policy separated thousands of children from their parents and created a wave of for-profit detention centers. Now, the latest executive orders signal a tumbling deeper into harmful and punitive policies under the guise of “public safety.” 

But let’s be clear: dehumanizing language only feeds violence, and its presence in official documents like executive orders is Shameful.

Punishment Over Everything: The Consequences of Dehumanization

When any government labels people as monsters rather than human beings, it becomes easier to justify excessive punishment, no matter the cost, in the name of justice. Here’s what that looks like in practice:

  • Ramping up the Death Penalty: Calling people “evil” primes all of us to accept state executions despite overwhelming evidence that the death penalty disproportionately targets Black and brown people and has led to at least 200 wrongful convictions in the U.S. since 1973.
  • Expanding Mass Incarceration: The idea that certain people are inherently dangerous fuels policies like mandatory minimums, three-strikes laws, solitary confinement, and life without parole—trapping thousands in prisons instead of addressing the root causes of harm.
  • Militarizing Law Enforcement: Tough-on-crime rhetoric leads to more police, more surveillance, and more violence in communities that have historically been over-policed and over-criminalized.

The Real Impact of Punitive Policies: More Violence, Less Justice

The paradox of punitive policies is that they don’t reduce violence; they create the conditions for it. Here’s how:

  • State Violence Fuels Community Violence: When the government normalizes excessive force—through executions, police brutality, or excessive sentences – it sends a message that violence is an acceptable response to harm.
  • Over-Policing and Harsh Sentences Destabilize Communities: When entire neighborhoods are targeted by aggressive policing and high incarceration rates, families are torn apart, economic opportunities shrink, and cycles of harm continue.
  • Punishment Ignores the Root Causes of Harm: Criminalization focuses on who to punish rather than why violence happens in the first place. Poverty, lack of mental health resources, unaddressed trauma—none of these are solved by locking up more people in cages.

What Now?

We can’t afford to let this moment pass without pushing back against dangerous rhetoric and failed policies. Instead of accepting dehumanizing narratives, we must fight for real safety solutions:

  • Invest in Community-Based Violence Prevention: Studies prove that programs that provide mental health care, crisis response, and de-escalation tactics reduce violence without increasing incarceration. 
  • Advance Restorative and Transformative Justice: Real accountability doesn’t come from extreme sentences—it comes from addressing harm, supporting survivors, and preventing future violence.
  • Expose the Harm of Dehumanizing Language: We must call out the narratives that justify excessive punishment and insist on solutions prioritizing dignity, justice, and true public safety.

A Closer Look at the Executive Orders

These dangerous narratives aren’t just rhetoric—they have real policy consequences. Three recent executive orders demonstrate how dehumanizing language fuels harsher punishment and state violence.

  • “Restoring the Death Penalty and Protecting Public Safety” pushes for expanded federal executions and challenges legal precedents that limit capital punishment.
  • The revocation of Executive Order 14006 reopens the door for private prisons to profit from mass incarceration.
  • The revocation of Executive Order 14074 eliminates federal police accountability measures, scaling back transparency and use-of-force reporting.

Each shift deepens systemic inequalities, prioritizes punishment over prevention, and ignores evidence-based strategies that actually keep people safe.

For a deeper dive into these executive orders and their impact, read our full policy brief.

The Bottom Line

Dehumanizing language isn’t just rhetoric—it’s a policy weapon. When the government frames people as less than human, it clears the path for harsher punishments, expanded state violence, and deeper racial injustice.

We can’t let that happen. We have the power to push back, change the narrative, and demand real safety for our communities.

Please read our policy brief, share this message, and take action with us.

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Continuing the Fight

Historic photo, marching, civil rights movement

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a small but firm debate with my husband about our daughter’s antibiotics. Doctors prescribed a 10-day course, and as she started feeling better, the question arose: Do we really need to finish the full treatment?

Absolutely. We had to. Because if you stop treatment too soon, the infection doesn’t just return—it comes back stronger, more resistant, and harder to fight.

And that made me think about where we are today.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) is being erased—scrubbed from policies, from institutions, from funding. First, they told us critical race theory was the problem in our schools, even though most opponents could not define the term. That wasn’t enough. Then they turned to social-emotional learning, demonizing programs that help children—especially disabled children—navigate the world. And now, it’s DEI. What’s next? 

