BET ERASES YEARS OF BLACK JOURNALISM — SO WHEN DO WE START CARING BEFORE IT HAPPENS TO US?
When Black culture builds the value, who protects the history—and who ultimately controls the house?
WRITER: Miss Hollywood | The MissHollywoodMediaNetwork
There are stories that make you shake your head.
There are stories that make you angry.
And then there are stories that begin with one headline and unexpectedly open the door to a much larger conversation.
This is one of those stories.
On August 18, 2026, BET announced that BET.com had been reimagined as a “video-first” destination, moving away from what the company itself called the traditional standalone-publisher model. The new strategy connects audiences with BET material across YouTube, social platforms, Paramount+, BET and other destinations rather than relying primarily on written articles hosted on BET.com.
Media changes.
Technology changes.
Audience habits change.
I understand that.
What I have a much harder time understanding is why evolution should make history harder to find.
Because alongside BET's digital transformation, its written journalism largely disappeared from the live web. Years of articles were no longer available on BET.com—work produced by journalists who spent years documenting Black entertainment, politics, culture, people and history.
And that is where this stopped being a story about a website redesign for me.
Because those weren't simply webpages.
That was journalism.
And journalism eventually becomes history.
THIS WASN'T JUST “CONTENT”
We have become so accustomed to calling everything online “content” that sometimes I think we forget what the word can conceal.
A journalist's article isn't merely something taking up space between advertisements.
It can be someone's professional record.
It can contain an interview with a person who is no longer alive.
It can document what a community believed during a historic moment.
It can preserve language, reactions and perspectives that future generations may use to understand what happened before them.
And for Black Americans especially, preservation matters.
Our stories have not always been adequately documented by institutions outside our community. Black journalists and Black media have historically had to tell stories other outlets ignored, minimized or misunderstood.
So when years of journalism from a media institution carrying the name Black Entertainment Television become unavailable on its active website, I don't believe the appropriate response is:
Oh well. Everybody watches videos now.
No.
I have questions.
Lots of them.
BET SAYS IT IS MOVING FORWARD
And fairness matters here.
BET has not announced that it is abandoning journalism altogether.
In fact, one day after announcing its video-first transformation, BET Digital announced a Community Reporting Initiative, a national program designed to create opportunities for multimedia journalists producing original video and multimedia reporting.
BET specifically identified New York, Los Angeles, Memphis, Atlanta, Washington, D.C., Houston and Kentucky among the markets involved.
I actually hope it succeeds.
Seriously.
Black communities need journalists who understand the communities they're covering.
We need young reporters.
We need independent voices.
We need multimedia journalists.
We need people on the ground.
We need new ways of telling stories.
My problem isn't with BET embracing video.
My problem is with the idea that embracing tomorrow somehow requires making yesterday less accessible.
Why can't we do both?
Why can't video be the future while written journalism remains part of the archive?
Why can't you innovate and preserve?
Why can't you build something new without dismantling access to what came before it?
Those aren't unreasonable questions.
THEN THE INTERNET ARCHIVE STEPPED IN
Thankfully, there is an important update to this story.
Much of this journalism isn't literally gone forever.
The Internet Archive says it preserved more than 199,000 BET articles over the years and has made that material accessible through the Wayback Machine and a pilot BET explorer.
More than 199,000.
Let that number sit for a second.
I'm thrilled somebody preserved them.
But I also find the situation incredibly revealing.
An independent nonprofit organization devoted to preserving digital history recognized that BET's journalism was worth saving.
And now that outside organization is helping provide access to journalism no longer available on BET's live website.
That raises an uncomfortable question:
Why wasn't preserving and presenting that history equally important to the institution that originally published it?
I'm not saying BET needed to maintain an outdated website forever.
That's ridiculous.
Build the new website.
Lead with video.
Create new shows.
Hire multimedia journalists.
Develop creators.
Compete.
Evolve.
But archive the damn history.
Progress and preservation are not enemies.
AND NOW WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT WHO CONTROLS BET
There is an elephant sitting in the middle of this conversation.
Let's stop walking around it.
BET is not Black owned.
That fact matters here.
BET began in 1980 under Robert L. Johnson as a network created specifically around programming for Black Americans. Johnson built it into a groundbreaking business; BET became the first Black-owned company traded on the New York Stock Exchange. In 2001, Viacom completed its acquisition of BET for approximately $3 billion.
