Changing Channels

After two decades as a broadcaster, Bill Wright was fed up with the “glass ceiling” limiting African Americans in the industry. He had worked in announcing, news, and sales in Texas towns like Tyler and Mount Pleasant, but he could never seem to advance to a top management position.

Finally, in the early 1980s, Wright decided to take matters into his own hands — by purchasing his own television station. Although he knew he could never afford a full-power station, the Federal Communications Commission was offering licenses for new “low power” stations with narrower broadcast range.

“At the time I got the low-power idea, I had some partners who were willing to put up $300,000 to $400,000,” Wright recalls. By the time FCC approval came through three years later, however, “that money had dried up.” Undeterred, Wright found new investors and “we put it on the air for $30,000.”

The move left him with no operating capital; he pays for everything from equipment to staff salaries out of his own pocket. His Dallas station — KJIK, for “Jesus is King” — broadcasts Christian shows from the Trinity Network on weekdays, and eight hours of local programs each weekend.

Wright is one of the lucky ones. Low-power TV — along with full-power radio stations called FM drop-ins — were developed more than a decade ago as opportunities for “underrepresented” groups to own their own media outlets. Yet 15 years after the FCC pledged to diversify broadcast ownership, people of color in the South have reaped little from the federal initiatives. Instead, regulatory delays and an inhospitable marketplace have combined to undercut the promise of the new technologies, leaving African Americans with few radio and television stations of their own.

“The broadcast industry for minorities is still a real bastion,” says Ervin Hester, an African-American broadcaster who applied for a low-power license in Durham, North Carolina. “Unless you’ve got the deep pockets, you’re not going to survive.”

 

Shared Power

The goal of diversifying media ownership dates back to the civil rights movement of the 1960s. In their struggle for voting rights, black activists in the South recognized the power of radio and television to shape public perception. The result was increased scrutiny of the media — and calls for shared power.

“In the mid-1960s, civil rights activists concerned with black images moved aggressively into the arena of broadcast policymaking,” wrote the late Marilyn Diane Fife of Temple University. “Broadcasting was seen as an institution of great power. . . . The broadcast industry, like many other commercial enterprises of the time, had a dismal record of service” for African Americans. During the 1970s, blacks owned barely one percent of all radio and television stations in the country.

The promise of direct media ownership seemed to brighten, however, as new technologies began to emerge. One was low-power television (LPTV), which carves out a smaller broadcast area than full-power stations, using a weaker signal to target particular communities. An LPTV station generally covers an area of 25 miles with a signal of no more than 1,000 watts — much lower than the thousands of watts commanded by established, full-power stations.

Another technological opportunity emerged when the FCC adopted Docket 80-90, repartitioning the radio spectrum to make room for more broadcast signals. In effect, new FM stations are “dropped in” the radio dial between previously existing stations. Technically and legally, they enjoy a status comparable to established radio stations.

Activists quickly realized that the new technologies offered a rare chance to diversify media ownership. For decades, licenses for broadcast stations had been in the hands of a few wealthy white individuals and corporations. But here were new stations with the potential to reach new audiences. “When low-power came out, what I envisioned was a radio station with pictures,” says John Kompas, former director of the Community Broadcasters Association. “An owner can stick their head out the window and say, ‘What kind of programming do you want to see tonight?’”

Organizations representing people of color, women, and workers called on the FCC to award licenses for LPTV and Docket 80-90 stations to groups long excluded from the ranks of owners. At first, the commission seemed inclined to agree. In 1978, the FCC adopted a formal statement calling for increased “minority” ownership of broadcast facilities. Commissioners also endorsed the need for standard licensing criteria to favor people of color, women, and rural residents. The FCC, said Commissioner Tyrone Brown, has “served notice that our goal is to foster diversity.”

But the process of adopting procedures to foster diversity proved torturous. Beginning a long line of proceedings, the FCC noted the “dearth of minority ownership in the broadcasting industry” and the “extreme disparity between the representation of minorities in our population and in the broadcasting industry.” The commission then resolved to use a lottery to award licenses for low-power TV stations — without any provision for increasing minority ownership.

Commissioner Henry Rivera accused the agency of proposing a “clear and permanent break from bedrock FCC policies fostering diversity of ownership.” Activists took the fight to Congress, and the FCC finally agreed to adopt a lottery giving members of “underrepresented groups” a 2-to-l chance of getting a license.

By the mid-1980s, more than 30,000 applicants had lined up for the new stations. After initial processing delays, the FCC began awarding 200 licenses a year in 1987. “We now have about 1,250 low-power television licensed stations in the country — and the growth continues,” says Keith Larsen, who administers low-power TV for the FCC.

 

Second-Class Service

How have African Americans and other people of color fared in the LPTV lottery? Despite its string of policy pronouncements on the need to diversify media ownership, the FCC does not even keep a record of “minority” ownership of low-power TV or Docket 80-90 radio stations. Interviews with industry sources turned up only three people of color among LPTV owners in the South — an African American, an Asian American, and a Latino.