This is happening because we have never fully addressed the roots of racism in this country. Like an unfinished course of antibiotics, we stop the hard work too soon, and the disease mutates, growing more resistant, more dangerous. During the Civil Rights Movement we had historic policy wins; but because we never reckoned with the heart condition that perpetuated slavery, many of those wins have been temporary. We applied bandages when we needed heart surgery. And now, we are seeing the consequences.

Black History Month was founded by Carter G. Woodson as a way to uplift stories that have been erased. But in a world where Black history itself is under attack, we must ask: Are we using this month as a true act of resistance, or has it become another bandage? A symbolic gesture that allows those in power to say, See? We still celebrate Black history, while stripping away the very policies that protect Black futures?

The spirit of Black History Month must be resistance—not just celebration but action. We resist by telling the full truth, by refusing to let our stories be erased, by continuing the work even when it is not popular. Because resistance isn’t just for the moments when corporations are posting Black Lives Matter on their websites. It’s for the moments when it feels like we are standing alone, when the tide has turned against us, when speaking out comes with a cost.

This month, I am committing to learning more about the stories of resistance that history has tried to bury—stories like that of Fannie Lou Hamer, whose courage in the face of brutal oppression continues to inspire. And I invite you to do the same.

Because if we have learned anything, it’s this: We cannot stop now. We must finish the course. 

Toward justice.

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Reentry Summit

Sam Heath and Marteiz at Reentry Summit

In Charlottesville, a growing movement is working to address the challenges of reentry for formerly incarcerated individuals, ensuring they have the support they need to reintegrate into the community. At the heart of this effort is the Charlottesville Area Justice Coalition, a network of justice-oriented groups that came together to foster collaboration and amplify their impact.

Sam Heath, EJUSA’s Evangelical Network Manager, helps facilitate the coalition, and describes its origins: “I kept having conversations with people in the justice world in town who kept saying, ‘I wish there was a space where justice groups could overlap and talk, or there was one place to go, and there’s not.’” In response, Heath and others created a non-member-based coalition that meets regularly to share updates, host speakers, and discuss pressing issues such as jail renovations, violence interruption programs, and restorative justice efforts.

By November 2024, Heath and his colleague Martize Tolbert from One Stop Cville proposed launching working groups based on the six key recommendations. The Albemarle-Charlottesville Reentry Council agreed to take on three: housing, employment, and access to reentry services. These working groups will officially launch this month (February 2025). 

Through these conversations, a pressing issue became clear: the difficulty of connecting formerly incarcerated individuals with necessary reentry services. While resources like the Charlottesville Street Sheet—a directory of reentry services—exist, Heath points out the inherent challenges: “It assumes someone obviously can read, speak English, has a cell phone, has transportation… there’s 17 barriers to access what that sheet points to.” The need for a more accessible, coordinated effort became apparent.

Enter the Reentry Summit, an initiative designed to bring together all the stakeholders working in reentry. The idea, Heath explains, was simple: “I think people can figure out something.” With support from community leaders, the first summit was launched in April at Vault Virginia, a repurposed bank-turned-event space. Around 100 participants gathered to discuss the current state of reentry services and generate ideas for improvement.

The results were significant. Data collectors documented participants’ insights, producing 35 pages of ideas and recommendations. Recognizing the need for continued collaboration, Heath and his team organized a second summit just a month later. “The first summit was about dreaming. The second summit was about doing,” Heath explains. Attendees reconvened to analyze the data from the first gathering and identify six key areas of focus: housing, employment, faith-based partnerships, funding, access to peer navigators, and reentry services that are coordinated, comprehensive, and connected.

Momentum continued to build. “We presented the reentry findings in July, and everybody thought it was incredible and demanded, what are the next steps?” Heath recalls. 

In December 2024, a third summit was held to refine these initiatives. A particular focus was placed on data, with newly compiled statistics shedding light on local incarceration trends, racial disparities, and sentencing patterns. Thanks to the UVA Equity Center, who helped sort through all the data from the second summit, the team was able to gain deeper insights.

“One of the coolest things at the summit was the data presentation,” Heath notes. “We didn’t have this before, which is so amazing.” A criminal justice planner provided three detailed reports, offering unprecedented insight into the state of incarceration in Charlottesville and the surrounding counties. Summit attendees were eager to dive into the findings, which Heath and his team made publicly accessible the following day.

Beyond the summits, the work continues. By law, each Virginia county must have a reentry council, and Charlottesville’s Albemarle-Charlottesville Reentry Council plays a crucial role in sustaining these efforts. Heath, who has attended council meetings for a year, sees it as a vital component of long-term systemic change.

The faith-based working group, which Heath leads, is developing resources to help religious communities become stronger partners in reentry efforts. “That group is likely going to produce two things: a one-pager on how faith spaces can be hospitable for those who are formerly incarcerated, and a training led by someone with lived experience to guide churches in reentry partnership,” Heath explains.

Through grassroots organizing, coalition-building, and a commitment to community-driven solutions, Charlottesville’s reentry movement is paving the way for a more just and inclusive society. As the work evolves, the lessons from the summits—collaboration, accessibility, and sustained engagement—offer a model for other communities striving to support individuals on their journey home.

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BHM Recommendations

Multi-colored illustration of healing.

This Black History Month, immerse yourself in stories that highlight Black resilience, history, and culture through powerful books, podcasts, and museums. Let this be a time of learning, reflection, and deeper engagement with the past to shape a more just future.

LISTEN: 40 Acres and a Lie
This podcast, from Reveal and the Center for Public Integrity, came out in 2024 and tells the stories of some of the more than 1,200 formerly enslaved people — and, ultimately, all of their descendants — who received property from the U.S. government as compensation for the many harms suffered, including stolen wages. The government quickly changed its mind and seized the property back to return it to enslavers. Today, that land is worth tens of millions of dollars that should be in the hands of Black families. Reparations could be a tool for justice.

READ: The Quaking of America: An Embodied Guide to Navigating Our Nation’s Upheaval and Racial Reckoning
Resmaa Menakem reminds us that the tremors of history aren’t just in the past, they ripple through our present. Menakem challenges us to see America as it is, not just as we wish it to be, and that’s an uncomfortable reckoning. This month isn’t just about celebration; it’s about reflection, about asking ourselves what we’re doing to honor the struggles and triumphs of those who came before us. Black history isn’t distant—it’s alive, shaping the ground we walk on. The question is: are we willing to feel the quake and respond?

EXPLORE: Florida Virtual Civil Rights Museum
There’s something about museums that has the powerful ability to transform your mind in time and space. Museums are such a powerful way of exploring history and culturally significant movements while also putting into context and perspective the beauty and struggle of the present moment. They’re cost effective and easily accessible. Take some time to visit a local Black history museum in your area or a Black history exhibit at your favorite museum. If nothing comes to mind, check out Florida’s free virtual civil rights museum. It’s an immersive, interactive way to see history through the lens of the Black pioneers who’ve shaped our society in countless ways… and you don’t even have to leave home to experience it.

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Forever Takes a Village

Khlilia, founder of forever takes a village

Imagine living in a community where children can’t play outside, morning coffee on the porch feels unsafe, and the streets are marked by violence instead of connection. For many in Bogalusa, Louisiana, this has been the reality. Yet, amidst the challenges, seeds of change began to grow with the help and determination from people like Khlilia Daniels. 

Through her partnership with Equal Justice USA (EJUSA) and the formation of her nonprofit, Forever Takes a Village, Khlilia has helped transform communities. Her story, intertwined with community efforts like EJUSA’s Pathways to Healing sessions, offers a glimpse into how communities can begin to heal. 

How did you learn about EJUSA?

I first encountered EJUSA on social media but wasn’t sure what they were about. I got invited to a meet-and-greet event, and a friend who was cooking asked if I could make some sweets since I used to own a bakery. I agreed and brought candy to the event.  

At the meet-and-greet, I listened to Josie Alexander [our Senior Louisiana Strategist] and the EJUSA team, and everything started to click. I knew what I wanted to do but didn’t have a clear direction, and that moment made it all come together—I realized EJUSA was where I needed to be.  

What did you want to accomplish for the community of Bogalusa?

At the time, Bogalusa was in turmoil. Murders and shootings happened practically every day. Kids couldn’t go outside, local parks were empty, and even sitting on your porch to drink coffee in the morning became unsafe. I had a bakery downtown, but with COVID and the violence, I had to close my doors in 2021. That August, I couldn’t host my usual back-to-school event for the kids—it had gotten that bad. You’d see certain people and know to turn around and go home because it was only a matter of time before your phone rang with news of something terrible happening.

Then, an incident at my shop happened in December of 2022, when a 15 year old was killed at my niece’s party. Everything changed. The next day, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, which was to start my own nonprofit to prevent further violence. I had always felt strongly that the name of the nonprofit needed to include ”village,” so I tried to reserve It Takes a Village with the state, but it wasn’t available. I spent hours brainstorming until I came up with Forever Takes a Village, which was accepted.

I stayed in touch with Josie and Tonjie Reese [our Learning and Practice Director] because I didn’t know who else to contact or what to do next. I told Josie, “I’m new to this—I’ll do whatever you say.” I’m genuinely grateful for their support. Fast forward to 2024, I found Forever Takes a Village, and it has blossomed, and now we’re going into year two in 2025. 

How have you seen the community come together, and what has been the most impactful thing you have witnessed so far? 

We still have a long way to go, but when Josie and the team came down to host the Pathways to Healing listening sessions, it brought the community together. People were able to speak openly and share their feelings. Some kids who typically wouldn’t say a word ended up talking by the end of the session, and we were all laughing and crying together. 

After that, even though people in Bogalusa can be skeptical about things, the response was positive. People still ask if I can gather parents and kids for more sessions to talk. That was my most impactful moment—it truly helped unite this community. Some may not admit it, but that made the difference.

What do you think healing looks like in Bogalusa?

Healing in Bogalusa starts with finding truly committed people with the same mindset and vision for change. It’s not easy because, along the way, you’ll lose some people and gain others. But ultimately, it will come down to a small, dedicated handful of individuals who stick with you through it all.  

There will be disagreements, but the key is learning to agree to disagree and staying focused on the bigger picture. That shared commitment and willingness to push forward together, even when things get tough, makes healing possible.

How have you personally grown in creating Forever Takes a Village? 

Our town is very divided racially, and there are still many things being said that can be hurtful. I’ve had to learn to overlook the negativity. For instance, the Bogalusa Day of Action—an event where Equal Justice USA released a comprehensive report based on six listening sessions held in Bogalusa—didn’t unfold as I expected. However, I’ve learned to focus on the bigger picture instead of getting caught up in the details.

One thing that’s been eye-opening is how some of the people who were critical of me or the work in the past are now supportive. That’s the reality: people change their minds when they see the work happening. I’ve had to grow in how I react to situations like that, and I credit Josie for helping me understand that sometimes what I “want” to say isn’t what’s best for the problem.

What advice would you give to others starting their own organizations towards safety and healing? 

Find people who are truly committed and share the same vision. You’ll lose some people along the way and gain new ones, but it will always be just a handful of individuals who will stick with you through it all. You may not always agree on everything, but as long as you can agree to disagree and stay focused on the mission, those are the people you want by your side.

Read the Bogalusa Report to discover the power of community-driven healing in Bogalusa, Louisiana.  Local voices are leading the way toward a world where violence is rare and every community is safe and healthy.

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The Threat to Safety

White house for federal funding email action

The second week of this new White House administration brings another crushing wave of executive orders and federal directives. This week, they are attempting to freeze $3 trillion of taxpayer money — lawfully approved and allocated by Congress — that funds critical life-saving work in neighborhoods, cities, and states across this country. The potential harm is huge. 

I want you to know how this applies to EJUSA’s work: We have a federal grant through the Department of Justice through which we fund and strengthen five amazing Louisiana organizations. 

Beyond Harm is a New Orleans organization that prevents violence, especially intimate partner abuse and sexual violence. They plan to create at least one job in a community that always needs more, and that person will work with the community to heal trauma and prevent more violence. They will save lives. And the White House is threatening that. 

Ours is one of countless examples of vital work that can’t move forward right now. And we know this is just one of many fights ahead. Trump will keep trying to dismantle the work we do. We will keep resisting.

Here’s what we need you to know: we are powerful. And more than ever, we need to be connected to each other and to our communities.