That sale ended BET's run as an independently Black-owned media company.
Fast-forward to today.
BET exists within Paramount.
And Paramount's current corporate structure deserves to be stated accurately because I don't want anyone walking away from this article with an exaggerated version of the facts.
David Ellison does not personally own BET in the simplistic sense that somebody owns a private corner store.
David Ellison is Chairman and CEO of Paramount. Paramount's own SEC filing states that the Ellison family—Lawrence “Larry” Ellison and David Ellison—is Paramount's controlling stockholder and ultimate parent.
As of June 30, 2026, entities controlled by the Ellison family indirectly held approximately 77.5% of Paramount's voting Class A common stock through their ownership interest in Harbor Lights Entertainment.
That's the factual corporate structure.
Now let's have the cultural conversation.
WHEN BLACK CULTURE IS THE PRODUCT, WHO OWNS THE HOUSE?
Here comes the uncomfortable question:
At what point should we start talking about exploitation?
Notice exactly what I said.
I'm asking the question.
I am not declaring that BET's present corporate structure proves that Black America is being exploited.
Exploitation is a serious accusation.
But refusing to even examine the relationship between culture, ownership and profit because the subject makes people uncomfortable would be intellectually lazy.
So, let's examine it.
What happens when Black culture remains enormously valuable as entertainment, identity, audience and commercial product—but Black people no longer ultimately control the institution bearing the name Black Entertainment Television?
The music is ours.
The stories are ours.
The fashion is ours.
The language is ours.
The entertainers are ours.
The journalists are ours.
The cultural moments are ours.
The audience that helped make BET culturally significant was ours.
But the ultimate corporate control isn't.
That does not automatically equal exploitation.
But it damn sure deserves a conversation.
Because somewhere along the way, I think we've become far too comfortable confusing Black representation with Black ownership.
They are not the same thing.
Seeing Black faces on television doesn't mean Black people own the television network.
Having Black executives doesn't necessarily mean Black people ultimately control the corporation.
Watching an awards show celebrating Black excellence doesn't mean Black people own the platform broadcasting it.
And having Black journalists write the stories doesn't necessarily mean those journalists control what happens to their stories twenty years later.
Representation can put us in the picture.
Ownership can determine what eventually happens to the picture.
Now those missing articles look a little different, don't they?
FROM BLACK-OWNED BEGINNINGS TO CORPORATE CONTROL: Robert L. Johnson founded BET in 1980 and built it into a groundbreaking Black-owned media company. Viacom acquired BET in 2001. Today, BET Media Group operates within Paramount, where David Ellison serves as Chairman and CEO and the Ellison family is identified in Paramount’s SEC filings as its controlling stockholder and ultimate parent.
WHO GETS TO DECIDE WHAT IS WORTH PRESERVING?
Who decides which pieces of Black cultural history remain easily accessible?
Who decides what has enough value to maintain?
Who decides what's obsolete?
Who decides which generation of journalism remains visible?
Who decides when something created yesterday no longer fits tomorrow's business model?
These are not merely technical questions.
They're power questions.
And power questions eventually become ownership questions.
I'm glad the Internet Archive preserved more than 199,000 BET articles.
But I cannot ignore the symbolism of an outside organization becoming an important caretaker of journalism originally produced under one of the most recognizable Black media brands in America.
That deserves examination.
WE BUILT THE CULTURAL VALUE
Now here is another part that may piss somebody off.
Fine.
I'm asking anyway.
Black America did not merely watch BET.
Black America helped make BET valuable.
Our artists performed there.
Our journalists reported there.
Our comedians made us laugh there.
Our activists had conversations there.
Our politicians appeared there.
Our young people watched Teen Summit.
Our music helped make 106 & Park appointment television for a generation.
Our gospel artists had a home there.
Our actors, directors, producers, writers, hosts, dancers, photographers, stylists and countless people behind the scenes helped give BET an identity.
And our audiences showed up.
Our culture supplied the electricity.
That cultural value matters.
And we should be mature enough to discuss what happens when an institution built around Black cultural identity exists within a corporate structure ultimately controlled elsewhere.
That doesn't mean somebody “stole BET.”
