Our Black Year (26 page)

A homeopathic doctor I'd met before happened to be one of the first people I saw when I entered the building. She pulled me aside and directed me to a corner of the lobby.

“How's your mom?” she asked. “Is it your mom? I remember she had pancreatic cancer because my aunt has it too.”

I hugged her tight and just wept.

“C'mon, sister,” she said. “Let's get you outta here.”

She took me in a bathroom, and we sat on a couch in the lounge area while she consoled me. She told me the presentations were running behind so I had time to regain my composure. We talked about her aunt and my mother, the hospitals and treatments. Then she gave me some space.

I just sat there sobbing. In a way I didn't want to calm down. I was overflowing with sorrow. And I was angry at everything—at the disease and at myself, angry with The Empowerment Experiment and at having to give another damn speech. After a few minutes—I don't know how long, really—the doctor came back to check on me. She sat down and took my hand.

“I know you're in pain,” she told me softly, “but that pain is nothing like what your Mima is enduring right now and what she has already suffered. You need to change your focus, away from your pain and worries, and think about her and what would comfort her. You think running back home now and crying at her bedside would make her and your dad proud? Or would she be happy if you got up there, made a great speech, then rushed home to tell them all about it? I don't really have to tell you the answer to that, now do I?”

That's exactly what I needed to hear. She stood up, rubbed my back, and told me to push on, that it would be fine. After a few moments I stepped into the auditorium, finding a seat toward the back. Several people recognized me and gave me hugs. When I was called to the podium, I went right into my speech, knowing I was among friends. I was in the zone, or whatever you want to call it. When I said that I was beginning to understand the power of God because he saved my mother from death three times, everybody leapt to their feet, cheering. Again, it was overwhelming.

And then, for an instant, time stood still.

I thought about how none of these people knew a thing about my mother, aside from her illness, and I wanted them to know more about her. But everyone kept clapping and I started weeping, and the more I'd tear up, the louder they cheered. I flipped over my papers, placed my hands on them and waited. Then, I spoke from my heart.

I told them about my mother, how she taught me to fight for what I believe in. I wanted them to know that without the little woman who peeled shrimp and cleaned fish for a living, The Empowerment Experiment wouldn't exist. I could see that some members of the audience were crying. Evidently I wasn't the only one with a passionate, strong mother. I wasn't the only one who was sick of the economic neglect, exploitation, and insult that manifest themselves in so much human destruction. A bond was forming among all of us in that room. I felt like Mima was there too, and that, finally, everybody in the room understood what she was about. I stopped crying, flipped the pages back over, and continued my speech.

When it was over, the audience erupted in a standing ovation. I was so proud to be Luisa Maria Palacio Waite's daughter.

By the time I got home Mima was feeling better. The pain had subsided and she was asleep. I knew she'd want to hear the full story, so I kissed her forehead and woke her up. She opened her eyes and smiled.

“Ay, m'hija, como te fui?” (Oh, child, how did it go?) she whispered. “Lo hiciste? Lo hiciste bien? Y los gentes? Lo senti?” (You did it? You did it well? And the people? Did they feel it?)

“Si, Mima. Todo fui bien. Como siempre,” (Yes, Mommy. Everything was great. Like always.) I said. “Tu sabes cómo lo hago! Les pedí que grabarla, paras usted.” (You know how I do it! And I made them tape it, for you guys.)

The tape was the most important part. Along with game shows, reruns of
Good Times
and
The Fresh Prince of Bel Air
, and
Caso Cerrado
, a Spanish-language court show, my parents would watch videos of their little revolutionary explaining EE on the news and in other venues. Over and over again. Every day.

Mima smiled, squeezed my hand, pulled me close, and kissed me on the cheek.

“I'm proud of you, m'hija,” she said. “So proud.” She said that in English, except that it sounded like, “I so prow de ju.”

And then she drifted off to sleep.

A few minutes later, after packing, I walked out of the stillness of my parents' house, got into Eduardo's car, and felt restored by Mima's strength and courage. I boarded the plane and relaxed. Some semblance of peace with this overwhelming effort was sweeping over me. With her words echoing in my mind while the plane cut through the darkness toward Chicago, I was ready to continue our mission.

“Lucha, m'hija.”

Around this time I received an e-mail about a Black grocery store, Graffiti and Grub, which was opening at 59th Street and Wells, on the border of the Englewood and Washington Park neighborhoods on the South Side. The owner was promoting Graffiti and Grub as a store emphasizing hip-hop and a healthy lifestyle while trying to increase awareness about the area being a food desert. On its website the pictures of a prelaunch community event showed lots of people and produce. The store would be small, only open a couple days a week, and would feature produce and cooked food from Illinois Black farmers. How cool was that? I e-mailed them information about EE and received a call within minutes from the owner's assistant. The owner, LaDonna Redmond,
president and CEO of the Institute for Community Resource Development and a self-proclaimed “food justice” activist, was out of town, but her assistant said LaDonna was excited about EE. We set up an appointment to meet.

At this point, however, I was more interested in seeing the store than meeting the owner. So I checked the site for the store hours and called KB, who agreed to visit it with me. We met for lunch at Third World Café, a Black-owned place in Hyde Park about two miles east of Graffiti and Grub. I hadn't seen him in a few weeks, and it was good to catch up. We talked about the new baby. He sounded a little more upbeat, telling me he'd survive financially and would continue pursuing his dream of owning a successful grocery store in the community. He shared plans about being a minority partner in the reopening of a huge grocery store in Hyde Park, and that he was working out deals with creditors. We were skeptical about Graffiti and Grub, only because Black entrepreneurs had not had a great track record with opening grocery stores, and we tried to set our expectations accordingly.