Records indicate the FCC has issued five tax certificates for LPTV under a policy that offers tax savings as an incentive to sell broadcast stations to “minority” buyers. Only one certificate was issued in the South — and none to black owners.

As for new FM stations, several African Americans in the region have obtained licenses under Docket 80-90, but most have been unable to get their stations up and running because of FCC delays and scarce financing. “I’ve had about 10 people call me who’ve got the construction permit and they can’t build because they don’t have the money,” says Pluria Marshall, chief executive officer of the National Black Media Coalition.

Favorable incantations of law and public policy have not sufficed to allow African Americans to cross over into the promised land of media ownership. For all the controversy over “preference” policies, a 1990 survey by Marquette University shows that only 12.4 percent of low-power owners are women or persons of color. Of those, a third are Hispanic, a fourth are women, and a fourth are Native American. Fewer than eight percent are African American.

Black broadcasters and other people of color also remain shut out of the established industry. Figures show that all designated “minority” groups combined own only three percent of full-power radio and television stations nationwide.

One of the biggest barriers to diversifying ownership has been money. Industry executives, government officials, and public policy advocates all say that capital is hard to come by — and that licensing itself can be a costly, drawn-out process.

“These FCC cases are exceptionally expensive, and beyond the resources of most people other than investors and wealthy types,” says Michael Wilhelm, an attorney who represents applicants for low-power TV and 80-90 stations. “It’s going to cost you $100,000 to $200,000 in legal fees for the FCC licensing process.”

But license costs are only a small part of getting on the air. Once all the procedural hurdles are cleared, a new owner still needs investments and advertising to pay for operations. “Raising money is very hard,” says John Kompas of the Community Broadcasters Association. “The money generally comes out of the broadcaster’s back pocket.”

When Bill Wright went looking for backing for his low-power station in Dallas, he found himself trapped in a bureaucratic Catch-22. The Small Business Administration told him, “If you go out and find the bank, we’ll guarantee the loan.” But banks told him they would only loan him the money if he had the guarantee.

The smaller broadcast range of low-power television also makes it harder to attract advertisers and lenders. “Low-power TV is not considered a full-class service,” explains Jim Winston, executive director of the National Association of Black-Owned Broadcasters. “It’s a secondary service. If I put a full-power TV station on the air in your area, you have to close down. So you can’t afford to invest any serious money in low-power TV, because you can be forced off the air.”

To make matters worse, LPTV “came at the wrong time,” says Pluria Marshall of the National Black Media Coalition. “Low-power TV was introduced right at the time when the networks had lost another 20 percent of their audience to cable. The structural money makers were beginning to slip — so why should somebody fool with a little low-power station?”

 

“Pure Hell”

Hampered by regulatory and financial obstacles, the few people of color who have managed to get low-power licenses in the South are struggling to stay on the air. James Sim, a Korean American, is directing low-power broadcasts to Asian Americans in Rosswell, Georgia — but his limited broadcast range of 25 miles also limits advertising. “I built it, transmitter and everything, for about $200,000,” says Sim. “I’m still losing money.”

Florida is among the states with the highest concentration of low-power TV, and Enrique Perez is among the new low-power owners serving Latino viewers in Tampa and Miami. Perez and his partners spent about $ 100,000 to start the station, and the size and wealth of their audience has helped them make ends meet. “When you get to the Hispanic market, we’re the only game in town,” Perez says. “The reason we’re able to stay in business is that our costs are lower than full power.”

Even with lower costs, though, affordable programming can be hard to come by. In Georgia, Sim imports shows from Korea, and Perez relies on the Univision network for 90 percent of his Spanish-language programming in Florida. In Texas, Bill Wright uses local camera people as stringers to broadcast city council meetings and parades. “As far as minority angles go, I cover such things as NAACP meetings. But I’m understaffed and underfinanced; I can’t do as much as I want to.”

Some African-American owners have also faced outright racial hostility. Lee and Judith Jackson did broadcast consulting in Mississippi to make ends meet while they built a low-power station in Indianapolis. When the station went on the air, they began broadcasting black news programs, African-American movies, and forums for black officials and church members.

Before long, however, white residents launched a campaign of terror against the station. Newscasts were targeted daily for interference. A technical employee was beaten. The station was broken into several times. Potential advertisers were harassed as they entered the station.

“That’s what it was like for two and a half years,” says Lee Jackson. “It was pure hell.”

The county sheriff helped protect the station transmitter, but the intimidation continued. “I felt like I was in 1960 back in Wazoo, Mississippi,” Jackson recalls.

 

Talking White

African Americans who have started new FM drop-in stations have also faced hostility — primarily from established stations. “The industry worries that any new competition divides up the advertising pie in their market, and they’re going to make less money,” says Jim Winston of the National Association of Black-Owned Broadcasters. “There is a great deal of hostility to any new stations of any kind.”