Robert Johnson built a successful company and sold it. The 2001 Viacom acquisition was approximately $3 billion. That's business, and it is part of BET's history.
But corporate transactions don't eliminate our right to examine their cultural consequences.
A MOMENT IN BLACK CULTURAL HISTORY: The inaugural BET Awards in 2001 brought together an extraordinary celebration of Black music and entertainment, with appearances and performances from some of the era’s most recognizable voices and stars—including the iconic voice of Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, Bow Wow, Jay-Z, Trina, Usher, Missy Elliott, Destiny’s Child, Regina Belle, Mo’Nique and so many more. For those of us who lived this era, these weren’t simply television moments. They became part of our cultural memory. We watched together. We celebrated together. And more than two decades later, many of us still hold moments like these very near to our hearts. This is the cultural value I’m talking about.
WHO PROFITS FROM BLACK CULTURE—AND WHO CONTROLS IT?
Maybe that's one of the most important questions in this entire article.
Who profits from Black culture while Black people have less ownership or ultimate control over some of the institutions distributing that culture?
And this goes far beyond BET.
Music.
Television.
Film.
Sports.
Fashion.
Publishing.
News.
Social media.
Digital platforms.
We can be the talent.
We can be the audience.
We can be the trendsetters.
We can be the journalists.
We can create the language everybody eventually starts using.
We can make something culturally indispensable.
But being the talent, employee, audience, subject or consumer is fundamentally different from being the owner.
Those are different seats at the table.
And some seats come with considerably more power than others.
BLACK CREATORS. BLACK OWNERSHIP. BLACK POWER BEHIND THE CAMERA: From industry giants who have built companies, studios and decades-long bodies of work to independent filmmakers and media entrepreneurs building their own intellectual property today, Black ownership exists at many stages and scales. This collage includes filmmakers, producers, executives and entrepreneurs such as Spike Lee, Tyler Perry, Lee Daniels, Byron Allen, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson, Jodi Gomes and others whose work demonstrates the many ways Black creators have moved beyond simply appearing in the culture to helping produce, shape and own it.
Also represented is Miss Hollywood, founder of MissHollywoodMedia LLC and The MissHollywoodMedia Network, author and creator of Sam’s Diary, an independently owned novel now being developed for the screen. Her inclusion is not presented as a comparison of career scale or industry stature, but as part of the continuum this conversation is about: Black creators building, developing and retaining ownership of their own stories and intellectual property.
Some have built empires. Some are building companies. Some are financing films. Some are producing documentaries. Some are creating their first independently owned projects. Different stages. Different levels of recognition. But the principle remains the same: creating the culture and owning what you create are not the same thing—and ownership matters.
SO, WHAT DOES BLACK AMERICA THINK ABOUT THIS?
Now I want to hear from us.
How do African Americans and other people of color feel about BET removing years of written journalism from its active website?
Does it feel like an ordinary business decision?
Does it feel like progress?
Does it feel insignificant?
Or does it feel like something important has been disregarded?
BET didn't become BET simply because somebody put three letters on a television screen.
Black viewers helped build BET.
Black journalists helped build BET.
Black entertainers helped build BET.
Black producers helped build BET.
Black writers, editors, photographers, executives and staff helped build BET.
And Black audiences gave BET something no corporation can simply manufacture:
Cultural relevance.
AND WHAT DO TODAY'S BET TALENTS THINK?
I want to know something else.
What do the Black entertainers, creators, hosts, journalists and personalities currently benefiting from BET's platform think about this?
Have they spoken?
Are they concerned?
Do they believe preserving the work of journalists who came before them matters?
Do they believe BET should maintain a publicly accessible historical archive?
Or does the issue simply not receive the same attention when it doesn't directly affect someone's platform, contract or paycheck?
Now before somebody starts typing furiously:
That isn't an accusation against any particular entertainer.
It's a question.
And it's worth asking.
Because there's a strange habit in media—and frankly in life—where people become extremely passionate about structural problems after the structure finally lands on top of them.
WHEN DO WE STAND UP FOR SOMETHING?
And this is where BET becomes merely the doorway into something much bigger.
What will it take for the Black community to stand up for one another, for our communities—and sometimes simply stand up for something?
Yes, we love a good gossip column.
Hell, I do too.
We love entertainment.
