Our Black Year (6 page)

I wasn't all that surprised that finding Black-owned businesses selling cell phone contracts, property insurance policies, or utilities was hard, if not impossible. In fact, finding one of those would have shocked me, but we looked anyway. What did surprise me was that we had so much trouble locating Black-owned stores for essential household goods—things like toiletries, cosmetics, and over-the-counter drugs. I searched all the online Black business directories for Black-owned dollar stores, the kind of place where I thought we could buy most of that stuff. I was sure—with so many dollar stores in predominantly Black neighborhoods—I'd find one. But the message that would flash across my laptop screen was always the same: “no results found.”

In my quest for a Black-owned dollar store I looked for Black Chambers of Commerce. I found the Illinois Black Chamber, but there was no Chicago chapter or any directories. I called numerous community development groups in Black areas—nearly every neighborhood has one—figuring they would at least know of Black businesses there. It was tough just finding the groups, many of which don't have websites. I uncovered a few helpful organizations, including Black Wall Street Chicago, which represented the once vibrant, now downtrodden 71st Street corridor in the heart of the South Side. In the end I called twenty-five listings for dollar stores in Black neighborhoods and found that all of their lines had been disconnected.

Still, I continued looking. I went through twelve phone directories, pulling out more dollar store listings. Then I went to the library and dug up phone books for the entire city of Chicago, the South and West Sides, as well as for the predominantly Black south and far south suburbs. I also looked over two different versions of the Chicago Black Pages, a well-known and highly regarded directory found in many local
Black-owned barber shops, braid salons, restaurants, and churches and community centers. I must have spent thirty hours going through all the listings and making calls. I found many stores that were owned by Hispanics or by folks of Middle-eastern descent, but none that were Black-owned. I was astonished. Sometimes, out of curiosity, I asked for the owners' names, which I'd then Google just to see where they lived. None of these proprietors resided in Black communities, even though their stores were there.

That really bothered us. We started to absorb two disturbing dynamics: First, nurturing economic empowerment in a struggling Black community was not as simple as spending more dollars in that community because Black people didn't own the businesses there. Second, the inability to retain desperately needed wealth in underserved Black areas was not simply a matter of Black consumers failing to keep money in the community but had just as much to do with outsiders siphoning away that wealth.

The worst part for me was the message these dynamics sent our children. If they could not witness and engage with local Black business owners and professionals, how were these Black youth supposed to make it? They needed positive role models, especially in neighborhoods where drug dealers and gang bangers were actively recruiting them.

I started to feel a little desperate, especially after we began to “canvass the community”—our phrase for an intense, boots-on-the-pavement search through the West Side and Maywood for Black businesses. We'd exhausted the strategy of looking for Black-sounding names in the phone book and online, and because we knew Black businesses had such short life spans, we thought there might be some new businesses out there that were not even listed. At the same time, we figured we'd find some hidden gems if we looked hard enough.

Even though the brutal Chicago winter dampened our enthusiasm for spending hours outside, we could still do our exploring while staying warm in our car. We made a concerted effort to check out Madison Street, Austin Boulevard, Chicago Avenue, Roosevelt Road, and Cicero Avenue—main arteries on the West Side. In Maywood we focused on
the main streets of 1st, 5th, 9th, and 17th avenues as well as Madison Street, exploring a different thoroughfare each weekend.

Madison Street, the city's official north-south dividing line, is named for the fourth president of the United States, James Madison, and runs west more than twenty miles, with four breaks, from one of Chicago's jewels, Millennium Park, to the tony suburb of Glen Ellyn. In between it passes some of the most architecturally significant buildings and important landmarks in the city—the Carson, Pirie Scott & Co. building, Chase Tower, the Civic Opera House, and the city's two commuter rail stations—through Greek Town, next to the House That Michael Jordan Built (also known as the United Center) and the heart of Garfield Park, with its gilded dome and conservatory. A little more than three miles west, it reaches Oak Park.

