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Let me be honest with you: I’ve never been to Tulsa. In fact, for most of my life, I only vaguely knew it existed, tucked somewhere between “flyover country” and a mental image of flatlands and gas stations. It didn’t seem like the kind of place you book a trip to on purpose. You went there, maybe, because your cousin lived there. Or because your flight got rerouted.

But lately? Tulsa has been popping up in places it has no business being. Forbes. Architectural Digest. TikTok.

Apparently, this mid-sized city in northeastern Oklahoma is doing something wild: rebranding itself—not with flashy stunts or overpriced branding consultants, but with deep restoration, bold investment, and a kind of quiet confidence that’s frankly, kind of attractive.

So I did what any curious writer-slash-urban voyeur would do: I dove deep into Tulsa’s transformation story. And let me tell you: this isn’t just a city polishing its image. It’s a full-blown identity glow-up—and the world might want to pay attention.

Once Upon a Time in Tulsa

To understand Tulsa’s rebrand, you have to understand its past—which is complex, rich, painful, and resilient.

At the turn of the 20th century, Tulsa was booming thanks to oil. They called it the “Oil Capital of the World,” and for a while, it lived up to that name. The money flowed, Art Deco buildings rose, and there was a palpable swagger in the air. But like many cities built on extraction and industry, Tulsa’s glory days faded. Economic dips, population decline, and a general “meh” reputation settled in like an uninvited houseguest.

And of course, any honest account of Tulsa must acknowledge the horrific 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre—a brutal, state-enabled attack that destroyed the thriving Black community of Greenwood, known as “Black Wall Street.” For decades, that history was buried, overlooked, or sanitized in local narratives.

But in recent years, Tulsa has begun doing something radical for a city in America: telling the truth about itself. And that’s where the rebrand begins—not with slick slogans, but with sincerity.

A Rebrand That Starts With Reckoning

Tulsa isn’t trying to hide its past. It’s confronting it—and investing in how it tells the story.

The Greenwood Rising Black Wall Street History Center, which opened in 2021, is a high-tech, immersive museum that doesn’t sugarcoat the past. Instead, it invites visitors to bear witness, reflect, and engage. It’s part memorial, part living classroom—and it’s become a cornerstone of Tulsa’s new identity: honest, proud, and unafraid to wrestle with hard history.

Local leaders and community organizers have leaned into this work, not as an afterthought, but as a foundation. The city isn’t asking, “How do we make people think we’re cool?” It’s asking, “How do we become a place of integrity, opportunity, and imagination—for everyone?”

Honestly, that’s better than a rebrand. That’s a rebirth.

Weirdly Hip, Surprisingly Affordable, and (Maybe?) the New Austin

Now, let’s talk about Tulsa’s unexpected rise as a cool place to live. No one saw this coming—not even Tulsa.

A few years ago, the city made headlines for offering remote workers $10,000 to move there through a program called Tulsa Remote. What sounded at first like a PR gimmick quickly turned into a genius move. Thousands applied. People actually relocated. And those people brought with them laptops, ideas, businesses, and energy.

As remote work became more common, so did the appeal of a city where you can buy an actual house for less than the price of a parking spot in Brooklyn. It wasn’t just the money. It was the vibe.

Because here’s the thing: Tulsa isn’t trying to be New York. Or LA. Or even Austin. It’s carving out its own identity—one that’s slower, friendlier, and shockingly full of art, food, and culture.

There’s Magic City Books, an independent bookstore that feels like the living room of a very literate friend. There’s Mother Road Market, a sprawling food hall where you can eat Venezuelan arepas, gourmet grilled cheese, and top-tier ramen all under one roof.

And then there’s Gathering Place—a $465 million (!!) riverfront park that looks like the designers asked, “What if a city park… but also a utopia?” It’s part playground, part sculpture garden, part architectural wonderland. If Central Park and Disneyland had a baby raised by eco-conscious millennials, it would be this.

A City That Supports Creators, Not Just Courts Them

One of the most compelling things about Tulsa’s rebrand is how deeply it invests in the creative class—not in a performative way, but in a boots-on-the-ground, build-a-community way.

Take Residency Art Gallery, a Black-owned contemporary art space committed to representing underrepresented artists. Or Living Arts of Tulsa, which has been hosting experimental and community-based art projects since the ’60s.

There’s also the Tulsa Artist Fellowship, which provides housing, studio space, and funding to artists, writers, and thinkers. Imagine being paid to live and create in a city that actually wants you there. Not wants you for your clout—wants you for your vision.

And it’s not just artists. Tulsa is becoming a hub for musicians, chefs, makers, and entrepreneurs who’ve been priced out of bigger cities and are looking for a place where they can actually build a life—not just a personal brand.

Okay, But What’s the Catch?

Look, no city is perfect. Tulsa still has challenges—economic disparity, racial inequity, and the kind of growing pains that come with any reinvention. Some longtime residents are wary of gentrification. Others are concerned about how inclusive the city’s new shine really is.

And that’s valid. A true rebrand doesn’t just focus on attracting outsiders. It has to work for the people who’ve always been there. Tulsa’s leadership seems to understand that—but the work is ongoing, and accountability matters more than aesthetic.

Still, there’s something refreshing about a city that’s not trying to pretend it’s always been cool. Tulsa’s not slick. It’s sincere. It’s not flawless. It’s trying. And in a culture that rewards polish over process, that’s deeply compelling.

What Tulsa Teaches Us About Rebranding Cities

There are plenty of cities trying to rebrand themselves these days. Post-industrial towns, sleepy suburbs, forgotten downtowns—all looking for ways to be relevant in a fast-moving, post-pandemic, hybrid-work world.

Most go for the flashy route: big ad campaigns, tech conferences, a wine bar with Edison bulbs.

But Tulsa’s doing something different. It’s not just asking, “How do we look better?” It’s asking, “How do we be better?”

That’s the future of city branding: authenticity, restoration, and inclusion. Not to make the city seem perfect, but to make it worth caring about—whether you live there, move there, or just visit and eat way too much barbecue.

So… Should I Go?

Honestly? Yes. Even if just to say you did.

Go to Antoinette Baking Co. and order whatever seasonal pie they’re pushing like it’s gospel. Walk through Greenwoodand let your heart feel all the things it needs to. Grab a drink at The Saturn Room, a tiki bar that’s oddly fantastic in landlocked Oklahoma. Talk to locals. Ask questions. Sit in the park. Buy a weird souvenir.

And maybe, for a moment, think about all the cities you’ve written off. Because if Tulsa’s transformation teaches us anything, it’s that every place has a story—and the ones that own their narrative have the most exciting chapters ahead.