Never in My Wildest Dreams: A Black Woman's Life in Journalism

Overview

Never in My Wildest Dreams is the story of a courageous journalist who helped change the face and focus of television news. Born to a 15-year old Louisiana laundress during the Great Depression and raised in the overcrowded projects of Oakland, California, Belva Davis overcame abuse, racism, and sexism to become the first black female news anchor on the West Coast.

Davis covered many of the most explosive stories of the last halfcentury, including the birth of the Black ...

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Never in My Wildest Dreams: A Black Woman's Life in Journalism

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Overview

Never in My Wildest Dreams is the story of a courageous journalist who helped change the face and focus of television news. Born to a 15-year old Louisiana laundress during the Great Depression and raised in the overcrowded projects of Oakland, California, Belva Davis overcame abuse, racism, and sexism to become the first black female news anchor on the West Coast.

Davis covered many of the most explosive stories of the last halfcentury, including the birth of the Black Panthers, the Peoples Temple cult that ended in the Jonestown massacre, the assassinations of George Moscone and Harvey Milk, the onset of the AIDS epidemic, and the terrorist attacks that first put Osama bin Laden on the FBI’s
Most Wanted list. Along the way, she encountered a cavalcade of cultural icons: Malcolm X, Frank Sinatra, James Brown, Nancy Reagan, Huey Newton, Muhammad Ali, Alex Haley, Fidel Castro, and others.

Davis’ absorbing memoir traces the trajectory of an extraordinary life in extraordinary times.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Davis is an engaging, likable personality with an inspiring story. Recommended for any reader interested in journalism, history, or gender and race relations in the United States."
Library Journal, January 2011

"An engaging memoir that includes not only a fascinating childhood and coming-of-age in the deep south and the Oakland projects, but also involvement in some of the most important happenings of the mid-20th century." —School Library Journal, February 2011

“I was not asked to write a blurb for Up from Slavery, War and Peace, or The Fire Next Time, but gladly I can say Never in My Wildest Dreams is a very important book. No people can say they understand the times in which they have lived unless they have read this book.”
Dr. Maya Angelou

Never in My Wildest Dreams is the fascinating account of a pioneering black woman and her tumultuous but triumphal march through a turbulent era. Overcoming one obstacle after another, Belva Davis covered some of the most explosive stories of our era—and became one of most trusted news professionals in the business. Her story is a unique version of the American Dream, and her book is an honest, insightful, and utterly riveting memoir of a shared and personal journey.”
Senator Dianne Feinstein

Never in My Wildest Dreams shows what it really takes to succeed as a black woman in the journalistic world in America. A must read.”
Willie L. Brown, Jr., Chairman and CEO, Willie L. Brown Institute

“Belva Davis has lived this country’s history as only a brave black woman could and has witnessed it as a journalist with a world-class head and heart. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to read her words in Never in My Wildest Dreams without becoming a better and braver person.”
Gloria Steinem

“After a friendship of over 30 years, it’s astonishing to find from this revealing, heartbreaking, and inspirational book that I knew so little about the profound and historic forces that shaped Belva’s life.”
Phil Bronstein, Editor-at-Large, Hearst Newspapers

"Davis is an engaging, likable personality with an inspiring story. Recommended for any reader interested in journalism, history, or gender and race relations in the United States."
Library Journal Review, David Gibbs, Georgetown Univ. Lib., Washington, DC, January 2010

“An engaging memoir that includes not only a fascinating childhood and coming-of-age in the deep south and the Oakland projects, but also involvement in some of the most important happenings of the mid-20th century.”
School Library Journal, February 14, 2011