In the early 1800s, before Chicago was incorporated, Madison was the town's southern boundary. By the middle of the century the corner of Madison and State Streets—to this day the center point of all numbered addresses in Chicago—became known as “the busiest corner of the world” and had the highest land values in the city. In the 1860s the West Side's population quadrupled, from 57,000 to 214,000, casting the street's—and the West Side's—fate as a congested, almost entirely working-class swath of the city. It pretty much stayed that way, with a mix of ethnic groups—Italians, Jews, Greeks, and Irish—occupying chunks of the West Side. Though never an affluent area, the West Side and Madison Street deteriorated as they were pounded by the Great Depression, World War II, the construction of the Eisenhower Expressway and public housing projects, and absentee landlords. In the 1950s Blacks who were crowded out of the near West Side and South Side began moving to the Garfield Park neighborhood, which is just east of Austin. As a result, racial tensions grew, culminating in the riots that erupted after King's assassination.

Although Madison remains the commercial lifeline of several neighborhoods on the West Side, stretches of the avenue are sketchy. In February we would find out just how sketchy.

The section we started driving regularly—from Oak Park through the West Side—became more congested the further east we ventured.
We witnessed more life than what we'd seen further west around J's, which was encouraging, but the blight and self-inflicted grime remained the same. In some ways the bustle was similar to that of Oak Park Avenue, one of our town's commercial stretches, but instead of Cosi's and the Gap, the area sported Divine Design Tattoos, a pawnshop, and a nail parlor.

In addition, Madison was a fairly fast-paced street, not conducive to our slow cruising. All the shops were small and looked remarkably similar, which made spotting a potential gem difficult. If I saw one more church, day care center, funeral home, or liquor store, I was going to scream. What we needed to locate were a Black-owned convenience store, clothing shop, minimart, bakery, and general merchandise outlet or shoe store. It was hard to believe that we couldn't find any. We started to blame ourselves because we hadn't actually set foot in very many of the establishments.

After a few failed attempts at drive-by cruising, we altered our approach in order to increase our chances. When we learned of a business on the West Side that looked to be Black-owned, the whole family would pile into the Trailblazer and head for it. On our way there we'd keep an eye open for places that looked like they might be Black-owned. Even if the store didn't seem to offer anything we wanted, as long as it looked safe, we'd walk in and ask about Black-owned businesses in the area. Except when the weather was too miserable or when one of the kids was sick, we went on these adventures almost every weekend during the first few months.

One of the first places we found was MacArthur's, a restaurant on Madison about one mile east of J's Fresh Meats. We pulled up on a blustery Saturday in February, and the large parking lot was packed. A big, lovely sign welcomed folks, and from the outside, it seemed like an Old Country Buffet–type place that specialized in southern cuisine.

Making our way to the front door, we encountered several friendly Black folks who commented on how adorable Cara and Cori were. As we waited for a table, we took in the smells and scene. It was pretty much what we had expected. The restaurant was set up like a cafeteria with a
buffet line. The room's burgundy walls were adorned with pictures of African American historical figures along with some of MacArthur's more famous customers, including Robert Townsend, one of our favorite actors and producers; local hero and hip-hop phenom Kanye West; President Obama; and Mayor Richard Daley.

The place was nearly full, with booths and tables spread across an expansive area. The upholstery was worn in places, but the tables were clean and each sported a small glass vase with a plastic flower. Most everyone there was our age or older and working class; there were some families, but many folks were in uniforms. The employees, wearing MacArthur's tees and black Dockers, were smiling, moving fast, looking for tables to clean and customers in need. The space was a little tight, and I could see a few folks bump into others, softening the interaction with a squeeze on the waist or shoulder along with a “Sorry, baby.”

It was no Winberie's—our favorite Oak Park eatery that presented gourmet fare, luxury décor, and the skinny, blonde, blue-eyed, Northwestern University English-major hostess—but it had something else: at least twenty Black employees.

An attractive, chocolate-skinned hostess greeted us and took Cara's hand.

“Y'all eating in, right?” she said. “Just gon' be the four of you?”

