On March 28, the executive committee of the Boulder NAACP branch announced that it was dissolving. The message landed as both unexpected and, in some ways, inevitable. Tensions between the branch, city officials, and the police department had been building for years, culminating in disputes that left many relationships strained. While some community members were aware of ongoing disagreements, few anticipated the abrupt shuttering of the organization. 

In recent years, the City of Boulder has taken visible steps to align itself with marginalized communities, including the creation of a racial equity department and the launch of a “Reimagine Policing” initiative. Despite these efforts, the city now finds itself navigating a rupture with one of its most prominent civil rights organizations. The breakdown raises difficult questions: What went wrong? And how did efforts at collaboration give way to mutual distrust? 

Adding to the confusion was the way the local NAACP branch made its announcement, with no clear coordination or communication with state or national leadership. Within days, higher-level NAACP officials entered the public conversation to push back. In a March 31 Instagram Live, Colorado NAACP President Portia Prescott stated, “We have a Boulder branch that actually is thriving,” and emphasized that “the only body with authority to dissolve a chapter is the national board.” The public contradiction left many uncertain about the branch’s status and marked a rare instance of open disagreement between local and national leadership.

What is clear is that, within a matter of days, Boulder’s NAACP went from being a key player in the city’s civic landscape to being at odds with both the local government and the national organization. Through exclusive interviews, Yellow Scene Magazine is unpacking what led to this breakdown and what’s at stake for the community moving forward.

The Shadow of Elijah McClain

Any effort to understand this conflict must begin with the legacy of Elijah McClain.

In 2019, McClain died after being violently detained by Aurora police and injected with ketamine by paramedics. The incident sparked national outrage and led to lawsuits, criminal charges, and renewed demands for police reform.

At the time, Stephen Redfearn was a captain in the Aurora Police Department. Although he was not involved in the physical confrontation that led to Elijah McClain’s death, he was present during its aftermath and played a role in the administrative decisions that followed. Among those actions was the reclassification of the incident report—from “suspicious person” to “assault on officer.” While the change drew little attention at the time, it would become a focal point of controversy years later.

In October 2024, the Boulder NAACP published a press release criticizing City Manager Nuria Rivera-Vandermyde’s decision to promote Redfearn to Chief of Police. They described his alteration of the call log as tantamount to a “cover-up” and emphasized his connection to the McClain case:

“He was the Nightshift Duty Commander overseeing the officers responsible for Elijah McClain’s death, as well as the leader of a brutal assault with chemical weapons against violin vigil participants honoring Elijah McClain’s memory.”

By that point, Redfearn had served three years in Boulder and had acted as interim chief. To city officials, he was a seasoned candidate with local experience, and they continued to support him despite the criticism. Redfearn defended his reclassification of the logs as a procedural decision made after speaking with the officers involved in the incident. According to him, the change aligned with department policy. But to members of the Boulder NAACP, it reflected a deeper cultural concern: a willingness to adjust official records in ways that could obscure or minimize misconduct.

Their concern extended beyond a single form or call log. Redfearn’s tenure in a department with a well-documented history of excessive force raised broader questions about the values and priorities he might bring to leadership. For the Boulder NAACP, this was not just a matter of personnel. It was a matter of trust, transparency, and the kind of leadership the city was choosing to endorse.

The Meeting That Changed Everything

In July 2024, before the press release, Boulder’s NAACP hosted a public town hall on criminal justice, where they publicly discussed their concerns about Redfearn. City officials responded by proposing a private mediated conversation to repair trust and build a collaborative relationship.

It didn’t go as planned.

According to those present, what began as a cautious conversation quickly unraveled after Redfearn commented on the NAACP president’s facial expression. She pushed back, asserting her right to respond and process information in whatever way came naturally. Other members jumped in, calling the comment a form of hyper-surveillance and an example of racial policing in interpersonal spaces.

The exchange derailed the meeting. Criminal Justice Chair Darren O’Connor, who attended, later described Redfearn’s reaction: “It seemed like Redfearn lost it and refused to talk for a while. A mediator actually told him, ‘This is the kind of thing that gets people killed.’”