Library Journal
Pioneering journalist Davis, writing with Haddock, tells her fascinating story in this highly readable memoir. Davis grew up hand to mouth in Louisiana and then Oakland. Unable to afford college, she began writing for African American publications and later moved to radio and local television news. Despite resistance at every turn because of her race and gender, her fame and influence grew with each career move. Davis covered the defining events of her time and place, including the Berkeley protests of the late 1960s, Jim Jones and the massacre at Jonestown, the Harvey Milk/George Moscone shootings, and the rise of AIDS. She took reporting trips to Cuba, Israel, and East Africa. She also managed to raise two children, promote innumerable causes, and cultivate friendships with an impressive list of celebrities. While Davis is justifiably proud of her achievements, her lack of a college education and her feelings of inadequacy as a mother continue to haunt her. VERDICT Davis is an engaging, likable personality with an inspiring story. Recommended for any reader interested in journalism, history, or gender and race relations in the United States.—David Gibbs, Georgetown Univ. Lib., Washington, DC
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781936227068
  • Publisher: PoliPointPress, LLC
  • Publication date: 2/1/2011
  • Pages: 272
  • Product dimensions: 6.20 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Belva Davis is a history-maker, an award-winning journalist, and a pioneering feminist. She has traveled the world reporting on politics, terrorism, racial and gender issues, and the role of art and culture in increasing human understanding. From her hardscrabble beginnings in the Deep South during the Great Depression, she broke into journalism and made the move from segregated newspaper and radio work, becoming the first black woman hired as a commercial television news reporter on the West Coast. She has anchored at three major network affiliates—CBS, NBC, and PBS—and currently hosts a highly respected political affairs program on KQED-TV in San Francisco, the most watched public TV station in the United States. 

Vicki Haddock is a longtime Bay Area journalist. She was a senior writer for the “Insight” analysis section of the San Francisco Chronicle, as well as a reporter and later an assistant city desk editor for the San Francisco Examiner. Before joining the Examiner, she was chief political writer for the Oakland Tribune.

 

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Read an Excerpt

Never in My Wildest Dreams

A Black Woman's Life in Journalism
By BELVA DAVIS VICKI HADDOCK

Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Belva Davis
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-60994-469-8


Chapter One

"What the Hell Are You Niggers Doing in Here?"

I could feel the hostility rising like steam off a cauldron of vitriol: floor delegates and gallery spectators at the Republican National Convention were erupting in catcalls aimed at the press. South of San Francisco, people were sweltering inside the cavernous Cow Palace, which typically hosted rodeos. In July of 1964 it offered ringside seats for the breech birth of a right-wing revolution.

My radio news director, Louis Freeman, and I lacked credentials for the press box—actually we knew that some whites at this convention would find our mere presence offensive. Although Louis was brilliant and had a deep baritone voice and a journalism degree, his first boss had warned Louis he might never become a radio reporter because Negro lips were "too thick to pronounce polysyllabic words." But Louis, whose enunciation was flawless, eventually landed an on-the-hour news slot on KDIA-AM, the Bay Area's premier soul-gospel-jazz station; and he was determined to cover the convention. It was said that the national press was flocking to the GOP confab to "report Armageddon." Louis wanted to be at the crux of the story, relaying to our black listeners all the news that white reporters might deem insignificant. I was the station's intrepid ad traffic manager, a thirty-one-year-old divorced mother of two, who had no journalism training. No question Louis would have preferred a more formidable companion: I'm delicately boned and stand merely five foot one in stockings. But I was an eager volunteer. More to the point, I was his only volunteer. And I was, in his words, "a moxie little thing." He had finagled two spectator passes from one of the black delegates—they made up less than 1 percent of convention participants. So there we were, perched in the shadows under the rafters, scribbling notes and recording speeches, mistakenly presuming we had found the safest spot to be.

Day One of the convention had been tense but orderly. GOP organizers had strictly instructed delegates to be on their best behavior for the television cameras, and they had complied.

Day Two would be different. Day Two was starting to spin out of control.

Indeed, the "Party of Lincoln" was ripping apart before our eyes. Arizona senator Barry Goldwater, a flinty firebrand whose ruggedly chiseled face would have rested easy on Mount Rushmore, had tapped into a mother lode of voter anxiety about Communism, crime, and especially civil rights. His followers came prepared to jettison the party's moderate wing, and they were spurred on by Goldwater's fantasy of sawing off the Eastern Seaboard to let it float out to sea. The press noted that he could win the nomination by coalescing the right and attracting fringe groups such as the John Birch Society and the Ku Klux Klan, and reporters were openly questioning whether the party was on the verge of being taken over by extremists.