But the competition hasn’t stopped black broadcasters from starting up 80-90 stations in cities like Little Rock and Nashville. Al Davis went on the air in Texarkana, Texas last August to provide an alternative to the country music that dominated the airwaves. Listeners were “elated,” he says — but other broadcasters were suspicious. “Of course, another station coming into this market takes another slice of the pie.”

For Fred Matthews, the new FM stations provided a measure of control in a white-dominated industry. “I’m a broadcaster through and through,” he says. “I’ve worked from disc jockey to sales to announcing. Quite frankly, there wasn’t a whole lot of opportunity for a black man on the management side. Everybody who hired you and signed a paycheck was white.”

Like many black broadcasters, Matthews was expected to conform to the expectations of white managers. “You had to talk a certain way,” he recalls. “Everybody had to talk like they were from Indiana or Nebraska. The first thing a manager told me when I got out of school was you’ve got to learn how to talk white.”

Now Fred and his wife Anna are going on the air with an FM drop-in station in Jacksonville, Florida — one of the top 50 markets in the country — with a mix of “urban contemporary” and jazz music, plus a daily talk show and in-depth news reports. Although they don’t have to “talk white” anymore, they still find themselves confronting racial stereotypes.

“The advertising community takes the attitude that you’re urban, so you don’t have white people listening to you,” says Matthews. “Most business people are simply not going to buy advertising at a black station, and they can’t tell you why. It’s simply not in their frame of reference.”

Although Matthews received a license with relatively little trouble, he does not encourage others to apply for new broadcast stations. “It can be a very disheartening thing,” he says. “I would not go through it again. I would not recommend for anybody to go through it unless they have a great deal of patience.”

But for those with money and connections, FM drop-ins can be very profitable. Most are twice as powerful as older stations, giving them a wider broadcast range — and thus greater money-making potential. As a result, some white applicants have used people of color as “fronts” to win license approval from the FCC. The ruse — known in the industry as “Rent a Black” — has shut some African Americans out of the market and slowed the approval process for legitimate applicants.

Ervin Hester of Durham, North Carolina knows about such scams only too well. After two decades as a radio broadcaster, he wanted his own operation. “I spent eight and a half years working for a station that was white-owned,” he recalls. “I was in sales, sports, programming — I did everything but carry the money home.”

Hester could not afford to buy an existing station. “So when Docket 80-90 came along, I said this thing is tailor-made for me.” With money he made in the cellular telephone business, he put together plans to apply for a drop-in station.

Then Thomas Root and several other white businessmen calling their outfit “Sonrise Management” persuaded Hester to join their application for a license. He was skeptical, but finally agreed. When Sonrise turned out to be a scam, Hester confronted the group and testified against Root, who was indicted and imprisoned.

But the damage was done. Because he participated in the venture, Hester now feels he is barred from receiving a license. “It was a great opportunity for African Americans,” he says. “It’s gone now as far as I’m concerned.”

 

Beyond Ownership

Hester is not the only African-American broadcaster who has grown disillusioned with the prospect of owning new radio and TV stations. Some advocates and scholars now say that low-power TV was doomed from the outset — and that it will soon be obsolete as established stations take over more of the broadcast spectrum to introduce a technology called “high-definition” TV.

“Low power was always a trojan horse to try to get minorities to back off their demands for participation in full-power broadcasting,” contends Nolan Bowie of Temple University. As high-definition TV emerges, he says, the FCC is handing over more of the spectrum to established broadcasters. “It basically freezes in place the current ownership pattern. The tradeoff is loss of diversity to develop a newer technology.”

Seasoned scholars of public policy and social processes say new technologies such as low-power TV and 80-90 stations produce familiar power plays. Associate Professor Carolyn Marvin of the University of Pennsylvania finds historical precedent in the advent of electricity during the 1800s. “Every new communications technology provides a new stage for working out notions of community,” she says. People who wield power use technology to keep high status for themselves, and lower status for others.

Professor Oscar Gandy Jr. of the University of Pennsylvania points to the broadcast industry’s harsh criticism of the FCC for adding new FM stations to the spectrum. New mass media, he says, “threaten the equilibrium of the marketplace, and those policy actors most at risk . . . are first in line to demand regulatory protection.”

Given such limitations to low-power TV and FM drop-ins, many advocates are turning their attention to alternatives to ownership. Some, like Nolan Bowie, propose that existing stations be required to share their broadcasting rights by providing public access to the airwaves. Under such a system, radio and television stations would operate like telephone companies, allowing everyone to use their facilities to transmit programs.

In the meantime, advocates say, African Americans and other people of color should focus on gaining more control of full-power facilities. Those involved in the process know they face barriers, but they are determined to force the broadcast industry to air a wider — and more representative — range of voices.

“If we got the money to buy a station, we don’t need to be competing in low-power or 80-90,” says Pluria Marshall of the National Black Media Coalition. “We just need to go ahead and buy us a regular radio or TV station — and do a good job of making it work.”