I Will Not Fear

by Melba Pattillo Beals

  Soon, some of the other women (there were three working in San Francisco at the time) thanked me for what I had done because it elevated their status as reporters. We women reporters sometimes met over weekend lunch to discuss how much we disliked the fluffy assignments and what measures we might take. Indeed, patience was our tool, while we worked hard to practice and improve our reporting skills. I became known as a cowgirl because I could ride with the cowboys, covering such stories as Chinatown gangs, Patty Hearst, and the Zebra murders.

  From then on, my concern about battling racism and sexism was added to the daily dynamic and stressful grind of reporting the news. It was a fast-paced mix of emotion in response to human suffering and sometimes hopeless situations. For example, there was the morning I was called to a scene where an eight-year-old had been crushed beneath the wheels of a streetcar, and his mother stood by waiting for him to be removed. She was inconsolable, and I felt I should help her in some way. Nevertheless, I had to move on to cover a Berkeley University student march.

  I was conflicted. “Is this routine of rushing through tragic events making me callous?” I asked myself. At first, I was angry, asking God, “Why me?” I had to pray my way into peace, hoping I could redefine my role. What was I here for? What must I do? What did God expect of me? Where did I belong as an African American? And would I ever be able to live without racism, or would I always have to struggle to experience a modicum of equality?

  Being a news reporter and a single parent also often caused conflict in the use of my time. Working as a reporter requires one to be available at all hours of the day or night. Take, for example, the Patty Hearst/SLA kidnap incident on February 4, 1974. NBC News called me out of bed at midnight to cover the story. I had to drop off my daughter, wrapped up in a blanket, at the next-door neighbor’s house. I was on duty covering that story for the next twenty-four hours.

  Over the years, as I proved my strength and determination, I was assigned to follow many hard-core crime cases and, indeed, became one of the station’s female experts. I refused to be assigned to grocery store prices and embroidery stories, like some assignments editors still doled out to women. I complained and dug hard for the real stories. I returned to school to study law one night a week.

  Finally, I was covering the story of San Francisco’s famous “Zebras,” a group of Black Muslims who rampaged through the city, shooting citizens at random. The entire city of San Francisco panicked during the horrifying months that people were killed for no reason. I could not forget details of each victim’s death. In addition to following the police hunt for the criminals, I covered the trial for more than a year. By the end, I had exacerbated my nerves, sitting in court six hours a day. I was exhausted of crime.

  Being a news cowgirl meant a hectic schedule that was uncomfortable for me and my twelve-year-old daughter. One day, I was introducing a story live on the air when, to my surprise, the camera stopped filming at a time other than when the script read “Commercial Break.” The director walked to my desk with a fearful expression and said, “Beals, you better take this crazy phone call. It sounds urgent. I will cover you for sixty seconds with a commercial.”

  My heart pounded. He would never make such a move except in an emergency situation.

  “I got your daughter,” the voice growled on the other end. “That will be one million dollars if you ever want to see her again!”

  Fighting back tears, I looked at the producer. The director started the countdown to resume the broadcast. As a professional, I had no choice but to blink back my tears and complete the newscast. I quickly telephoned a male friend and asked that he find Kellie and bring her to me. I completed the broadcast, and the phone call came that my friend had found my daughter. I left work, packed her bag, and sent her off to the Russian River to stay with friends until I could assure her safety with me.

  I began facing the prospect of giving up a great paycheck and looking for something different, something calm and safe for my Kellie and me. The joy of the newscaster job was that it was like a primer, an encyclopedia of life, and every day I learned something new. It revealed so much about other cultures and what it meant to be wealthy, powerful, and content. I became an observer, taking in the information as fast as I could and yearning to know more about places I’d never been and things I’d never done. There was a huge part of me that regretted giving it all up. The other part of me knew that if I didn’t leave, I wouldn’t be Melba. I would lose myself and Kellie in pursuit of that job. Therefore, I submitted my resignation to my boss, who urged me to rethink my decision.

  Suddenly, I found myself without a job. My mother repeated to me by phone what Grandmother had always said: “You do not work for individuals; you work for God. Pray hard and figure out what your Creator wants you to do now.”

  Six months passed. I was spending my savings at a nerve-racking rate, even though I was enjoying my time of mothering my daughter and taking a deep breath. A friend invited me to attend one of the city’s socialite roundtable lunches at which controversial topics were discussed. It was an intellectual think tank.

  Seated beside me at a table for twenty dignitaries was the San Francisco bureau chief of People magazine. She asked if I would like to write a story for People. That was the beginning of a career in magazine writing.

  For a time, writing for magazines was successful. More than anything, it gave me time to be a mom to Kellie and provided the kind of income that sustained us in our home. Here again, I found myself in territory uncharted by African American reporters. I was assigned to write several stories on rock-and-roll groups—that is, Journey, the Grateful Dead, the Eagles, and Eddie Money. This period in my life was lots of fun but also full of peril. Stars could not believe their eyes when I identified myself as the magazine reporter critiquing their music.

