Our Black Year (24 page)

She was also able to keep her sense of humor during insulting encounters, like the times Tracye would be working with her manager, who was White, and a vendor would direct his sales pitch to him. “My manager would point to me and say, ‘She's the owner,'” Tracye recalled with
a chuckle. “Needless to say, they didn't get a sale.” She sighed and smiled. “People need to break out of these boxes.”

The interior of WineStyles looked just like all the fancy shops on Oak Park Avenue and in downtown Chicago. Hundreds of wine bottles in wood and marble-trimmed cases lined the walls, complimenting the oak barrels that doubled as bar stools. Leather couches and high tables were placed throughout. That day an older Black couple sat in one of the couches, with two bottles of wine on the coffee table in front of them. But most of the customers were White. The bar was full of White patrons, who seemed like they were all together for a tasting. They laughed as Tracye charmed them. I picked up two bottles of wine from Black-owned Heritage Link Brands—the Mhudi and Bukettraube—and came over to the bar to say hello.

“Hey, girl,” I said to Tracye. “You do your thang. I see you're hosting a tasting right now. I'm gonna leave you exact change, okay? Just mail me a receipt.”

She poured them all another round, excused herself, and then stepped around the bar.

“Child, please,” Tracye said. “Give me a hug, honey.” She moved gracefully and seemed so happy. I wished all my EE entrepreneurs looked that way.

“I heard Cara's party was awesome,” Tracye said, a reference to Cara's fourth birthday party, held a week earlier at a Black-owned Reggio's Pizza parlor about a mile and a half from WineStyles.

“Honey, if you get me started on that party,” I said, “I'll keep you here all day. Go back to your customers. You got me forever, girl. I want you to get
new
business.”

I pulled out my credit card to buy the wines.

“We're definitely going to feature the Bukettraube at the EE fund-raiser next month, right?” I said. “I just love this stuff. You know what? Just charge me for three and I'm gonna' grab another one on my way out. Thanks!”

We kissed each other's cheeks. John and the girls were standing outside with shakes. Tracye waved at them.

“Alright guys,” I said. “I got the wine for Faye. Did you find some cupcakes for Jori?”

“Mommy!” Cara said. “Remember I told you how Jori kept eating all the Oreo cookies off my birthday cake?”

“Yes, baby.”

“So Daddy found an Oreo cupcake, and we found strawberry for Cori too!”

“And I got the perfect present for Auntie Faye,” I said, holding a bottle over my shoulder. “Yay!”

John was cracking up.

“You got her the Mhudi?” he asked. I nodded. “She's going to love you.”

“Okay, girls, let's go to Jori's!”

Faye, a tech professional and freelance programmer—and Karriem's younger sister—crossed our path in April right after we had to revamp the website. I had been complaining to him about how difficult updating the website was and how I wanted a more functional database for our new registrants, and he referred me to her. After a few e-mail exchanges, Faye and I met at Bronzeville Coffee. She was a much prettier version of Karriem, but in every other way they were exactly the same. Smart, driven, and a die-hard, loyal South Sider, she told me what growing up there was like. Neighborhood kids worked in the grocery stores, ice cream parlors, diners, drugstores, and clothing stores—all Black-owned. But, as she said, “When the businesses died, the community died. The riots and all that stuff just put the nail in the coffin. We were already lost.”

We moved on to other topics, scrolled through the website, and discussed what she could do for us. Then I asked how her business was going.

“Oh, this is okay,” Faye said, “but the sandwich shop pays the bills.”

“You have a sandwich shop? Like a café or a deli?”

“It's a Quiznos,” she said, and sipped her tea.

“You're kidding me, right? Why didn't KB tell me?” I was pretty aggravated. Here we were looking to support Black businesses and Karriem
didn't think to tell me his own sister had a sandwich shop. What was wrong with that man?

“I would have been supporting you all this time,” I said, my voice gaining volume. I stood up and started pacing. “We love Quiznos and haven't had any since the experiment. What is with your brother?”

My demonstrative demeanor took Faye aback, and she seemed a little embarrassed.

“I guess he thought it was too far,” she said. “The store is past my house in Calumet.”

I decided to sit.

“Doesn't matter, shuga. Do you sell gift cards?” She nodded. “Well, I'll just buy gift cards from you and buy the food over by my house.”

From that point forward we would buy two $25 gift cards from Faye every month and use them at the Quiznos near our house and in Oak Brook, where John worked. Because she and I lived so far apart, I didn't get to see Faye very often, but we talked a lot on the phone and became friends, even meeting a couple times with our daughters to shop at Jordan's Closets. Jori was a year and a half older than Cara, and they had the same long, curly hair. What Cara loved the most about Jori, though, was that her bedroom was the size of our living room and that she had her own pool and swing set.

We approached Faye's corner lot, and the girls started squealing about what they were going to do once we arrived. Faye and her husband, Gerald, greeted us warmly, and we went inside. While the moms got the girls into their suits, John and Gerald were in the kitchen making drinks and heating up some frozen Reggio's Pizza. As the girls splashed around in the water, Faye and I relaxed on lounge chairs, drinking Tracye's wine from Heritage Link Brands.

“This is nice, isn't it?” Faye said, enjoying the breeze, the wine, and the company.

“Yeah, it really is.” We let the sounds of the shrieking girls pass.

“By the way,” I said, “did you find a sitter so both of you can come to the wine tasting at Tracye's? And you can't let me forget to pay you for that database program you built. I didn't get to test it but—”

“Mag, slow down,” Faye said, chuckling. “Can we just sit here and chill out? Everything doesn't have to be about work. Damn girl, relax.”