In the aftermath, NAACP members left the meeting convinced Redfearn lacked the temperament and perspective to lead. Redfearn, by contrast, was reportedly frustrated and blindsided by the confrontation.

The Fallout

Unbeknownst to city officials, a member of the NAACP had recorded the meeting. Shortly after, the group informed the city: if Redfearn was promoted, they would consider releasing the video. To the NAACP, this was a matter of accountability. They felt a responsibility to the community to release evidence they believed demonstrated that Redfearn was unfit to act as the Chief of Police. However, the city viewed the move as an underhanded threat to use a private conversation as leverage. What began as a chance to rebuild trust now appeared, to some officials, as bad faith.

From that point forward, collaboration gave way to confrontation. City leaders began referring to the Boulder NAACP as uncooperative and untrustworthy—no longer a partner but a problem.

In a public statement, city manager Rivera-Vandermyde wrote:

“What I cannot tolerate is unethical behavior by people who purport to stand for progressive community values but then act in intentional ways that break trust, undermine public processes, and distract us from our collective mission.”

The NAACP did not back down. In an interview with the Denver Post,  O’Connor responded:

“It’s very troubling that the city manager is more upset that we recorded her than about what her now-selected police chief had to say. She’s more worried about the fact we’re sharing that information than about what she heard, which was disqualifying.”

In the weeks that followed, Rivera-Vandermyde would file a formal complaint with national NAACP leadership. As a result, the Boulder branch was required to submit all public communications for pre-approval to avoid what national leaders called “inflammatory or unsubstantiated rhetoric.” Local leaders rejected the characterization that their communications were unsubstantiated but agreed to comply. As national leadership became more hands-on, city officials allegedly became openly hostile.

Chief Redfearn allegedly made disparaging remarks about NAACP members and reportedly targeted O’Connor’s law license.

“He claimed I had gone to the media, that I was acting as an attorney, and that I was asserting privilege and confidentiality about who recorded the meeting—or whether I did it myself,” O’Connor told Yellow Scene. “He provided a link to a completely unrelated article from two years ago,[…] where I wasn’t mentioned at all. […] He submitted that as proof to get my bar license revoked or sanctioned.”

He continued:

“He may have done it willfully and maliciously to try and get my life taken away […] in retaliation for our First Amendment activities.”

O’Connor also recounted a separate incident in which Redfearn reportedly told others he had flipped him off at a candidate forum, an accusation he said he only heard secondhand but came across to him as needlessly petty and directed. Both incidents pushed O’Connor to file complaints with the city manager. Both, he said, were dismissed as unactionable.

To the NAACP members, these attempts to undermine his legal standing were more than personal. They represented a dangerous trend: the normalization of silencing dissent not through dialogue but through institutional retaliation. 

NAACP President Annett James told Yellow Scene, 

“We were systematically undermined by city officials. I think that’s what we want our community to understand. […] This community just does not allow one to disagree and have that discussion in the public sphere.”

In the weeks following the failed mediation, the situation only continued to unravel. Darren O’Connor was suspended by national leadership after publishing an op-ed criticizing the city’s policing transparency dashboard. The official reason: the piece was not cleared by the national office and was considered “inflammatory and unsubstantiated.”

O’Connor disagreed with that characterization.

“You know, I had listened directly to Redfearn,” he told Yellow Scene. “What I wrote about was true. And I think the NAACP had just decided that, despite them saying the restrictions were narrow, pretty much anything we were going to put out was going to be flagged.”

O’Connor, President James, and VP Jude Landsman all said the national restrictions went far beyond avoiding defamation. To them, it felt like silencing.

Following O’Connor’s suspension, the Boulder branch entered a series of tense meetings with national leadership. According to members, the message was unmistakable: the national office had no intention of supporting the Boulder branch in its fight for transparency or in defending it against retaliation from the city.

“Everyone was completely dismayed and in disbelief,”  said President James. 

“ think that it was the straw that led the Executive Committee of the NAACP, the county branch, to see for themselves that basically, we had no rights, no opportunity to express ourselves. […] There was just no due process.”