So when former president Dwight D. Eisenhower stepped into the spotlight at the podium, I leaned forward intently, hoping the avuncular Ike would provide a soothing balm of rationality.

Indeed his speechwriters had crafted a temperate address that gave nods to free enterprise, a denunciation of violent radicals on the left or right, and even benign praise about America's progress on civil rights. But Eisenhower had personally and uncharacteristically inserted a couple of poison-tipped arrows into his script, and he let the first fly straight at the press: "Let us particularly scorn the divisive efforts of those outside our family—including sensation-seeking columnists and commentators—because my friends I assure you, these are people who couldn't care less about the good of our party."

The Cow Palace erupted in jeers, boos, and catcalls. Fists shot up in the air and shook angrily in the direction of the press box and broadcast anchor booths. The convention's contempt for even the most respected reporters of the day was palpable—when professorial John Chancellor of NBC News refused to surrender his floor spot to the dancing "Goldwater Girls," security guards brusquely carted him out, prompting him to wryly sign off with "This is John Chancellor, somewhere in custody."

Eisenhower, meanwhile, wasn't finished. "Let us not be guilty of maudlin sympathy," he bellowed, "for the criminal who, roaming the streets with the switchblade knife and illegal firearm, seeking a helpless prey, suddenly becomes, upon apprehension, a poor, underprivileged person who counts upon the compassion of our society and the laxness or weakness of too many courts to forgive his offense." Without actually uttering the word Negroes, the former president spoke in a code that needed no translation for those white Americans who regarded black people as an encroaching threat. Eisenhower, whether he realized it or not, seemed to be granting permission to the whites' prejudice and hatred. I suspect he was unprepared for the deafening applause, cheers, shouts, and honked Klaxons that ensued.

Louis and I warily locked eyes, neither of us willing to outwardly betray a hint of alarm. Next on the agenda were controversial platform amendments on civil rights. We had a job to do.

The satirist H. L. Mencken once observed that a national political convention often is as fascinating as a revival, or a hanging: "One sits through long sessions wishing heartily that all the delegates and alternates were dead and in hell—and then suddenly there comes a show so gaudy and hilarious, so melodramatic and obscene, so unimaginably exhilarating and preposterous, that one lives a gorgeous year in an hour."

Mencken, of course, had the luxury of being white. We did not. For Louis and me, the next hour would indeed feel like a year, but a grotesque one.

First, the entire Republican platform was read aloud—a tedious ploy to delay any ugly debate over amendments until the prime time viewing hour would be past. At 10 p.m. the first amendment was offered, condemning radical zealots such as the KKK and the Birchers. Liberal establishment icon New York governor Nelson Rockefeller, whom Goldwater had defeated for the nomination, rose to speak in the amendment's favor. "These extremists feed on fear, hate and terror," he said, as a cacophony of boos began to rise from the crowd. "They encourage disunity. These are people who have nothing in common with Americanism. The Republican Party must repudiate these people!" Enraged at him, the Goldwater crowd interrupted Rockefeller twenty-two times in five minutes, drowning him out with shrieks, noisemakers, a bass drum, and the rebuking cry, "We want Barry! We want Barry!"

While the Goldwater organization tried to keep its delegates in check on the floor of the Cow Palace, snarling Goldwater fans in the galleries around us were off the leash. The mood turned unmistakably menacing. Even eminent campaign historian Theodore White abandoned the arena for the relative sanity of the trailers outside; he would later write that although no one in the Goldwater organization and few on the delegate floor remotely qualified as kooks, "the kooks dominated the galleries, hating and screaming and reveling in their own frenzy."

Suddenly Louis and I heard a voice yell, "Hey, look at those two up there!" The accuser pointed us out, and several spectators swarmed beneath us. "Hey niggers!" they yelled. "What the hell are you niggers doing in here?"

I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck as I looked into faces turned scarlet and sweaty by heat and hostility. Louis, in suit and tie and perpetually dignified, turned to me and said with all the nonchalance he could muster, "Well, I think that's enough for today." Methodically we began wrapping up the cords to our bulky tape recorder and packing it and the rest of our equipment into suitcases. As we began our descent down the ramps of the Cow Palace, a self-appointed posse dangled over the railings, taunting. "Niggers!" "Get out of here, boy!" "You too, nigger bitch." "Go on, get out!" "I'm gonna kill your ass."

