History Erased

Gloria Rojas broke through mainstream television as the first Puerto Rican woman and Latina on-air journalist in New York City. There, the growing Latino community, largely Puerto Rican, of the 1960s was proud of her. Bodegas hung her photo by the door. Boricua elected officials and Latino nonprofits celebrated the Bronx-born journalist at events. Yet, gradually, she disappeared from the airwaves. When the news of her passing made the obituaries last February, polite tributes to Rojas wholly glazed over the harsh truths about the racism and misogyny we faced.

The first time I saw her was in the summer of 1969, in the lobby of where my family and I lived, Douglass projects. The elevators had broken down and the city wasn’t fixing them. I was sick and tired of lugging my German baby bass or groceries up 19 flights of stairs. After close to a month of broken promises from the New York City Housing Authority, I called WCBS News, where Rojas worked.

The seniors all sat around the institutional-looking walls of Douglass. The rest of the frustrated tenants filled the entrance. Gloria’s concerned look broke the tension as she walked in with her camera crew. Folks smiled. The elders minced no words as she made me the 15-year-old spokesperson. After her report aired the following day, workers appeared to make repairs. Rojas wasn't afraid of calling out those who were failing poor communities.

“After her report aired the following day, workers appeared to make repairs”

Gloria came out of the racial reckoning of the late 1960s —years of upheaval in response to the racism and discrimination that permeates every sector and institution. In response, President Lyndon B. Johnson initiated a committee—only one woman was appointed—that produced the 1968 Kerner Commission Report. Among the problems the Commission outlined was the white lens of U.S. news media: “The press has too long basked in a white world looking out of it, if at all, with white men's eyes and white perspective.” An active member of that Commission, then-Mayor Lindsay reported that there wasn't a single Latino on a national television station.

In those years, WCBS TV proudly showcased J.J. Gonzalez as a hire, followed by Rojas, who would later move on to WABC. They had both attended an exclusive summer 1968 “minority” students program started by Fred Friendly at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. But these two hires were singular drops in that colossal bucket. To this point, when frustrated Puerto Ricans took over WNET public television studios in 1972, they unfurled a banner over the building stating: “20% Latinos, 0% programming.”

When I arrived at the WABC newsroom two years later, in 1979, I was thrilled to be in the same space as Rojas, my idol. But, to my dismay, I learned she was relegated to dog and fire stories in New Jersey. How could that be?

Rumor had it she was sidelined over her baby weight. By then, she had two children in a world that demanded slim bodies. This and other pressures, like dropping her Puerto Ricanness, were ever present. While reading her Fire Escapes: A Fictional Memoir, I realized how much she didn't want to lose her Bronx accent or friends.

I can imagine what else Gloria, by then a veteran reporter, experienced. When I stepped into that television newsroom of the late 1970s, I encountered a hostile, toxic work environment. The only other Latinos there were the guys in the mailroom. After bringing in my mom's family rice pudding, one producer asked me if the raisins were roaches.

A Black woman seated apart from everyone in the bullpen was the only news writer of color then. We weren't allowed to speak to her because she had filed a lawsuit against the company. Highly respected journalists like Gil Noble and John Johnson became icons in New York City and beyond. Yet, behind the scenes, it was common to hear them referred to as uppity and the n-word and to Boricuas being called spics.

The only time Gloria's name came up was when the assignment desk couldn't decide who to send to the “c-nt conferences.” Producers constantly threatened to replace us with people who would do this “glamor” job for free. One particularly ornery producer was appalled that I would “admit” to being Puerto Rican. “Don't you know you people are the bastards of the Caribbean,” he yelled. “You can't speak Spanish or English.”

“There was no social media to call for backup and blast an aggressive supervisor”

We celebrate our community's trailblazers, as we should. But we’re often unaware of the extent of the day-to-day aggressions endured. We had to grin and bear it those decades. There was no social media to call for backup and blast an aggressive supervisor. And taking that risk came with a heavy price. Even when I appealed to the editor of a Latino newsletter to take the station to task after feeling pressured to leave for being pregnant, I was advised not to make waves or risk never working in the media again.

I recount my experiences so that people can understand what Gloria and other women were walking into those days. Through it all, she did not mortgage her culture for status. She could have. And she modeled reporting for so many others. Today, many local newsrooms feature a community advocate reporter people can call. Rojas created that template.

When she passed at 82, obits painted pretty pictures with pithy quotes. I was sad to see that she was not included in the on-air memorial during the Puerto Rican Day Parade. For women like me who are still unpacking the trauma of those years, she represents our story, one that deserves to be documented and heard, and I am here to say for Gloria, for us - ¡presente!

Our best tribute to her, to the Gloria’s of now and the future, would be to insist on dismantling racism and sexism.