I smiled. “Never.”

She reached out for my hand, and I took it, squeezed, closed my eyes, and wondered whether I had gotten back to the caterer for the wine tasting. Then I made a mental note to call the photographer from
Black Enterprise
magazine to schedule a photo shoot.

The other thing I should have been thinking about was grocery shopping. After Karriem closed his store in July, the arrangement we had to buy food from him became increasingly awkward. For weeks we were living on whatever food was still fresh, using up as much of his inventory as we could. The rest we stored in our freezer and four coolers we borrowed from friends.

After Karriem had to shut off the power and clear out his place, he bought food from his wholesale suppliers and sold it to us—simple enough, except for the delivery part.

We originally chose to do the first drop at one of our favorite spots, C'est Si Bon!, a gourmet caterer and restaurant in Hyde Park. Over the past couple years Renee—the owner, my friend, and a true-blue EE believer—had essentially closed the restaurant and focused on the more lucrative catering operation. But I had been eating there since 1999, when I was a grad student at University of Chicago, and had hosted John's twenty-ninth birthday party and our engagement party there. So Renee, the sweetie, would direct her chef to whip up my favorite—fried chicken and waffles with extra honey butter—whenever I asked.

While I was enjoying my meal with Karriem, the staff was preparing for a big wedding and the place was bustling. Renee came by to apologize for the noise and offer her condolences to Karriem. “Oh, Karriem,” she said. “We tried, baby.”

Renee definitely was one of those who had. She purchased her produce from Farmers Best and had complimented Karriem on how punctual and professional his guys had been.

“I know, Renee,” Karriem said. “It wasn't your fault. I feel bad I can't hook you up anymore. Where you gonna find your sweet potatoes for that cheesecake?” C'est Si Bon! was famous for its sweet potato cheesecake.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Renee, do you have any extra? And some collard green rolls I can take home to John and the girls?”

Renee said she'd have to check.

“Between you and KB giving me stuff,” I mock-complained, “I'm not gonna have any room in the truck.”

Karriem shot up straight in his chair. “Shit, Mag,” he said. “Your stuff is in the other truck. Paola needed it today to pick up her family from the airport.” Paola, Karriem's wife, was pregnant, and the baby shower was that weekend. “I forgot to take your stuff out.”

He was silent for a second and then asked if I could come to his house, which I couldn't. I had interviews set with the
Charlotte Post
and on a radio show, after which I'd have to rush to pick up the girls from day care.

So we came up with Plan B, which really was Plan I-294/I-88, the spot where those two interstates cross. It's reasonably close to my house and a relatively easy drive for Karriem. He left C'est Si Bon! right away and headed for home, where he'd grab the boxes and drive to the appointed spot. I was going to meet him, but getting there took me a little longer than I'd expected. The result was that I arrived late. I felt awful. Karriem was doing us this huge favor while he was dealing with professional devastation and a baby about to be born. And it was raining. We stood there on the shoulder of the highway, cars and trucks roaring by us, as I kept apologizing and trying to explain.

“Mag, all that's fine,” Karriem said. He was shouting in part to be heard over the rain and traffic and in part because he was a little pissed—and had every right to be, which made me feel worse. “But I do have stuff to do. I'm late for a meeting now.”

“Karriem,” I shouted back. I was waving my hands. “We'll get it later. We can get it Sunday at the baby shower. Go to your meeting.”

“No!” he said. “Now. Get back in your car. I'll do it.”

I did what he said, feeling lousy while this generous, hardworking man loaded boxes of cereal, beans, and rice into the back of my truck in the rain. I couldn't help feeling like this was some sort of illegal, clandestine operation, as if we were food smugglers.

After that we clearly had to come up with a Plan B for Plan I-294/I-88. This ratcheted up the pressure—at the precise time we were getting into the groove of the movement. I have to admit: I liked the feeling. EE wasn't necessarily where I wanted it to be, but it was moving forward.

People were responding and that was at least something. Entrepreneurs and directory publishers were making business propositions. They wanted to partner with The Empowerment Experiment to help their business grow or direct more traffic to their directory. Some of our favorite business owners, including Selena Cuffe, of Heritage Link Brands, and Tracye at WineStyles, were planning that fund-raiser for our foundation. I had set up a visit to Mima in Atlanta and had agreed to give a big speech while there. We had several other major interviews lined up too, as well as requests for me to appear on a panel or give a lecture. Now I was CEO of The Empowerment Experiment, not just this suburban homemaker with an idea.

Meanwhile, movement or not, we still needed food. So I cobbled together a supply system that involved shopping at dumps like J's Fresh Meats and using our gift cards from Black-owned gas stations to shop at other stations' minimarts. Our original intention had been to use the gas cards to buy gas, but as our food options dwindled, we started depending on the gas cards to buy food as well. Some of the minimarts were clean and well stocked. Some were nightmarish. And because we needed the cards for both gas and food, we started buying $300 and $400 worth of plastic at a time. A family friend who owned a Citgo station far from our home first suggested the idea; we sent her a check and she would place that value on a card from her station, thereby receiving our support. Then she mailed the card to us.

This strategy became a lifesaver as the year progressed, and we branched out to use it at fast-food restaurants and the like. Of course, the approach only worked with Black-owned franchises of companies
that sold gift cards. Sometimes we'd find a franchised company that sold gift cards, but we couldn't find a Black franchisee, which was the case with Pizza Hut. Other times we'd find a company with a Black franchisee, but the organization didn't offer gift cards, which was the case with Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits.