I grew up in Oklahoma, a former Indian Territory state where my Tribe, the Cherokee Nation, and 37 other sovereign nations still make their home. Yet access to my Native history was limited. As a kid, I was enthralled by the stories of the past. I loved learning about people, places, and events that happened long ago. As I’ve grown older, this passion hasn’t faded, but it has had to evolve as I’ve come to a realization: Everything I was taught in school was only a fraction of the truth.  

The majority of my childhood was spent in or around Tulsa, with trips to the local zoo and the amusement park. Some of my happiest childhood memories occurred within the Tulsa city limits. 

The Tulsa I knew and loved came into question one day in a community college lecture hall in Tallahassee, Florida, when my professor talked about the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921. “Tulsa? The Tulsa I grew up in?” I thought. I felt disoriented as he explained the racist raid that occurred in my hometown.

A vibrant Black community in Tulsa's historic Greenwood District was born out of an attempted escape from southern segregation in the early 1900s and also included the Freedmen from the Cherokee, Choctaw, Seminole, Creek, and Chickasaw. Thirty-five blocks full of Black-owned restaurants, businesses, churches, and a movie theater, along with some 10,000 residents, earned the area the nickname “Black Wall Street.” 

A false accusation that a Black resident had assaulted a white woman created an excuse for the racially fueled attacks on May 31, 1921. Arson, physical assault, murder, and airplanes dropping fire bombs on buildings and homes destroyed Greenwood and put an end to an important era in Black history. Many families and residents never recovered from the violence, and the assailants got away with their hate crimes.

Somehow the destruction that occurred in that Tulsa district had failed to make it into my history lessons. How did something so atrocious happen in a place I held so close to my heart? Why did I never know about it? The revelation permanently changed my perspective of the world around me. It was the first time I began to question everything I had ever been told in a classroom.

Photos courtesy of Shea Vassar

I was reminded of that experience while watching Radium Girls, a new movie directed by Lydia Dean Pilcher and Ginny Mohler. The story chronicles how young workers, some of whom were still teenagers, would lick the tips of radium-infused paintbrushes in order to create perfect numbers on watch dials. Like the Tulsa Race Massacre, the story of the Radium Experience takes place in the roaring 1920s—yet another example of how an era purported to be full of glitz and glamour was indelibly defined by injustice. The general public thought nothing of radium at the time; it was marketed as not only a safe substance but also a beauty product as well as a cure for aches and pains.  

The film tracks the story of Radium Girl sisters Josephine (played by Abby Quinn) and Bessie (played by Joey King), who work for the American Radium company. The girls, along with dozens of others packed into cramped conditions, are asked to lick the tips of their paintbrushes to help make more exact dials on the watches. Over time, they develop mysterious illnesses resulting from radiation poisoning, but the doctor their employer hires to evaluate the workers decides they are healthy, only diagnosing those with advanced symptoms with syphilis so they would keep quiet. 

The film also considers how one of the United States’ most recognizable monuments, Mount Rushmore, was carved in the South Dakota Black Hills during this time to spur national tourism. The image, which is still consumed by Americans today as a symbol of patriotism, hides a dark truth of Native exploitation. Mount Rushmore is one of the world’s largest sculptures, but it was created in violation of federal law. The Black Hills are known as the Paha Sapa to the Oceti Sakowin, or the Great Lakota/Dakota/Nakota Nation, who are the rightful caretakers of this unceded, sacred territory as established in the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie. The sculptor was a known Ku Klux Klan sympathizer.  

Radium Girls reminds us that in order to move toward a brighter, more equitable and just future,  we have to know the past that came before it. That is the first step toward healing. We have to continue to uncover the facts and celebrate those who go against the status quo to create a better future for the generations that follow. 

There is still much work to do. The Greenwood District is still working on a path toward healing. The search for the missing mass grave continues as Black Wall Street attempts to reclaim the area that was once flourishing with Black-owned businesses and community. Most importantly, the transgressions that occurred on the streets of downtown Tulsa are being uncovered and told across the world.  

With Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills, tribal nations are still fighting to defend the Treaty of Fort Laramie and for the land to be returned to the Lakota people. Just this past July, 20 land defenders were arrested while guarding the area from President Trump’s Independence Day celebration. This was in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, with no social distancing guidelines. The Native community members were the ones punished while standing up for their people and land. 

While the Radium Girls and their fight for justice has been kept from the many history books and lessons that I grew up with, and current fights for justice are kept from mainstream media, I am now inspired to learn the truth. These hidden rhetorics deserve to be seen and honored. As for the Radium Girls, I hope their sacrifice is seen and recognized—not just for themselves but for current and future generations. May they inspire other youths in this generation, and the ones that follow, to stand up for what they believe. There is so much we can learn from the bravery and selflessness of their fight.