Ten years ago, a 20-year-old Connecticut woman named Alyssiah Wiley got picked up from her college campus on a Saturday night. She never came back. Nearly a month later, her remains were found in a nearby woods.
News coverage notes the discovery of her body in 2013 and the murder conviction of her estranged boyfriend five years later. More recent articles showcase Wiley’s character and unlimited potential.
What you won’t find in these stories, however, is a salient and devastating point: an alleged two-week gap between Wiley’s disappearance and the involvement of the local police department. Her grandmother told one of us, who also attended a vigil in her remembrance, about the gap.
If this is the case, without those delays, we might be talking about Wiley in the present tense rather than the past tense.
Her story is one example of the sweeping epidemic of Black women and girls who go missing in the United States — many of whom wind up dead — and the policymakers and media outlets that often turn a blind eye to the crisis. As researchers with the Johns Hopkins Schools of Nursing and Public Health, respectively, we are deeply alarmed by the statistics. As Black women, we mourn with families who have suffered unimaginable loss and fear for those in our community who may be next. And as Americans, we urge long overdue and critically important steps that our leaders must take immediately to fix what is so obviously broken.
No family — regardless of where they live or what they look like — should ever have to experience the dread of a loved one’s disappearance or the worst-case scenario of never seeing that person again. But the data show that Black families experience a disproportionate share of these enormously heavy burdens. Black people represent 13 percent of the U.S. population yet account for more than 33 percent of the nearly 550,000 people who were reported missing in our country in 2022. It is a similar story for Black women: only 7 percent of the population yet nearly 20 percent of all missing persons cases.
Compounding these disturbing figures is that while the aggregate numbers are high, the amount of attention they receive is often low. When it comes to missing persons, time is of the essence. A quicker response can make the difference between life and death, and news stories play a crucial role in raising awareness among law enforcement and the surrounding community. However, research shows that Black women and girls who go missing receive significantly less media attention compared to white women and girls; consequently, missing cases among Black women remain open for far longer, lowering the odds of a successful outcome.
These discrepancies are the result of a complex web of structural racism, discrimination and violence that make it harder to prevent Black women and girls from going missing in the first place or bringing them back alive when it does happen. Black children who have gone missing are often classified as runaways, which limits a law enforcement response and can lead to vilification or outright dismissal of affected families. More than 40 percent of Black women have experienced intimate partner violence in their lifetimes; our research shows the particular ramifications of intimate partner violence on Black women. And the consequences can be deadly: Black women are nearly three times as likely than white women to be killed by an intimate partner.
Unfortunately, this epidemic touches many others, including Indigenous women. We are learning from Indigenous movements and are honored to follow in the footsteps of trailblazers who have successfully codified legislative solutions that address the issue of missing and murdered women by disrupting the violent systems that attempt to erase us.
Earlier this year, Minnesota became the first state to create an Office of Missing and Murdered African American Women and Girls, which will receive state funding to help solve open and cold missing persons cases among Black women and girls. The new office was a recommendation of a state-level task force charged with investigating the issue; similar task forces are actively operating in Illinois and Wisconsin. A California bill to create an “Ebony Alert” notification system to help investigate the whereabouts of missing Black girls and women between the ages of 12 and 25 is awaiting the governor’s signature.
The federal government needs to assert leadership as well. The Brittany Clardy Act would create the Office for Missing and Murdered Black Women and Girls within the Department of Justice. Modeled after Minnesota’s law, the new office would serve as a central repository to track cases, develop evidence-based practices and policy recommendations and provide grants to community organizations to support victims and their families. The bipartisan Protect Black Women and Girls Act would create an interagency task force to examine the underlying inequities — such as lower incomes and fewer healthcare options — that fuel health and economic disparities and disproportionate levels of violence faced by Black women and girls in the United States. Both bills deserve swift passage.
In advocating for these changes, we are also thinking of Carmen Bell, daughter of one of one of our sorority sisters. Like Wiley, Bell was the light of her family’s life. Also like Wiley, her disappearance has not received the urgency it deserves.
Carmen has been missing for two years after being targeted online as a minor, according to her family. They believe she may have been trafficked across state lines from Texas to potentially Michigan, based on information collected by them to date. But if you’re looking for a news story about the case, you won’t find one — there aren’t any despite efforts by the family to draw attention to Bell’s disappearance. We can no longer accept that Bell and so many other Black women and girls are nameless and faceless victims.
As a nation, we must say, “Enough.” Policymakers must step up to finally protect Black women and girls. Their lives matter. Their safety and dignity are paramount. And they deserve to grow up in a country that provides them with every opportunity to enjoy long, healthy and happy lives.
Kamila A. Alexander, Ph.D., a nurse, is an associate professor at the Johns Hopkins School of Nursing. Tiara C. Willie, Ph.D., M.A., a social epidemiologist, is a Bloomberg assistant professor of American Health at the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Johns Hopkins University or the Johns Hopkins Health System.