  Because most of these groups had not been exposed to black writers during the ’70s and ’80s, I often had to jump through hoops and overlook insults in order to get them to take me seriously. I told myself I could open doors for those who followed. I prayed for God to help me, and each time I was successful. Not only did I get a story and get paid for the job, but I also built a reputation that would support other people of color who would come after me. I always left behind one message: “Yes, some African Americans do play your music. I do. So beware of your words and performances.”

  Like my news reporting career, magazine writing taught me much about society, business, entertainment, and economic how-tos, which led me to my idea of opening a public relations business.

  Public relations is the flip side of news reporting. I used my writing skills to provide information meant to garner publicity for clients, such as nonprofits seeking to raise money or new businesses looking for customers. Writing for magazines and the public relations business required a lot of adjustment. I had to develop faith that even though I could not always see a job and security in the immediate future, they were there. There was always a next client, another magazine needing a new story. Patience and discipline were the keys to survival.

  Meanwhile, Kellie was growing up fast and enjoying having a mom who could spend more time with her and still earn a living. I realized she would soon be leaving for college and on her own. I was grateful to have this time with her. I was especially anxious when she skipped a school grade and was two years younger than most in her classroom.

  However, I began experiencing feelings of insecurity each day, as though I were suspended at the edge of a cliff, peering over. I was afraid I could not help myself nor count on God to do so. I clung to my church, read my Bible, and began a series of spiritual study classes.

  I found I had to be steadfastly loyal to my Bible and my church. With the uncertainty of my work life, I needed to feel close to God every moment of the day. I was in a place I had never imagined, but it felt as though I was in a place I ought to be.

  I began a process of building a set of habits that shut out distractions like phone calls from housewife frie
nds who assumed, because it was the middle of the day, I could chitchat. I was compelled to set up rigid routines in my life—priorities that yielded clients and opportunities for writing. I had to build faith in God as my employer. I remained self-employed—an employee of God—for more than twenty years with the help of discipline and guided by faith in God and myself.

  I started to explore the idea of writing books at this time. This still took extraordinary discipline and trust that my writing was good enough to, in some way, serve God’s purpose and, at the same time, carry a message of interest to many people.

  I began a book about my early life. What a struggle, page after page, attempting to recall and record my feelings about growing up black in the South in the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s and my survival of the Central High firestorm and the transition to California. I could not know in the beginning that my faith and discipline over several years of life would result in Warriors Don’t Cry, a book that has sold more than a million copies and still sells today. Faith and trust practiced with patience worked for me in what I pray is a book that continues to serve God’s purpose.

  God is our employer, no matter who we see as our earthly boss. At all times we must be aware that we are serving God in our work. It is up to us to build trust and discipline to complete God’s tasks.

  Fourteen

  Serving Others and Serving God

  For many years, I had assumed my relationship with God was one-sided. If I prayed and controlled my behavior as best I could, God would answer my prayers, maybe not in the specific way I requested, but in the way He deemed best.

  However, as time passed I began to see that every day in every way God expected things of me. As I thought back, Grandmother had talked about it, and the Bible spoke of it. Now I gave more thought to what it meant to selfishly satisfy my own needs. What did God expect?

  One day, I was moving and desperately needed help. I had prayed about assistance with packing as I could not pay much. A friend told me she would have her son come to help. She would pay him because he could use some time with me. “You’re so spiritual,” she said, “so goody-two-shoes, so righteous. Maybe it will rub off.” He had been a troublesome teenager who worked hard at embarrassing her as she struggled to be a good single parent.

  Her son was a handsome sixteen-year-old who took instruction well. My friend had said he needed time with me because I had proven myself full of faith, but I wondered why. He began packing boxes with vigor and speed as we worked beside each other. I offered him snacks and a sandwich, and all was going well.

  Then he began to ask questions. “Do you believe in God? Do you believe there is some man out there in the clouds taking care of us?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, “not necessarily in the clouds, but there is always someone at our back, on our side. I wouldn’t be alive without God!”

  “Oh, you’re one of those people like my mama. You believe there’s some big angel on high making everything right. I don’t agree.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “there’s somebody there. There is also a part of that God right here inside you and me.”

  On and on he went through the afternoon with deep-seated questions about God. I realized as we talked that he was definitely at a turning point in his life, wondering what he should or shouldn’t do.

  He hinted he had friends who were not living a Christian life. He even spoke of selling drugs as being so much more lucrative than working at McDonald’s.

  “Yes, but if you work at McDonald’s, you can smile into your own face in the mirror and sleep soundly at night, right?”

  As we talked about right and wrong, selling guns, taking drugs, or being out of control, I realized he was opening his heart to me, asking things that really bothered him but things he couldn’t query his mother about.

