Belva Davis Showed Me I Belong in Journalism

The tribute

To honor Ave, I created a tribute video featuring the lives she touched. Among those was Belva.

I’ll never forget visiting Belva’s home for that project. She sat on her yellow floral couch, camera-ready. As we checked sound, I told her I had just finished her memoir and was floored by her account of covering the assassinations of Harvey Milk and George Moscone. My boss at the time — her daughter Darolyn — had been in City Hall that day.

Belva nodded gravely. “Oh my goodness, 1978 was a troubling year,” she said. She described getting the call, rushing to City Hall, watching terrified people run through the halls. “It was one of the most difficult tragedies I ever had to report,” Belva told me.

Then she looked me over with the kind of knowing smile only someone who had already endured the long road could give. “You should be a storyteller,” she said directly. “You’re smart and passionate, and you know your history.”

It was a simple phrase, but it hit like destiny.

The nod

Not long after, I volunteered at the Palace of Fine Arts, where Belva was interviewing Condoleezza Rice. I was managing the photo line. As the room cleared, Condoleezza invited me to join her for a picture.

I froze. I looked at Belva. She gave me a smile, nodded, and said, “Go ahead, dear.” That nod told me I belonged.

Her memoir as a guide

When I came across Belva’s memoir, Never in My Wildest Dreams, I read it cover to cover and wept.

Her book became my guide. When I doubted myself, I turned back to her words: “Don’t be afraid of the space between your dreams and reality. If you dream it, you can make it so.”

When I nervously sent her my first published piece — a Hoodline Q&A about Harlem of the West with photographers Elizabeth Pepin Silva and Lewis Watts — she praised me but didn’t let me get comfortable.

“Good job getting this published,” she said. “But I want to hear your little voice ascend when I read your words. Work on strengthening your voice as much as possible — and avoid Q&As.”

Encouraging, but always demanding growth. That was Belva.

What she faced — and what she taught

Belva wasn’t just a face on screen. She was the only Black woman to climb to the top of Sutro Tower to report. She endured newsroom discrimination — being paid less than her white peers, overlooked for promotions, mocked by colleagues who questioned her ability. She had to fight just to be in the room — and then fight to stay there.

But she did more than survive. She became a trusted voice who brought San Francisco’s most urgent stories into living rooms across the Bay Area. She covered the Black Panthers, presidential elections, the Moscone and Milk assassinations. She anchored the news. She climbed to the top — literally and figuratively.

And she didn’t just open doors. She held them open. For more than a decade, she served as the National Equal Employment Opportunities Chair for the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, advocating for women, minorities and people with disabilities in the industry. She mentored younger journalists.

Her lesson to me was clear: You don’t need the perfect degree or the perfect connections. What you need is persistence — and faith that your perspective matters. No matter how many times the door is slammed in your face, keep knocking. Eventually, someone will let you in. And once you’re in, hold that door for the next person.

‘Always and then always’

The awe of her presence was real. I never felt worthy of standing next to her. But she carried herself with such grace that she made even the smallest encounter a moment of mentorship.

In one of her last interviews, Belva explained why she spent so much of her life reaching back to support others: “I owe it to another person to say what I’ve learned. I’ve learned that it’s wise to take responsibility for the time you take up and space you occupy. I think each one of us lives in direct relationship to the heroes and sheroes we have. Always and then always.”

That’s the Belva I want people to remember — not just the résumé of groundbreaking “firsts,” but the woman who quietly lifted others.

Belva, you are my shero. You saw me when I felt invisible. You encouraged me when I felt lost. You gave me permission to take up space.

I will use your story as my guide in this industry. And when I look at Sutro Tower — rising above the fog, standing tall over the city we both love — I will think of you.

Fearless. Unshakable. Rising.