I stared straight ahead, putting one foot in front of the other like a soldier who would not be deterred from a mission. The throng began tossing garbage at us: wadded up convention programs, mustard-soaked hotdogs, half-eaten Snickers bars. My goal was to appear deceptively serene, mastering the mask of dispassion I had perfected since childhood to steel myself against any insults the outside world hurled my way. Then a glass soda bottle whizzed within inches of my skull. I heard it whack against the concrete and shatter. I didn't look back, but I glanced sideways at Louis and felt my lower lip begin to quiver. He was determined we would give our tormentors no satisfaction.

"If you start to cry," he muttered, "I'll break your leg."

It took an eternity for us to wend our way through the gauntlet, from the nosebleed rows of the arena down to the sea of well-coiffed whites on the ground floor. Security guards popped into my peripheral vision, but I knew better than to expect them to rescue us—that wasn't a realistic expectation for any African American in 1964. Louis and I pushed through the exit doors and into the darkness of the parking lot, dreading that our antagonists might trail us. When at last we made it to our car, we clambered inside, locked the doors—and exhaled.

Later I would learn that the smattering of other blacks inside the Cow Palace suffered their own indignities. San Francisco dentist Henry Lucas was ejected twice from his seat. Oakland real estate entrepreneur Charles J. Patterson, then vice president of the Alameda County Republican Central Committee, was denied his rightful place at a luncheon and discovered that none of the white Republicans there would even meet his gaze. "There was no one to complain to," he would say. "The major press seemed scared of the Goldwater people." The Tennessee delegation cited race as its reason for refusing to grant a vote to its sole black delegate. And another black delegate walked out with holes singed in his best suit after a bigot sloshed him with acid.

Jackie Robinson, who had attended as a special delegate for Rockefeller, almost came to blows with a white delegate—whose wife held him back to stop him from attacking the baseball legend. "Turn him loose, lady, turn him loose," Robinson shouted, ready for retaliation himself. The next night, Goldwater would accept the GOP nomination and proclaim his signature line: "Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice." Although ample evidence exists to show that Goldwater personally was not racist, he had allied himself with those who were. And he would go down to defeat in a landslide, carrying only six states: aside from his home state of Arizona, all were in the Deep South. His campaign, however, set in motion an electoral realignment because a huge number of Southern whites abandoned the Democratic Party for the GOP. His campaign also laid the foundation on which actor Ronald Reagan, having charmed the 1964 convention with a passionate speech on Goldwater's behalf, constructed a conservative "Reagan Era" that would dominate the 1980s and beyond. As for Jackie Robinson, he would always recall the GOP Convention of 1964 as one of the most unforgettable and frightening experiences of his life. "A new breed of Republican had taken over the GOP," he wrote. "As I watched this steamroller operation in San Francisco, I had a better understanding of how it must have felt to be a Jew in Hitler's Germany."

That night, as Louis and I drove back to our station—our hearts still thumping and our ears ringing with echoes of the pandemonium—I was lost in thought. I contemplated the loss of President John F. Kennedy, who had been the first real hope for black people until he was cut down by an assassin's bullet. I recalled how only two weeks before, President Lyndon B. Johnson had signed the Civil Rights Act to prohibit racial discrimination. I thought about James Chaney, Michael Schwerner, and Andrew Goodman, three idealistic civil rights workers who vanished in Mississippi that summer; their murdered bodies would later be found buried in an earthen dam. And I thought about how much easier it was to change federal policy than it would be to change the hearts and minds of America.

All too many white Americans refused to believe the harsh truth about race relations in their own country. Too many turned a blind eye to the prejudices great and small that polluted the air African Americans had to breathe every day. Hatred was a powerful force. But I wondered: could it ultimately withstand the power of the press? Journalists were beginning to bring the stories of black Americans out of the shadows of the rafters and the alleys and the backwoods, out of the sharecropper plots and the inner-city ghettos, and into the light of day. They were reporting on the cross burnings and water hosings, the beatings and lynchings, in vivid details that the public could no longer ignore.