These moments are meant to overwhelm us, to make us feel isolated and powerless. But history—and our own movements—tell a different story. We have always built safety and resilience in our communities, not because of government support, but because of each other. Now is the time to double down on those connections—to organize, to look out for one another, and to remind ourselves that we are not in this fight alone.

We need to push back, and we need to do it together. We’re going to make it as easy as possible for you to take action, to stand up, and to stay engaged—so that we can focus on what really matters: building the world our communities deserve.

So let’s connect. Let’s organize. Let’s fight, together.

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What is Healing Justice?

people in a circle at healing justice

In our Healing Justice work at EJUSA, we have created a sacred space for survivors, victims’ family members, service providers, and those impacted by the justice system, who work to build safety and change national conversations around violence, trauma, and healing. 

Modeling the Kindred Collective Model, we are creating our conditions for wellness and resilience across the movements we touch. The selfless sacrifices of our movement leaders don’t come without a cost. We often sacrifice our mental and physical wellness in the process of caring for others. Cultivating these spaces allows us, as advocates, to care for our most vulnerable, our healers. It’s our responsibility to support ourselves. Collectively we hurt, collectively we heal. To help us breathe, recharge, and refill our individual cups. 

In my previous role, supporting our Trauma and Healing Network, I would check in with our partners, and each call mirrored the same troubling theme…exhaustion and depletion. All acknowledge their unhealthy commitment to the work and do not prioritize their wellness as they move towards burnout. Mentally and often physically, they were drained from the stresses of carrying the trauma of their communities. Their dedication to supporting their communities at the cost of their well-being seemed fractured. So, who saves the superhero in our spaces? We do. Community shows up for community; that’s safety, wellness, and our type of care. 

It started with a simple vision. We didn’t have a big budget, so we led with our hearts. The first retreat we organized was cobbled together with whatever resources we could muster. Investment in our care was our priority. We retreated with our partners with a “relaxing workload” and thought we hit the mark. With laid-back sessions like “PJ’s and Productivity and Poolside Chat,” we changed the atmosphere and setting but met to discuss “the work.” We showed up as organizers instead of caretakers. Our partners told us, “We love the environment, but we don’t need an agenda—we are tired, and we just need to rest.” We heard them. We were putting superheroes in the classroom, asking them to continue to save the world instead of arming them with the tools to save themselves. They wanted fellowship, healing, care, and intentional time together. It was time to pivot.

 We finally understood the assignment. We adjusted and built a retreat that was centered on care. The need for some therapeutic support was obvious and requested, so we prioritized and infused therapeutic care into our framework. We incorporated meditation for mindfulness, culinary healing, and tea parties for wellness, embracing ancestral holistic approaches of care by teaching the benefits of essential oils and creating candles and bath salts for care in our spaces. All in fellowship, all in community with one another. Together, the vision grew.

When we retreat, we’re not just resting; we’re learning. Our spaces are a resource. I call it “workshopping our healing”—every moment is a chance to learn how to care for ourselves, and that knowledge becomes a tool we take with us to refuel and share with our partners. I remember the first time Herman Lindsey, a death row exoneree who now leads Witness to Innocence, attended one of our retreats. Initially, he was a little skeptical: “All this lovey-dovey stuff isn’t for me.” But by the end, he had cultivated a collection of teas for his health and he shared the benefits of the meditation sessions embedded in the agenda.These are the moments where healing happens—when you’re surrounded by community, learning and creating resources, taking care of yourself, and realizing that you’re not alone.That’s the magic of these spaces—they meet you where you are and give you what you didn’t even know you needed. 

This work is a journey, and we’re just getting started. As we continue to , we’re learning more and more about what it means to care for our community of caretakers. We’re not just organizing events; we’re creating lifelines for individuals who are doing the heavy lifting in the fight for justice.. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t a one-time thing. It’s ongoing. It’s a commitment. And it’s something we must continue to invest in as we prioritize care—not just for others, but for ourselves.

Healing work is personal. It’s emotional. And it’s hard. But it’s also beautiful. Every time we hold space for our partners, we remind them that they matter—that their healing and wellness matters. And in turn, we remind ourselves of the same.  Now that’s justice, that’s healing justice.

Stay tuned for more information and stories about our healing justice work in 2025!

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