In a world full of anchors who read from teleprompters like it’s gospel and smile on cue like showroom mannequins, Lisa Evers was a different breed—a street-tough storyteller in designer heels, a martial artist in a newsroom blazer, a woman who could throw a roundhouse kick and a hard question with equal force.
Born June 15, 1953, in Chicago—a city that raises fighters—Evers carved a career that looked more like a maze than a straight line. She’s been a model in Paris, a black belt in karate, a Guardian Angel on the subway beat, a radio voice for the voiceless, and a reporter who never blinked in the face of police tape or political deflection. Now in her seventies, she’s not slowing down. She’s just changing gears—and driving faster.
From Runway to Radio Waves
You could argue Lisa Evers’ life started on a subway platform. That’s where a fashion photographer first spotted her in the 1980s—just another face in a New York crowd until fate zoomed in. Test shots led to a contract with Elite Model Management, and suddenly she was strutting the fashion capitals of the world. Elle, Vogue, Australia, Paris, India—her face was everywhere.
But Evers wasn’t just another tall, poised mannequin in stiletto shoes. There was muscle under that makeup. Fire behind the smile. Her time in modeling was real, glamorous even—but temporary. A side gig in a life too restless for the runway.
Kicks, Confidence & the Black Belt Hall of Fame
While most people use self-defense as a metaphor, Lisa Evers could actually knock you flat. In an era before it was trendy or televised, she earned her black belt in karate, a trailblazer in a world where most women were still being told to keep their keys between their fingers and hope for the best. She didn’t hope—she trained.
In 1987, Evers became the first woman inducted into the Black Belt Hall of Fame as “Woman of the Year.” Between 1986 and 1994, she penned monthly columns in Black Belt Magazine, dishing out advice not just on physical defense but psychological strength. Her message was simple: If you’re going to be in the world, be ready to defend your space in it.
Guardian Angel in Red and Black
You can’t talk about Lisa Evers without the Guardian Angels—those crimson-bereted subway vigilantes who walked the roughest platforms of New York City in the 1980s when crack ruled the corners and fear rode the third rail.
Lisa, then known as Lisa Sliwa, was married to the Angels’ firebrand founder, Curtis Sliwa. But she wasn’t just the founder’s wife—she was vice president of the organization, pounding the pavement in boots and beret. She became a street soldier long before she coined the phrase on her own airwaves.
She and Curtis hosted a WABC-AM radio show, a bruising back-and-forth broadcast that felt more like a verbal brawl than a segment. Their marriage would end in 1995, but the instincts she sharpened in those red-and-black patrol days never dulled.
A Wrestling Detour with the WWF
Because why not? In the mid-1980s, Evers stepped briefly into the squared circle of the World Wrestling Federation, appearing on Tuesday Night Titans in 1985. It was campy, choreographed, and completely chaotic—but Evers made it her own, demonstrating self-defense holds and challenging the boys’ club feel of pro wrestling.
It didn’t last long—but then again, Evers has always been more about reality than theater. Even when it bleeds.
From Street Beats to Studio Lights
By the 2000s, Lisa Evers was no longer stalking subway platforms—she was chasing stories. Real stories. Crime. Corruption. Community activism. Hip hop politics. Gentrification. Gangs. Gun violence. Everything that bleeds, echoes, or screams into a lens.
She landed at FOX 5 News in New York as a general assignment reporter and built something bigger: Street Soldiers, a HOT 97 radio segment that became a full-fledged television series on FOX 5 by 2016.
Her show? It’s not for the faint of heart. One minute she’s interviewing 50 Cent, the next she’s talking to grieving mothers in housing projects. She’s put Jay-Z, DMX, Fetty Wap, and Diddy across from her mic—but she’s just as comfortable talking to NYPD brass or gang leaders trying to walk away from blood ties.
Where most journalists stick to scripts, Evers jumps fences. Literally. If there’s a fire, she’s on the ground. If there’s a protest, she’s got the bullhorn audio. If there’s a kid with a story, she listens.
Charity as a Contact Sport
Lisa doesn’t just report on community—she builds it. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, she organized a truckload of clothes, toys, and sneakers for survivors. After Superstorm Sandy, she and the Hip Hop Has Heart Foundationhelped mobilize relief for the Rockaways.
It’s charity with sneakers on. Volunteerism that shows up with a clipboard and a crowbar. For Evers, giving back isn’t a press release—it’s a blueprint.
The Voice That Doesn’t Quit
In an era where media is sliced, diced, algorithm-fed, and regurgitated in 60-second reels, Lisa Evers still believes in longform. In depth. In hearing people out—even if what they’re saying isn’t neat or PR-approved.
She started out at WINS, then worked the mic at CNN Radio and ABC Radio Network. But HOT 97? That’s home turf. That’s where Street Soldiers was born, where Evers became more than a reporter—she became a translator of trauma, a bridge between the power players and the forgotten.
When kids talk to her, they aren’t just subjects. They’re the story.
Lisa Evers, Now
At 72, most people are checking retirement packages or planning cruises. Evers is still asking hard questions. Still on the beat. Still stepping into neighborhoods most anchors only fly over in choppers.
Her hair might be silver now, but her style is still steel-toed. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pander. Doesn’t post selfies with victims. She tells their stories. That’s rarer than it should be.
In a world of viral videos and soft-serve journalism, Lisa Evers is a steel jaw on a windy day. A black belt in the art of getting the story, not becoming it. She didn’t just walk through the fires of modeling, martial arts, wrestling, and media—she dragged a mic behind her the whole time and recorded every scream.
Still reporting. Still kicking. Still a street soldier.