“Yes, please,” I replied.

She looked down at Cara with a warm smile. “C'mon, pretty lady. Right this way.”

We sat down at a table, and she told us to wait until the buffet line shrank. Meanwhile, she'd bring us some juice and coffee. When she returned, she said, “Why don't y'all leave Dad here, let him rest, while you get the food? You can take the girls up so they can see all the desserts we have today. You want some chocolate cake, sweetie?”

“But how am I gon' carry all the plates back?” Cara said.

“I'm going with you, girl,” our hostess said. “C'mon.”

We walked together. Our hostess was tall, thin, and wore huge hoop earrings and sported a short, curly Afro. I started to think that she could be a model. Affable Cori liked the young lady and took her hand. We ordered
from the stations and the hostess stayed with us, explaining that they were out of pork chops. She suggested the baked fish. We got to the cash register and paid.

When we had a chance to talk, I asked whether there were any other Black businesses around. “Not a braid or barber salon,” I said, “or a fast-food place. A real business, like a grocery store, a shoe store, or a dry cleaner.”

She paused to think. Then she asked a coworker for confirmation and told us about Double Door, a dry cleaner on Chicago Avenue—another commercial thoroughfare that ran parallel to Madison about a mile north—and a bakery and a clothing store a couple blocks west on Madison. We must have missed those on our earlier expeditions. I thanked her and we left. Despite the lovely visit, we rarely returned to MacArthur's. As much as we loved its warm, family atmosphere, Cori is a little too energetic to sit in a restaurant for more than a couple minutes, which is why we hardly ever go out to eat as a family. The other snag is that I'm not crazy about soul food, the restaurant's specialty. It's a little too greasy for my tastes. But they make sweet potato pie, John's favorite, just the way he likes.

We got in the car and beelined back west on Madison toward Oak Park in search of the bakery, Laury's, because we desperately needed bagels. The whole family loved them. Before the experiment I'd buy a dozen at a time from the Great American Bagel store a block from our house. John would have one every day before work. On Sundays, when the rest of the family ate pancakes, I ate a toasted bagel with smoked salmon and capers.

The address the hostess gave us was just west of Austin Boulevard, which meant it was technically in Oak Park, in that transition area that represented our hopes for the West Side—a Black, working-class, teeming commercial district that might spread east through the ruins, eventually reaching all the way to the gleaming skyscrapers, four-star restaurants, and landscaped parks of downtown. This Saturday afternoon, around the intersection of Austin and Madison, we saw Black people doing what most people do on the weekends—running errands, grabbing a bite with friends, and shopping—not lurking, selling drugs, or hanging around, dirty and disheveled, begging for money.

On the Chicago side of Austin was a check-cashing spot, the Currency Exchange, that sold payday loans, money orders for nineteen cents, Lotto tickets, prepaid cell phones, and services for Western Union and utility bill payments, which you need when you don't have a bank account, good credit, or a credit card. You can't walk three blocks in most Black areas without seeing one, and I hated them. The were never Black owned, and were predatory lending havens. And they were hangout spots, like the liquor stores and minimarts, only here thugs and scam artists loitered because they knew the folks at the store had money in their pockets.

On the Oak Park side of Austin was an insurance agency and a dry cleaner, neither of which had Black people inside. In fact, both stores were empty. We'd checked out so many businesses in Oak Park and nearby that we were pretty sure neither was Black-owned, but John ran in to check anyway. We were right.

Parking spots were jammed, so I went alone into Laury's bakery. As I walked in I knew that I was not going to find bagels here. Just like the other Black-owned bakeries we called, they did not sell them. I guess they thought bagels weren't a staple of the African American diet. Laury's sold cakes, pies, and some pastries, and you could order a fancy birthday cake, but there were no bagels, scones, or muffins. Everything was beautifully displayed and the place was clean and pleasant, with cute, wrought-iron chairs surrounding a couple tables. I saw a young Black girl behind the counter, and I leaned toward her as I spoke.