I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to broadcast the reality of my community to those who could not otherwise imagine it, to fill in that missing perspective. I wanted to do work that mattered. I wanted to tell stories that changed the world. And if it was then inconceivable for a petite, soft-spoken black woman to ever become a journalist—much less an Emmy-winning television reporter and anchor—well, chalk that up as just one more thing in the world that was about to change.

Fast forward almost a half century, to November 2008—another pivotal presidential contest. Again, the Republicans have nominated a senator from Arizona. Again, the GOP convention has featured jeering demonstrations in support of "real Americans" and against urbanites and "media elites." This time it's the Democrats who have nominated a candidate once known as Barry, although he now prefers his real name, Barack.

Don't ever let anyone tell you history doesn't have a sense of humor. Against all odds, the Democrats nominated Barack Hussein Obama, a Harvard-trained former community organizer and law professor, and the freshman U.S. senator for Illinois. His mother was white and from Kansas; his father was black and from Kenya. Obama became the Democratic Party standard-bearer by defeating its presumptive nominee, former first lady turned New York senator Hillary Clinton. Further proof of history's twisted wit: in high school she was one of the costumed "Goldwater Girls," from the tip of her cowboy boots to the top of her straw hat, emblazoned with the chemistry pun "AuH20"—Au for gold, H20 for water.

As for me, I'm in another car driving through the night, lost in thought. The world has changed in ways I never could have envisioned. I have been a reporter for almost five decades and fortunate to report on many of the major stories of my lifetime. I've talked with five presidents. I even interviewed Goldwater in his later years, when he had grown repulsed by religious fundamentalists seizing the reigns of the right away from more libertarian conservatives like him. I've been awarded eight local Emmys and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. In my seventies, I continue to host a weekly news roundtable and special reports on KQED-TV, one of the nation's leading PBS stations. My children are grown and launched into the world; and I've been happily married for more than four decades to Bill Moore, one of the country's first African American television news cameramen.

Bill and I arrive at Harris's steakhouse in San Francisco, where an election-night dinner party is underway, hosted by our close friend and California's senior U.S. senator, Dianne Feinstein. We've talked about whether the nation could possibly elect its first black president. I don't allow myself to think it will really happen.

We mingle and finally sit down to dinner and try to follow state-by-state returns, although television reception is poor. From time to time, Dianne rises, regally clinks her knife against a glass to catch our attention, and announces the latest development. Prospects appear promising for Obama, but I refuse to let myself celebrate before CNN projects him the winner.

Even when the projection is made it is unbelievable. The sound is muffled — should we check another channel?

But no one else is hesitating. Nearly a hundred guests applaud, and more than a few jump up and down and whoop for joy. As I look around, I realize that fewer than a handful of those present are black. A lump swells in my throat, and I lean toward Bill to tell him I feel an irrepressible urge to speak publicly. He looks puzzled for a moment.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Never in My Wildest Dreams by BELVA DAVIS VICKI HADDOCK Copyright © 2010 by Belva Davis. Excerpted by permission of Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Coming of Age

Growing up in Louisiana, drifting from household to household, Belva moves with her family to the East Bay, where her mother abandons the family. Left with a household of adult men, Belva is sexually molested. She marries early but not happily.

Chapter 2:  A Love Affair with Words

Belva works as a stringer for Jet magazine, the largest black news weekly, and moves on to black newspapers in what is still a racially segregated media market. A bitter divorce causes her to flee with her two children. A white AP foreign correspondent, fired for his drinking, shows her the ropes of the newspaper business. Working for the Bay Area Independent, she interviews Muhammad Ali and Malcolm X.

Chapter 3: Breaking Barriers

Belva branches out to radio, working for two black stations (KSAN and KDIA), where a chance encounter with James Brown almost ends her budding career. In 1963, she marries Bill Moore, a news photographer who cares for her children and supports her career aspirations.

Chapter 4: Political Baptism

Belva covers the 1964 Republican National Convention at the Cow Palace, where delegates throw garbage and shout racist epithets at her and a black colleague. 

