WE’RE A SUPPORT SYSTEM FOR STUDENTS AND FOR US

I am a Black journalist.

For 32 years, I’ve been involved in some sort of journalism endeavor — be it a reporter, copy editor, TV news producer or adjunct professor at multiple colleges.

I stand on the shoulder of a group of free Black men who founded Freedom’s Journal, the first Black-owned and operated newspaper in the country, first published in 1827 by Samuel E. Cornish and John B. Russwurm.

Then, in 1975, a group of 44 men and women gathered in Washington, D.C., to form the National Association of Black Journalists. The group is the largest and oldest group for journalists of color in the U.S.

I’ve been a proud member of the group since the mid-1990s and, when I moved to San Diego from South Carolina in 1999, I founded a chapter called the San Diego Association of Black Journalists.

The reason I founded the group is simple: It’s hard being Black in a newsroom. Period.

First of all, you have to prove you belong there. I cannot tell you the number of times my work ethic has been questioned in my three decades in this career. Plus, there are the microaggressions — “Wow, you knew that?” or “You’re pretty smart for a Black guy.”

Second, you have to work twice as hard to get half the respect of other co-workers. I’ve worked my butt off in every newsroom I was employed in, and yet I was overlooked when it came to promotions, pay increases and just general respect. Managers would always say so-and-so was a better fit for what they were looking for.

Third, usually, I was one of a few. My running joke was that all of the Black people at the newspapers where I worked could fit in a small car, and we would still have room for three more. Managers would say they couldn’t find any qualified Black people for the openings they had.

To survive this long in this business takes a will of steel. And there were times I just wanted to walk away.

The lowest I ever felt was when I worked in a newsroom in another state. I was a manager there, and when I got hired, I learned I was the first Black manager in that newsroom ever. That was a huge burden to bear. After a few days, I knew I had made a mistake. My employees were openly hostile to me. I got more support from management.

Some even called me the N-word to my face, and, when I complained, I was told to “toughen up.”

I still have post-traumatic stress disorder from working there. Just mentioning the name of the city causes me to stiffen up and even have nightmares.

It’s reasons like this I formed SDABJ on Feb. 1, 2000. I wanted to create a support system for Black journalists in our area. In addition, I wanted to create a group that would support the next generation of journalists. I’m proud to say we accomplished both in the 23 years we’ve been in existence. We’ve given more than 70 scholarships to deserving students, so they can go on with their education in communications and journalism. And we have given these scholarships to students of all races, not just to Black students.

It makes me proud that we’ve come together to make some students’ dreams come true. It also makes me proud that pouring so much of our blood, sweat and tears into this group was all worth it.

SDABJ is family. We have laughed together, cried together, fought racism together and even healed from our traumas together. The stories we’ve shared would shock you. Or maybe they wouldn’t. But SDABJ is also a safe haven for Black journalists where we can be ourselves. In addition, we workshop problems and issues people may have. Because we’ve been around more than two decades, we have earned the respect of all of the newsrooms in San Diego County.

And for that, I am proud to be a Black journalist.

It’s hard being Black in a newsroom. I cannot tell you the number of times my work ethic has been questioned over the last three decades. Plus, there are the microaggressions — “Wow, you knew that?” or “You’re pretty smart for a Black guy.”