  I also realized at that moment that God had decided while I needed this young man to pack and carry my boxes, perhaps he needed me more to transect the load of crucial decisions he faced. When he left, he thanked me for being nonjudgmental and sincere and for sharing my feelings with him. I had made him think and, hopefully, in a positive way.

  With every part of me, I knew I was meant to have him over at that moment because he needed me as much as I needed him. That was a God assignment to fulfill my obligation for my reciprocal agreement with God. I realized then that God always had moments when He called on me to do things for others as part of His plan. Up until this time, I had not recognized this aspect of my relationship with God.

  Prior to that day, I’d looked at my relationship with God like one with a genie. I asked God for His help assuming nothing would be required of me. That notion is far from the truth, and yet it is often where our egos take us. I want to believe that I am in charge and can summon the genie God to do my work with no expectation of return on my part. The more I explored the topic, the more I was shown it was a lie.

  I believe I am put into close proximity with certain people for a reason. It is not an accident. It is usually based on some God assignment to help each other to see the light on our paths.

  One example is when I had asked God to sustain me in my effort to become more disciplined in my writing and work to build a PR business. I promised God I would cut out my habit of watching soap operas and spend that time building my business so as to be able to serve my daughter at the highest level.

  On one particular afternoon while Kellie was at school, I was sitting in front of the TV in my yellow Queen Anne’s chair when a voice in my head kept saying to me, “Get up and get to work. You promised God you would write a book or an article to increase income.” After ten minutes of this nagging, I got up and climbed the stairs to my office. At that very moment, a bullet came through the window across the room and went directly into the headrest of the chair where I had been sitting. It punctured the precise space my head would have been had I remained sitting there.

  When the police arrived, they determined the gun was shot by the man who lived behind us doing target practice in his backyard. They told me that had I been sitting in that chair, I would be dead.

  From that time on, I remained more conscious of those times God was recruiting me for His purposes and tried to do my best to hear His call. Any time I needed additional motivation, I thought about the day that the police told me if I had not moved at the moment I did, keeping my agreement with God, I would be dead.

  Our relationship with God in faith is a two-way street—we cannot ask for help from Him without being available to render help when called upon.

  Fifteen

  God Meets Our Needs in Unexpected Ways

  Several verses of the Bible promise that those who have faith and obey the Word need not fret about their human needs. On many occasions, I have experienced the ever-presence of that promise to meet all my needs.

  Building a business from the ground up is a challenge that requires total trust that God is your employer. Armed with a book on public relations, stamps for fifty mailings, and the knowledge I had gained as a news reporter, I set out to build a business that would enable me to finance my daughter’s college degree.

  Public relations work entails promoting clients or products through electronic or print media in order to increase exposure. It is also used to sell an idea or philosophy to a targeted group of people. Both of these tasks, if well executed, will earn more money for clients or get them elected to the office they seek.

  There were times when my daughter and I had no disposable income and very few of the basics we needed to survive. Just before Labor Day, I completed a large PR project for a client that would net us two months of financial security. I looked forward to a healthy chunk of income. I’d earmarked some money for a movie and perhaps a burger at McDonald’s. I was anxious to receive the promised check in the mail, making several trips to the mailbox. This was Friday afternoon, and I needed to deposit the check before the banks closed for the long weekend. With each passing hour, my fear grew. The client had not kept his word. By 4:30,
I felt compelled to call their office and offer to pick up the check. The banks closed at 6:00, and after that I would be out of money for the entire three-day weekend.

  When I called, I was told by the secretary that the office was closed for the holiday weekend, and no one was there who could help me. I was panicked. Our cupboards were almost bare, and I had little cash for food. Kellie was old enough by then to discern a real problem. Above all else, I did not want her to feel insecure.

  I got on my knees and prayed. I reaffirmed my hope and trust that God was always with us and that, as always, I was working for Him. “You are my boss.” Prayer and trust did not reduce my anguish, however. I had a terrible fear I’d have to ask the church or friends for a meal. Thus far, my rule had been not to ask anybody for anything. I was self-sufficient, demonstrating God’s abundance to me. With each hour, I felt more distress. As the time approached for the banks to close, I felt near hysteria, repeating the 23rd Psalm aloud over and over.

  By 6:00, an hour beyond the time I had expected the check to arrive in the mail, I was brokenhearted and mulling over what to do next. The doorbell rang. When I answered the door, a distinguished, suited gentleman stood there.

  “Would you be interested in renting your garage?” he asked. “I see it’s empty.”

  “I hadn’t considered it, but it’s a possibility,” I said.

  “It’s at the side of the property, and I won’t be in and out,” he told me. “I would like to store my car and come by once a week to use it.”

  “Do you live around here?” I asked.

  “I’m Mrs. Cox’s son from next door. I just came to town to take a new job. I’m willing to pay $350 a month.”