50 years ago, the Bahamas gained its independence. And here’s how the Herald sent a Black reporter to see it | Opinion

Fifty years have passed since I walked the streets of Nassau on that hot and humid July day, recording a part of the history of this newly minted nation. I was excited to see the nation of Black people become independent.

But getting to the Bahamas had been a bit rocky for me.

When I learned that The Herald would be sending a team of reporters and photographers to cover the event, I approached Rich Archbold, my editor on the City Desk at the time, and asked that some Black reporters be assigned to cover the event.

He told me the slots had already been filled. Although at that time there were about 10 Black reporters on staff, none of those selected for this prestigious assignment was Black.

As I walked away, I said, “What do you think the Black community will say when they learn that this paper didn’t send not one Black reporter to cover the independence of a Black nation?” I don’t remember if Rich answered me. I was so disappointed.

It was Friday when I approached Rich. I worked the Tuesday-through-Saturday shift, off on Sunday and Monday.

Saturdays, I usually attended the breakfast meetings of local Black clergy at St. John Institutional Missionary Baptist Church on 13th Street and Third Avenue in Overtown. Usually, the preachers led by the late Rev. Thedford Johnson, talked a bunch of politics, but often I got a story as well as a delicious breakfast prepared by the ladies of St. John.

On this Saturday morning, I had a story for my preacher friends. I told them my concern, that out of a staff of nearly a dozen Black reporters, the paper didn‘t think it was necessary to add a Black reporter to those assigned to cover the historic event. Then I did something else: I asked the preachers to protest, peacefully, if they didn’t see a Black byline on a story the next week. Planting that seed was something that, as a Black reporter, I felt I had to do.

Being a Black reporter in the South was still very new back in 1973. We were always having to prove that we could do the job as well as our white counterparts. So I did what I thought I had to do.

A call on my day off

That weekend, as reporters from all over the world started to convene on the sandy shores of Nassau, I attended church on Sunday with Mom and my sons Rick and Shawn.

On Monday, my day off, I ran errands, did the laundry and grocery shopping. I had been away from home nearly all day. As I was getting out of the car, I could hear the phone ringing inside the house. I walked as fast as I could to the front door, my arms full of groceries. I made a dash for the phone before it stopped ringing.

“Hello,” I answered. It was Rich.

“Bea… where have you been. I’ve have been trying to reach you all day. We have a ticket for you to take a flight out in the morning for Nassau to cover the independence. But you need to get down here before five to pick up the ticket.”

I don’t know how I made it from what was then Carol City, now Miami Gardens, to our beautiful building at One Herald Plaza in Downtown Miami. But I made it in time.

As Rich handed me the ticket, I was puzzled. I hadn’t specifically asked to be on the team, although I had asked that he send at least one of us Black reporters.

“But I thought…“ I was stammering. When I could speak intelligently, I asked, “What about the other Black reporters…?”

“You were the only one who asked. You should go,” Rich said, smiling. I wanted to hug him.

I knew then that asking my friends to protest if no Black reporters were sent to cover the event was not proper journalism. But the culture about Blacks needed to be changed. It wasn’t going to happen by osmosis.

Once I stepped off the plane in Nassau on that wonderful Tuesday morning, I could feel the excitement in the air. While The Herald covered my hotel stay, I opted to spend the night with some dear friends who lived in Nassau.

A wondrous day

Wednesday was the big day — Independence Day for the people of the Bahamas. Flags bearing their national colors of turquoise, black and yellow fluttered from buildings everywhere I looked. It was pure joy, talking to the people on the street letting them tell me what the day meant to them.

It was a festive time. Colorful Junkanoo bands, with their loud cowbells, drums, brass horns and dancing ladies, pranced through the streets, tempting onlookers to join the dance to the joyful sounds.

I caught a glimpse of the country’s new first lady Marguerite Pindling, tall and beautiful, skipping through the crowd with some of her ladies-in-waiting. Someone had pointed her out to me. She was on the way to an outdoor stage where her husband Lynden Pindling, the country’s new prime minister, was to speak. She skipped, ever so gracefully holding onto her elaborately decorated hat.

Then, all too soon, I was off to the hotel, where a press room had been set up for visiting reporters, to make my deadline. There were no laptops back then, and no internet, either. And nearly every typewriter was being used by reporters trying to meet their deadlines.

So I wrote my story in my reporter’s notebook, mixing cursive and speed writing. Then I looked for an unoccupied phone so that I could dictate it to the late Bob Clark, a great re-write man, on the City Desk. I found a phone booth, closed the folding door, sat down, and had the overseas operator connect me with the City Desk. Bob answered and I started to dictate my story.

Dictating in an overseas phone call left me hot and sweating and frustrated. Bob and I got disconnected several times. But finally I was done.

I found a restroom where I could wash my face. I walked in, and standing at the sink was a very pretty woman who told me her name was Billye. I introduced myself, telling her proudly that I was a reporter from The Miami Herald sent to cover the independence.

She told me that she was a television hostess in Atlanta, Georgia. She was wearing one of the biggest diamonds I had ever seen. I told her it was beautiful.

“I just got engaged,” she said, “To Hank Aaron”

“The baseball great?” I asked.

She smiled and said yes, “… But please, don‘t mention it in your story. We haven’t announced our engagement yet.”

I told her I would keep her secret. And I did. They married later that year.

Success rewarded

On Thursday morning, a tired but happy Bea L. Hines walked into the City Room. I was met by Managing Editor Larry Jinks, who was smiling as he told me I had done a great job. My story was front-page news.

But the biggest gift of the day came when my fellow Black reporters hugged me and told me they were proud of me.

Later I explained to Shelia Payton, a Herald reporter at the time, that I hadn’t ask for the assignment for myself, that I would have been happy if any other Black reporter, beside me had been sent. I told her a victory for me was a victory for us all. Today, 50 years later, I still believe that.

Happy Independence Day to all my Bahamian friends. A half-century has gone by, and I’m still basking in the memory of that wonderful day.

Bea L. Hines can be reached at bea.hines@gmail.com