Black Women Journalists Keep Taking Donald Trump’s Abuse While The White Press Corps Cowers [Op-Ed]

There’s something about journalist Rachel Scott that makes angry white men think that “freedom of the press” means aggressively invading her space.

Five years ago, Scott, then an ABC News congressional correspondent, was standing outside the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, surrounded by a sea of white Trump supporters as they stormed the building. The crowd cursed at journalists, called them “fake news” and “enemy of the press,” and hurled racial and sexist epithets at her.

I interviewed Scott almost three years ago about the incident. She told me how one white man tried to tackle her. Fortunately, security stopped him. And then, he came at her again. Scott kept reporting.

She also told me something I have never forgotten. Her grandfather had given her a piece of advice that she carried into journalism: “Take up space. You are meant to exist anywhere you want to be,” he told her, “regardless if you see yourself represented there or not.”

Five years have passed since the Capitol insurrection, and she is still taking up space.

Last week Scott was standing on an airport tarmac in Dallas doing exactly what her grandfather told her to do when another white man moved aggressively into her space. This time, it was the president of the United States.

Scott was questioning Donald Trump about his promise to give American adults $5,000 if Republicans retain control of Congress after the midterms, a proposal that could cost taxpayers more than $1 trillion and would require congressional approval. Her question was Journalism 101.

With the national debt around $40 trillion, Scott asked, if Trump’s economic policies are working, why does he need to offer people an incentive to turn out to vote?

Trump rejected her premise. “I didn’t do it for turning out the vote,” he said. “It’s almost a reward for the people having to put up with Biden’s policy.”

Scott pressed again, reminding the president that he had made similar promises to deliver checks before, including tariff refund payments that still haven’t been paid.

Trump had enough. He leaned his large, menacing body toward Scott, and snapped, “Not you. Not you. You’re the worst.”

Not. You.  

After watching that exchange, those two words have been sitting with me. 

Now, don’t get me wrong; it’s not unusual for Trump to disrespect women journalists.  Axios published a report last month showing there’s a clear gender gap in Trump’s attacks on reporters. But that “not you” hit differently.  It was exclusionary, dismissive, almost proprietary. Coming from a powerful white man to a Black woman journalist, the message was clear and carried historical freight that so many of us have heard for generations: Not your turn. Not your place. Not your voice. Not your authority. Not your right to challenge me.

And what about the gaggle of other reporters standing on that tarmac waiting their turn to ask questions? Trump didn’t have to answer Scott’s question because another journalist immediately supplied him with an escape route by asking a different question about oil and Iran. The gaggle simply moved on and left her abandoned.

Do you see the contradiction that happened there?  

The president told a Black woman journalist “not you,” and the press corps said, “no, actually you.”  You ask the hard questions.  You push the president. You absorb his insults and disrespect. You keep your composure while being dismissed as illegitimate.  We will applaud your bravery later.

Tell me, why does it seem like Black women reporters are the ones who have to ask the questions that make folks uncomfortable and hold power to account?  We’ve seen these scenarios with Scott, April Ryan, Yamiche Alcindor, and Abby Phillip. These Black women journalists have repeatedly found themselves on the receiving end of Trump’s ire while doing one of the most basic functions of journalism: asking questions powerful folks don’t want to answer.

Some folks might say, “Oh, well, Black women journalists are fearless.” True. But maybe the largely white press corps has gotten too comfortable requiring them to be so brave and fearless while they cower in the shadows. The Columbia Journalism Review recently looked into Trump’s attacks on reporters and found that White House reporters said they refuse to acknowledge his outbursts because they don’t want to become part of the story or compromise their access. 

So their silence buys them access without confrontation. They get to preserve their relationship with the White House. Trump will let them in the room, keep calling on them, and these reporters get to continue performing the rituals of presidential journalism while Black women reporters keep absorbing the retaliation that comes with sustained accountability. 

Years ago, April Ryan told the New York Review of Books that she felt particularly exposed as a Black woman working in the White House essentially as “a team of one,” and she said some of her colleagues did not care about Trump’s attacks on her. Trump has called Ryan a “loser,” Abby Phillip’s and Yamiche Alcindor’s questions “stupid” and “racist.”

So what happens when the press corps repeatedly stands back and allows Black women reporters to ask the dangerous questions and endure abuse while their colleagues move on?

A recent study of BIPOC broadcast journalists found that they experience heightened vulnerability, scrutiny, and emotional labor as part of newsroom routines, alongside increased threats, verbal abuse, online harassment, and physical attacks. The study also found that these journalists’ safety concerns are more likely to be questioned, minimized, or dismissed, and contribute to burnout and leaving the profession. 

This is an old racial arrangement in American life. Black women have historically been expected to do the hard labor that other folks don’t want to do.  Clean up other people’s messes.  Manage other people’s discomfort. Be strong, composed, and absorb disrespect while everyone else pretends not to see what it costs us. 

You see, the mammy stereotype wasn’t just confined to enslaved women who were expected to cook, clean, and raise white children. The fantasy of the endlessly durable Black woman whose labor can be consumed, regardless of the physical and emotional toll, still lives with us. I am convinced that the journalism profession has its own version of that arrangement as Black women’s courage serves as everybody else’s cover. 

Let the Black woman reporter ask the hard and dangerous questions. Let her absorb the racialized and gendered insults. Let her become the viral clip while the rest of the press corps gets the benefit of the answer she was trying to extract before being shut down.

I want you to imagine a different scenario on that Dallas tarmac. What if, after Trump snapped at Rachel Scott and said, “Not you,” the next reporter had said, “Mr. President, would you answer her question?” And what if the next reporter did the same?  And the next?  And then the next?  

That’s how you create a press corps that doesn’t allow intimidation to kill a question. That’s the kind of solidarity that Black women journalists should be given, instead of praising them afterward for how professionally they handled being demeaned like some damn modern-day mammies.

Pick up her question and ask it again. Because a powerful white man telling a Black woman journalist “Not you” only works if everybody else in the press corps simply agrees to move on. When Trump tells a Black woman reporter “Not you,” the next reporter in the gaggle ought to say, “Then me.”

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