Keep Saying Nolan Wells’ Name

The news cycle has moved on, but we haven’t

Nolan Wells has been laid to rest.

As a minister and writer, I have found myself returning to the sacred text of the Bible. I find myself looking at a picture of Nolan and reading Paul’s words in the letter to the Romans: “Weep with those who weep.”

As we have heard from the family, Nolan was to turn 19 in less than a month. He was to report to football camp just a week after his death. His father said that he wanted his child to enjoy his last bit of fun before it was time to lock in before fall camp. As a former college football player, I understand the magnitude of that ordinary gift from a parent. His life was remembered in far more intimate ways than national news has been able to capture — full of faith, humility, compassion, and a joyful spirit. His favorite Bible verse: Colossians 4:2, “Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful.”

Nolan Wells in his football uniform in 2024

He was young, Black, lovely, and someone, as the obituary reads, who “made everyone around him feel seen, valued, and loved.” And yet, a hole is still made in the earth where he once stood. He is gone, and so many questions are left unanswered, and so many are grieving.

This morning the preliminary independent autopsy was read by Benjamin Crump, the family’s attorney. He stood in a sea of Black and weary faces at the NAACP convention. Nolan’s parents once again stood behind him. “Take a seat,” he said to the parents, motioning them off the platform after having given thanks for the communal effort to bring this family peace and Nolan justice. “I know this might be a little hard.”

And it was.

Rather than feeling a bit of vindication, as he read the report — detailing the way Nolan’s body arrived in DC, the lack of critical information that could explain how he died or establish whether there had been foul play, and the the unanswered questions from local authorities — I felt sick to my stomach. It wasn’t so much that the report had revealed some grand detail. It was that the report revealed just how right his parents and so many others were to question the circumstances, and to feel as if so many who should have cared for Nolan, in life and in death, showed an utter disregard for another human being. That report — it’s chilling and unsettling ways that feel like the ghost of history haunting us again.

Civil rights attorney Benjamin Crump speaks at a news conference about the independent autopsy of Nolan Wells’ body

I often wonder about the cost of this bitter American feedback loop: a death occurs, a family asks questions, we speak up, the system drags its feet, conspiracies and bigotry abound, and the next news cycle renders the dead more invisible by the hour and us more exhausted. It just feels — and here I am listening to his father tell of what he won’t be able to do with his baby boy — that this moment is a kind of familiar nightmare. And I pray to God that this family gets the answers that they deserve and the love that they are showing even as they mourn by the second.

This morning, as I listened and my children played in the background, I know in my soul and in my gut that more must be done. We have to be freed from the deep spiritual bondage in this country that treats Black American life without a sense of empathy and urgency.

A few days ago, family and friends of Nolan had gathered at Center Pointe Church by the dozens. His mother and father wore a solemn black — his father’s shades concealing the heartbreak in his eyes; his mother wearing a blue ribbon with Nolan’s smiling face on it. For all the words that were shared, it seemed that gratitude, even in the midst of mourning, was the lasting feeling.

As his mother stood at the pulpit, covered by the warm arms of her husband, again she told the world a little of her baby. “We will miss everything about him,” his mother said, holding the mic in her right hand, shaking her head side to side. He told his parents that he wanted to have three daughters one day, she says, and that he would name them Sophia, Charlotte, and Olivia.

Nolan Wells’ mother Christine Wonsley speaks at the podium during the memorial service, accompanied by her husband Elmore, attorney Ben Crump, and Rev. Al Sharpton

He had a deep love for the Lord and an unwavering faith, she says. We will miss everything about him, she says, from his quiet nature to his corny jokes to, his gentle smile. She pauses, looking in the direction of the casket. “Nolan,” she says, “your father and I are proud of you… In a world that feels so dark, be like Nolan.”

She pleads: “Love deeply. Protect fiercely. Welcome others with kindness. Keep Nolan’s memory alive. Hold him close in your hearts. Share his stories. And never stop saying his name.”

As I write these words, I can’t help but feel sad and angry at the same time. That another Black child is gone before their time. That there are so many questions. That it feels that justice is elusive and, while the answers are awaited on the horizon, the grief is all the same. That these parents have to bury their baby boy and are left with memories and unknown futures that could have been.

I am sad and angry that it feels that the news cycle has moved on. That we are so overwhelmed by the exhaustion of this country that we struggle to think — even more to feel. That we are so used to the death and dying of young black people that it feels like just another day in America.

I am sad that it feels Nolan’s name and memory is sometimes only a pawn in the hands of others. While so many are arguing this and that, his family and friends are crying, wishing they could get one more day with him, could hear his corny jokes and see his gentle smile and feel his warm and protective presence.

I am sad that just a few days before his family laid him to rest, someone sent his family hate mail. It is hard enough to already have to publicly grieve and fight for your child. For someone to make that grieving and fighting even harder is evil. For this, I want to say, especially to the family: “We are sorry, we are here for you, this should not be so, you deserve peace and care, you do not deserve mockery and cruelty.”

Nolan Wells with his parents

Just a few days ago, I drove over to Ocean Springs. First I went by Greyhound Stadium where he caught touchdowns, and then to Freedom field where he would train with friends, until I arrived at Martin Luther King Jr. Park, where a basketball court reads in black spray-painted letters: NOLAN WELLS. He used to play there from time to time, and I met a few of the people who knew him. One friend in particular left such an indelible mark on me. We talked as we watched players on the court. He didn’t speak simply of pain or confusion, but of Nolan’s memory and impact. “Nolan was just different,” he said.

As the game went on, the sun began to set and a blueish orange washed over the sky. The crickets sang their invisible song around us. I imagined Nolan playing and doing his thing. I imagined Nolan, as they said, “jumping out of the gym.”

“Nolan would have messed you up,” one of his friends said, after I told him about my own football days. “Nah, I don’t know about that,” I said.

This kid was a star. His family and friends, like so much of this community, are left with so much sadness and so many unanswered questions as they say their final goodbyes. They said they’re determined to keep his name and memory alive.

“Nolan’s life matters,” they shouted at the funeral. “Nolan’s life matters!” “Nolan’s life matters!”

And it does.

I will say this again and again, and for as many times as we need to hear it: Nolan Xavier Wells’s life matters, and he deserves to still be here.