Chapter 5: Learning Objectivity

Shifting to KPIX, where she becomes the first black female on television west of the Mississippi, Belva must learn new journalism standards. She meets Dr. King and Robert Kennedy and is welcomed into the home of Governor Ronald Reagan. She also interviews Stanford physicist William Shockley, who believes that black people are less capable intellectually than whites. 

Chapter 6: Stepping into the Fire

Belva covers the student demonstrations at Berkeley, interviewing Joan Baez, Mario Savio, and Bettina Aptheker.

Chapter 7: Developing a Voice

As a news anchor, Belva fights to air a no-holds-barred interview with Eldridge Cleaver as well as stories on motherhood and working women. Making her points without making enemies in a competitive and often contentious newsroom, Belva continues her rise through the industry. 

Chapter 8:  Making a Name for Myself

By 1971, Belva is a recognized face and voice. She interviews Bob Wells, a San Quentin prisoner confined for 45 years after an initial conviction for receiving stolen property.  When the story goes national, she receives her first Emmy. Wells is eventually paroled, but Belva continues to report on prison conditions, organizes concerts at San Quentin, and attracts James Brown and B.B. King to perform there.

Chapter 9: Cuba on My Mind

Accompanying a delegation led by Congressman Ron Dellums, Davis interviews Fidel Castro in Cuba. Flustered when she finally meets Castro, she begins to cry. Castro tells Belva not to worry, that their interview will be better than the one he gave Barbara Walters. Belva receives two more Emmys. 

Chapter 10: Daughters in Jeopardy

After heiress Patty Hearst is kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, a police officer informs Belva that her own daughters may be kidnapped in retaliation for the Hearst abduction. The family moves and receives police protection. 

Chapter 11:  A Presidential Affair

When President Ford visits San Francisco, he shakes the hand of every reporter lining up to meet him—every reporter, that is, except Davis, the only African-American and woman in the room.  Realizing his mistake, Ford returns to visit with Belva. Walking outside, Ford narrowly misses a bullet fired by Sara Jane Moore. The reception reminds Davis and her colleagues that the smallest gesture can be interpreted as a racial slight and opens the door to a discussion of race.

Chapter 12: Unsuspecting Target

People’s Temple leader Jim Jones tries unsuccessfully to befriend Davis, who has joined KQED as a news anchor, before a tax-evasion probe causes him to flee to Guyana with hundreds of followers. When Congressman Leo Ryan visits, he and others are killed before they can board their plane to leave. Jones and more than 900 followers then commit suicide. Later, Belva learns that her housekeeper was a People’s Temple security officer assigned to report on her. 

Chapter 13: Murdering Over Differences

Belva’s daughter Darolyn befriends the daughter of San Francisco mayor George Moscone and begins working at City Hall. Shortly after the Jonestown nightmare, Darolyn calls her mother to report that Moscone has been shot. While Belva is rushing to City Hall, Bill arrives to shoot some of his most famous footage. Belva makes sure Darolyn is all right before going to work as a reporter. Her program that night for KQED wins the Best Newscast award from PBS.

Chapter 14: Underreported Stories

After the U.S. embassies are bombed by Al Qaeda in Kenya and Tanzania, Belva travels to Africa with a physician friend to deliver much-needed medical supplies. In Kenya, she and the crew face down family members of President Moy on the tarmac over possession of the cargo.

Chapter 15: Giving Back to the Community

Belva describes her work for numerous nonprofits, including the Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame Awards program, the De Young Museum, and the country’s first Museum of the African Diaspora. 

Chapter 16:  My Life Today

Belva describes her work on KQED’s “This Week in Northern California,” her family life, and the importance of receiving three honorary doctorates and what they mean to a high-school graduate. 

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Sort by: Showing all of 6 Customer Reviews
  • Posted February 11, 2011

    Highly Recommended

    She is an awesome "Lady" in by book. I will always treasure these memories. Great Job Belva!

    Thanks
    Janice Martin

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 11, 2012

    Loving it...

    Book group is reading this and I am loving it....the history of the Bay area and the nation and Belva all in one. What a life!

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  • Posted August 2, 2011

    Remarkable life journey!

    Never in My Wildest Drrams shows Belva's exceptional life journey whose examples of tenacity prompted change for women in journalism. BSligh

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    Posted November 29, 2011

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