“Maggie, be ready, okay?” KB said. “It might not be much better than those bodegas you found on the West Side. I don't care what the website says. It's just too hard to get in the supply chain as a newcomer and get good quality stuff.”

“But their hook is that they get direct from the farmers,” I said. Nothing could top Farmers Best, but I was desperate. I just wanted to be able to find decent food for my family and never have to go to a wretched minimart again.

We jumped in KB's truck and headed for 59th and Wells, but we had trouble finding the store. The address was adjacent to the expressway, literally on the service road, in an uninviting industrial stretch of real estate comprised of a few abandoned lots and warehouses. We kept calling Graffiti and Grub but got no answer, and finally we spotted a steel door with a number that corresponded to the address.

“You stay in the car,” Karriem said. “I don't like how this looks. Let me check it out.”

He left the Excursion running and banged on the door. Nothing. He walked around the back of the building and yelled, “Is anybody here?” Again, nothing. He headed for the truck and shrugged.

“I don't know what to say, sweetie,” he told me when he stepped inside. “Could they have closed before they opened?”

He wasn't joking. I called the assistant's cell phone and complained that I made this twenty-mile trip specifically to support this store, and it was closed during its advertised hours of operation.

“Oh,” she said, “I guess he had to make a run. I'm sorry. Someone should be there any minute. Please don't give up on us, Mrs. Anderson.”

“Baby, I have no choice,” I said. “I depend on you. But y'all sure don't make it easy.”

“Can you just wait a little bit?”

“For what? This is not how you run a business.” I was getting a little steamed—and for good reason. This is the kind of operation that instills a spark of enthusiasm and then, when it can't deliver, so much cynicism in Black folks.

“Where is the sign?” I asked. “Is there any food in there? I mean, how do you expect anybody to . . . ”

Karriem yanked the phone out of my hand.

“Hi, this is Karriem Beyah,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “I'm a Black grocer too. There is no excuse for this. Please let your boss know that we will not be back until she gets her act together. Have a good day.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and leaned back.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said. “I just can't take it anymore.”

“But you can't yell at that lady,” he said. “
You
took this on.
Your
pledge is not
her
problem.”

“What are you talking about?” Our brother-sister squabbling had become a normal part of our relationship. “Hell yeah, she is the problem. Look at us, KB. We're sitting on the side of the expressway, in a dangerous neighborhood, banging on doors, and waiting on folks so we can support them. Are you kidding me? That's the problem.”

He laughed. “No, Maggie,” he said. “Your problem—
and
my problem—is that we thought this would be easy. We thought that things should work out because they make sense. All that win-win bullshit. That's
our
problem. And that's why we're sitting in this fucking truck.”

We sat in silence. Then KB said, “Let's go see my guy, the farmer who gets to sell his stuff by Walgreens. We'll get you some produce. Don't worry about it.”

Our visit to the farm stand was much more successful than our previous stop. I bought bags of grapes, bananas, potatoes, and apples. When I got home—in a much better mood now—I Googled “Black farmers markets” and “Black farm stands” and made the happy discovery that several outdoor produce markets operated in the city, mostly on the South Side, usually set up after a church service.

We found another one in Austin, at Madison and Central, about four miles from our house. That corner had a small outdoor play area, although it looked like someone had started building a park and then quit. Still, I thought taking the girls with me and giving my husband a little “John Time” would be great. He'd earned it.

We arrived at around noon on that Saturday in mid-September. The weather was somewhat brisk, so the girls were wearing sweatshirts and jeans—perfect play gear. They started cheering as soon as I pulled into the lot next to the jungle gym.

But Cori and Cara were still too young to play on these recreational structures alone, and I was nervous about the asphalt base. The setup seemed dangerous.

“Mommy, mommy,” Cori said as I pulled her from the car seat, “I wan do slide!”

I thought,
How can they have a slide leading onto rough asphalt?
I added this to my mental list of “What Happens on the West Side Doesn't Happen in Oak Park.”

Cara tapped my arm. “Me too,” she chimed in.

“Sweetie pie, I don't know. There's no grass around here. If you fall, you are gonna hurt yourself.”

That was not the answer she was hoping for. Cori started crying.

“Okay, okay, hush child,” I said. “But Mommy has to stay close.”

I surveyed the layout. The farm stand was too far away for me to shop and monitor them playing at the same time. Fortunately, the lot was pretty clean, and no one was just hanging around.

“So that means you are going to have to come with Mommy to get the fruits and vegetables first, then we can play a little bit. How's that, angel?”

After a few more minutes of whining, I knew I had to become Enforcer Mommy.

“We end this discussion right now,” I told them. “I said you are going with me. That's it.”

When we arrived at the farm stand—three six-foot-long tables loaded with about fifteen different crates of produce—five or six elderly customers milled about. Barrels of apples and strawberries had been placed next to the stand.

A plump teenager with large, warm eyes, who I later discovered was the niece of the older gentleman running the stand, smiled at us.

“Welcome to our urban farm,” she said. “Please look around and tell me what you like.”