We love celebrity drama.
We love laughing.
We'll spend an afternoon discussing who's dating whom, who's beefing with whom, who unfollowed somebody, who went live, who cheated, who got exposed and who needs to mind their damn business.
There is nothing wrong with having fun.
But somewhere between the entertainment and the laughter:
We still have a community to protect.
There are pressing issues within our culture.
Education.
Economics.
Violence.
Health disparities.
Political representation.
Black ownership.
Media ownership.
The disappearance of Black institutions.
The preservation of Black history.
The instability facing journalists.
The ownership of platforms telling Black stories.
Yet too often something doesn't become important until it becomes personal.
Until it's:
My job.
My money.
My neighborhood.
My child.
My platform.
My opportunity.
My livelihood.
And that's a dangerous way for any community to operate.
Because eventually that issue you've been ignoring may walk right past everybody else and arrive at your address.
AND BEFORE YOU COME FOR ME…
Before somebody comes for me because I said it, understand something:
I'm speaking my opinion.
But I'm also saying publicly what many people discuss privately and may never admit publicly.
There are other communities that understand the value of collective support.
When something threatens their businesses, institutions, history or opportunities, people organize.
They advocate.
They preserve.
They spend intentionally.
They make noise.
No racial or ethnic community is perfectly unified.
Of course not.
People within every community disagree.
So I'm not romanticizing anybody else or suggesting Black people are a monolith.
I'm asking whether enough of us understand the urgency of protecting something even when the immediate problem hasn't reached us personally.
Because sometimes we turn up our noses.
We shrug.
We put the headphones on.
Blast the volume and tune the whole damn thing out.
“That doesn't have anything to do with me.”
Until it does.
Then suddenly:
Where is everybody?
Where are the journalists?
Where are the celebrities?
Where are the organizations?
Why isn't anybody sharing this?
Why isn't anybody speaking?
Why doesn't anybody care?
And I have to ask:
Where was that same energy when somebody else's house was burning?
NEVER GET BIGGER THAN THE PROGRAM
There is another layer to this conversation we don't discuss nearly enough.
We're living through the rise of content creators, independent commentators, bloggers, podcasters, citizen journalists—and yes, people who simply adopted the title “journalist” somewhere along the way.
Some went to journalism school.
Some came through traditional newsrooms.
Some learned by doing the work.
And some of those people are putting out damn good information.
The gatekeepers aren't the only people with keys anymore.
That's a beautiful thing.
But sometimes something changes when people begin getting invited into rooms they once reported about from outside.
They forget.
They forget when nobody returned the email.
They forget when they weren't on the press list.
They forget when nobody knew their name.
They forget when they were building an audience one follower at a time.
They forget when they were the independent creator wondering why established media wouldn't acknowledge them.
Then the invitations start coming.
The followers increase.
Celebrities know their names.
They're backstage.
They're at premieres.
They're sitting courtside.
They're rubbing noses with entertainers, executives, politicians, millionaires and the people society has decided are the “big players.”
And somewhere along the way, some people begin believing they have become bigger than the program.
Be careful with that.
Because history has an interesting way of humbling people.
History doesn't forget.
Sometimes history behaves like a bad case of karma—showing up at precisely the right moment to remind all of us who we are NOT.
You can become wealthy.
You can become famous.
You can become influential.
You can have millions of followers.
You can have access most people could only dream about.
You can shake hands with executives and have celebrities stored in your contacts.
But proximity to power and ownership of power are not the same thing.
Never confuse the two.
There have always been affluent Black people in powerful positions.
Black entertainers.
Executives.
Journalists.
Athletes.
Entrepreneurs.
Politicians.
Professionals.
And American history has repeatedly demonstrated something uncomfortable:
Status does not erase race.
Your bank account may change.
Your ZIP code may change.
Your title may change.
Your circle may change.
Your access may change.
Your clothes may change.
The restaurants you enter may change.
The rooms you're invited into may change.
Your skin didn't.
That doesn't mean every Black American experiences racism identically.
We don't.
It doesn't mean money and power don't provide enormous advantages.
They obviously can.
It means wealth, celebrity and professional achievement have never completely insulated Black Americans from racial bias or unequal treatment.
And society can remind people of that distinction quickly.
Sometimes subtly.
Sometimes publicly.
Sometimes financially.
Sometimes professionally.
That's why community matters before you need it.
That's why institutions matter.
That's why ownership matters.
That's why archives matter.
That's why the person writing the story today should care about what happened to the person whose story disappeared yesterday.
Because tomorrow?
Somebody may be deciding what happens to yours.
TALK ABOUT A FALL FROM GRACE
There's something sobering about watching someone discover the importance of community only after losing the privileges that once seemed to separate them from it.
One day, the problem belongs to those people.
Then life happens.
Now you're one of those people.
Now you need somebody to care.
Now you need somebody to speak.
Now you need somebody with a platform.
Now you need journalists.
Now you need the community.
Now you're asking why everybody is so quiet.
And suddenly the silence you once tolerated sounds completely different.
Because the platform doesn't make you untouchable.
The followers don't make you untouchable.
The money doesn't make you untouchable.
Celebrity friendships don't make you untouchable.
VIP sections don't make you untouchable.
Television appearances don't make you untouchable.
And being useful to a corporation today certainly doesn't mean you'll be useful to that corporation tomorrow.
Corporations change direction.
Budgets disappear.
Shows get canceled.
Contracts don't get renewed.
Executives leave.
Algorithms change.
Audiences move on.
And one day you may discover something painfully humbling:
You're just a regular human being asking somebody—ANYBODY—to give a damn.
Wheww Hunnii!!
Talk about a fall from grace.
THIS IS PERSONAL FOR ME TOO
And before anybody tries to reduce this article to me standing outside the Black community criticizing Black people, let me make something extremely clear:
I am an African American woman.
I am part of this community.
I have lived inside this culture.
I have celebrated it.
I have defended it.
I have been inspired by it.
And yes—I have also struggled with my own thoughts and feelings about parts of my own African American culture.
There.
I said it.
And I would be willing to bet plenty of other African Americans have wrestled with some of the same frustrations, contradictions and disappointments.
They just may never admit it.
Some say it at home.
Some whisper it to people they trust.
Some think it and immediately feel guilty for thinking it.
Some won't touch the conversation because they know exactly what happens when you question something within your own community publicly.
But pretending those feelings don't exist doesn't make them disappear.
Loving your culture does not mean you're forbidden from questioning it.
Being proud of your people doesn't require pretending everything is perfect.
And caring about your community should never require silence when you believe something within that community deserves examination.
When I ask why we don't always stand together, I'm not saying:
“You people.”
I'm saying:
US.
I'm talking about us.
And I include myself in that examination.
I've had to question my own thinking.
My frustration.
My disappointment.
My expectations.
Am I being fair?
Am I reacting from hurt?
Am I expecting too much?
Or am I seeing something that deserves to be said?
Self-examination isn't always comfortable.
Maybe that's precisely why we need more of it.
CRITICISM ISN'T BETRAYAL
If every serious conversation about Black America immediately becomes:
“Why are you attacking Black people?”
we aren't going to get very far.
Accountability isn't automatically an attack.
Criticism isn't automatically hatred.
Questioning your community isn't automatically betrayal.
Sometimes the person asking the uncomfortable question isn't the enemy.
Sometimes they're simply tired of pretending they don't see what they see.
I love Black culture.
I love Black creativity.
I love Black resilience.
I love Black brilliance.
I love what Black Americans have contributed to this country and the world.
But love doesn't require blindness.
And pride doesn't require silence.
“WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH BET?”
I can already hear somebody asking it.
“Miss Hollywood, what does all of this have to do with BET removing old articles?”
My response is simple:
If you have to ask that question, you still don't understand what's happening.
But you will.
Because this isn't merely about webpages.
It's about how quickly work can be valued until somebody decides it isn't.
It's about how quickly access can disappear.
It's about how quickly corporations change direction.
It's about ownership.
It's about institutional memory.
It's about who gets to decide what history remains readily accessible.
It's about how easily people who documented a culture can discover that preserving their contributions wasn't part of somebody else's next business plan.
And it's about what happens when the rest of us shrug because:
It hasn't happened to me.
Yet.
YET.
That three-letter word matters.
Today's journalist whose article disappears could be tomorrow's creator whose platform disappears.
Today's personality with a contract could be tomorrow's personality without one.
Today's executive making decisions could be tomorrow's former executive.
Today's creator benefiting from an algorithm could wake up tomorrow and discover the algorithm has moved on.
Today's person inside the room could become tomorrow's person standing outside wondering why nobody remembers that they helped build it.
And today's person who thinks community problems belong to somebody else can become tomorrow's person desperately asking:
“Where is my community?”
SO YES, THIS IS ABOUT BET—AND NO, IT ISN'T JUST ABOUT BET
It's about Black journalism.
It's about Black media ownership.
It's about institutional memory.
It's about corporate power.
It's about cultural preservation.
It's about representation versus ownership.
It's about who profits.
It's about who creates.
It's about who controls.
It's about what we tolerate.
It's about what we ignore.
It's about what we preserve.
It's about what we allow to disappear.
And ultimately, it's about us.
BET started this conversation for me.
But ownership, power, preservation and our relationship with our own culture are where the conversation ultimately took me.
And maybe that's why some of this feels uncomfortable.
Because perhaps somewhere underneath all the defensiveness, some of us recognize pieces of the truth.
AND YES, THIS ARTICLE MAY PISS SOME PEOPLE OFF
I know.
I don't give a fuck.
Not because I'm trying to be provocative for clicks.
Not because I enjoy disrespecting people.
And certainly not because I believe everyone must agree with me.
You don't.
As I've said many times:
“I don't have to INSULT you to DISAGREE with you.”
So disagree.
Challenge me.
Bring another perspective.
Bring facts.
Bring an argument.
Come to the table.
But don't tell me we shouldn't discuss Black journalism, Black institutions, Black ownership and Black history because somebody with a title, platform, relationship or paycheck might become uncomfortable.
Discomfort doesn't make a question invalid.
Sometimes discomfort is the evidence that the question needed to be asked.
There will always be another celebrity scandal.
Another messy relationship.
Another viral argument.
Another person going live.
Another gossip column.
Another meme.
Another reason to laugh.
And trust me, I'll probably be right there laughing too.
But there will not always be another opportunity to preserve what generations before us built.
So when do we stand up?
When do we decide something affecting our community deserves the same energy we give entertainment?
When do people with enormous platforms speak even when speaking doesn't increase their engagement, visibility or paycheck?
When do we care before the problem becomes ours?
When do we stop putting the headphones on and turning up the volume?
When do we stop waiting for something to knock at our front door, drag us out by our hair AND our wallet, and remind us that the problem we've ignored has finally learned our address?
When does it end?
Maybe the more frightening question is:
DOES IT EVER?
And if you're still wondering what any of this has to do with BET removing years of Black journalism from its active website…
You clearly still don't understand what's happening.
But you will.
— Miss Hollywood
EDITOR'S NOTE: This article combines reported facts with opinion and cultural commentary. BET's transition to a video-first BET.com and its Community Reporting Initiative are documented in BET's official August 2026 announcements. The Internet Archive reports preserving more than 199,000 BET articles no longer available on the live web. Paramount's SEC filings identify the Ellison family as Paramount's controlling stockholder and David Ellison as Paramount's Chairman and CEO. Questions raised here concerning exploitation, community responsibility, race, cultural ownership and BET's evolution represent the writer's commentary and are not presented as established findings of fact.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Miss Hollywood is a media host, producer, author, music artist, songwriter and filmmaker, and the founder of MissHollywoodMedia LLC and The MissHollywoodMedia Network. Through The Chat with Miss Hollywood, she has built an independent platform centered on commentary, interviews, entertainment, news, culture and conversations that are not always comfortable—but are often necessary.
As an independent Black media creator, Miss Hollywood approaches storytelling from both sides of the conversation: as someone who deeply values Black culture and its contributions, and as someone who believes that love for one's community should never eliminate the willingness to question it.
Her work includes The Daily News Wrap, Conversations with Miss Hollywood, the investigative series Cruise Ship unSOLVED, and the novel Sam's Diary, which she is developing for the screen.
Her philosophy remains simple:
“I don't have to INSULT you to DISAGREE with you.”
Through The MissHollywoodMedia Network, she continues to create, document and preserve stories independently—while asking who tells our stories, who owns the platforms that distribute them, and who will protect those stories after we're gone.
Website: THECHATWITHMISSHOLLYWOOD.COM
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