No one from the national office, members said, reached out to hear Boulder’s side.

“There was absolutely zero effort to say, ‘Okay, what’s going on in Boulder? Tell us what happened.’ There was nothing.”

Instead of mediating or cooling tensions, the national office seemed focused solely on controlling the branch’s messaging. In the aforementioned Instagram Live session, Prescott dismissed news of the Boulder branch’s possible dissolution as “fake news.” The legal or administrative questions surrounding the branch’s future were arguably less urgent than the pragmatic ones: Why wasn’t the national NAACP standing up for its local leaders, and what guidance did it have for the community?

The Boulder branch told Yellow Scene they felt the national office had been weaponized by the city to paint them as uncredible and unruly. They argued that the assertion of control from above failed to grasp that the decision to dissolve came not just from pressure but from disillusionment. After meeting after meeting with national leadership, it became clear there was no real support system in place, no path forward where their advocacy would be protected.

The NAACP is an organization that has experienced growing pains as it transitions into the modern era. Reports of declining membership and struggles to remain relevant have plagued it in recent years. Likewise, past issues with local coordination and support have led to public and destructive episodes similar to what we’re now seeing in Boulder. In 2013, NAACP members in Connecticut criticized national leadership for caring more about “brand names and fundraising” than about the health of its local chapters. That comment followed a series of branch seizures, forced resignations, and restructurings—many of which, critics argued, could have been avoided with proper support.

As recently as last May, D.C. broadcaster Roland Martin interviewed half a dozen former NAACP local leaders, each describing their own experiences with what they saw as mistreatment and villainization by the national office.

Former NAACP president Betty Williams recalled:

“My branch was threatened. […] If they said anything in support of me, the entire branch would be shut down. So there are these bully tactics meant to silence people.”

These stories don’t amount to bulletproof evidence of wrongdoing, but they do offer context. They position Boulder’s experience not as an isolated incident but as part of a pattern of national leadership failing to lead and protect its grassroots advocates.

Are Boulder branch members beyond critique? Of course not. At times, they may have overplayed their hand, and the decision to record and later threaten to release footage of the mediated conversation warrants scrutiny. But that’s not the full story. So far, little attention has been paid to how leadership at both the city and national level contributed to the escalation and, ultimately, the implosion of this conflict. 

National leadership offered little in the way of guidance, focusing instead on punitive measures. They seemed uninterested in the specifics of the branch’s concerns about Redfearn or transparency in community policing. The city, meanwhile, allegedly responded to dissent with retaliation verbal harassment, threats against legal licenses, and what branch members described as a concerted attempt to delegitimize them entirely. These incidents were brought to the city’s attention and brushed off as unactionable.

City Manager Nuria Vandermyde has said it was never the city’s desire to see the branch close. But intentions aside, it’s hard to ignore the throughline between the city’s actions and the current situation. When it became clear that the branch would not be easily controlled, both the city and national office took steps that, intentionally or not, undermined the branch’s ability to function.

This is the crux of why Boulder leaders told Yellow Scene they felt dissolution was necessary. They feared the city’s endgame was to turn them into a symbolic entity, something that bore the name of the NAACP but had none of the autonomy or power to challenge real systems of harm. Given the city’s hostility and the national office’s dismissiveness, it’s hard not to see where that concern came from.

What’s Been Lost

Amid the political battle between the city, the local branch, and the national office, the biggest loss may be to the community itself.

The Boulder NAACP organized voter registration drives, legal aid workshops, and educational forums. In a political climate where DEI efforts are increasingly under attack, the collapse of a local civil rights institution leaves a visible and painful gap. Beyond their political advocacy, the branch hosted annual Freedom Fund celebrations, supported Black-owned businesses, and threw graduation parties for Black students. They were more than just activists—they were community builders.

Still, President James and her peers insist their work is far from finished.

“We’re not quitting,” she said. “We intend to continue, with or without the NAACP name.”

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The post Inside the Collapse of Boulder NAACP appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.