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One day I will never forget was a defining moment in my journalism career. As part of my new beat covering neighborhoods, I had driven to a house in northeast Flint where a family had been evicted. When I arrived, I found three black children standing on the sidewalk next to their belongings. None appeared to be older than 6. In my friendliest auntie voice, I asked if their mother was around. One little girl shook her head. She seemed to take to me. The other two stood mute. I asked another question. The little girl answered shyly. I don’t recall the question I asked next, but it drew an almost violent response from a boy who appeared to be the oldest. “Flint Journal,” he hissed at his sister to silence her as she started to answer. The frightened girl looked stricken but obeyed him. End of story. I drove away upset, not because I didn’t get the story, but because the exchange with those children showed me what an uphill challenge I faced on my new beat. Then-Journal editor Ray Stephens created the neighborhoods beat circa 1982 because he wanted to improve the Journal’s coverage of urban issues. But he told me privately that what he really wanted to do was improve The Journal’s relationship with the black community. I used to fondly refer to it as the chicken dinner beat because that’s how I went about it. Neighborhood groups still were very active back then. They regularly held meetings where food was served. I’d show up for even the most mediocre of events and got to know the people over a plate of soul food. I made a lot of friends and, as a result, a lot of solid contacts. By the time I left the beat in 1990, I had contacts in just about every neighborhood in the city. To this day, some of them still call me first with news tips. I’ll admit it. I’m proud of that because it means I’ve overcome a lot of the distrust like that expressed by a little boy who didn’t seem old enough to think the newspaper was his enemy. I’m still working to change that. Like the old saying about greatness, it is a role that was thrust upon me. As a black journalist, I have to wear two hats, to try to walk the fine line that makes me part of the solution rather than the media coverage problem. I need only to look at the 40-plus plaques and certificates lining the walls in my home to know that I have succeeded to some degree. Regular calls and e-mails also give me a much-appreciated pat on the back. Whether I like it or not, especially as a columnist, I feel a responsibility to be a spokesperson for African-American interests. I have worked for The Journal longer than any other African-American journalist. In 21 years, I’ve counted fewer than 21 African-American journalists working here, despite an almost total staff turnover. Our small presence remains a doubly vital one. Thankfully, there have been many days when I got to be a journalist first. As a suburban reporter, I traveled a lot of back roads and met many folksy characters. On the neighborhoods beat, I covered many evictions, drug and abandoned house complaints, beautification and urban gardening projects, crime watches and more. A highlight on the fashion beat was traveling to New York, Chicago and twice to Florida in the dead of winter. I’ve interviewed famous folks including Lou Rawls, national broadcast newsman Max Robinson, Martin Luther King III and candidates for state governor. All told it’s been an interesting 21 years filled with as many triumphs as disappointments. Not the end of story.
Rhonda S. Sanders is a Journal columnist and features reporter. She can be reached at (810) 766-6374 or rsanders@ flintjournal. com. 
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