Our Black Year (7 page)

“This bakery is Black-owned, right?” I asked.

“Nooooo,” she said. “Why would you think that? I'm not the owner.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm looking for a Black bakery and somebody at MacArthur's told me you were Black-owned.”

“Naaaww. A Chinese lady owns this place. She ain't never here, though. Usually it's just me. Maybe that's why they thought it was Black. She been owning it for at least five or six years.”
¹³

I thanked her, left, and shook my head as I walked to the truck. John didn't have to ask what happened.

But we found a little hope and reprieve on the cold Friday before Valentine's Day. An online directory,
myurbanevents.com
, listed businesses
and events catering to African Americans by area. There, on 71st Street in the South Shore neighborhood, was what looked to be a promising dollar store with a one-of-a-kind name: God First God Last God Always.

While the girls were in preschool, I took a drive. I was familiar with South Shore, one of the desirable Black enclaves among some pretty rough neighborhoods. An “old Black money” community, it had clean streets, safe parks, and it was situated right on Lake Michigan. Plenty of African American professionals lived there, including attorney turned US Congressman Jesse Jackson Jr. and his wife, Alderwoman Sandi Jackson. In fact, John and I had considered planting roots in South Shore instead of Oak Park. We didn't because the main thoroughfares outside the residential areas made us a little uncomfortable; there were too many liquor stores, currency exchanges, and shady characters lurking about looking for trouble.

The online directory said to keep an eye out for the green awning on 71st Street. I found it easily, pulled up to the curb, and parked. The windows were jammed with everything from basketballs to CD players. Sale signs and posters covered much of the glass. I opened the door and a chime sounded.

“God bless you,” I heard a woman's voice say, but I couldn't see where she was. “Welcome! Welcome!”

The store was relatively large with at least six aisles. Directly in front of me were boxes filled with an odd assortment of inventory—canned goods and air fresheners caught my eye. It was what I like to call a busy mess—not dirty, just busy—and it gave the place character. Shopping carts were parked neatly to my right, and a huge stand of rain boots and other winter shoes were to my left.

The store was cold inside—really cold.

I started to maneuver around the boxes to find the source of that voice, and I came face-to-face with a woman dressed in overalls and layers of sweaters. Her graying hair was rolled tight in a bun. She had soft, almond-shaped eyes, wore no makeup, and was smiling.

And then she hugged me, tight.

“Praise God,” she said. “Thank you, Jesus!”

I didn't know what to think. It was, by far, the warmest welcome I'd received at any retail establishment. So I just hugged her in return, waiting for her to say something. Then it hit me. She recognized me and was grateful I'd stopped in her store.

“Oh, baby, no. Thank you,” I said. “I know it can't be easy keeping this place going.”

She ignored the comment, pulled back, and sized me up.

“You're even prettier than your picture,” she said.

This was too much.

“Oh, you mean that one from the
Sun Times
?”

“No, this one!” she exclaimed and pointed at the window behind the checkout counter. It was a snapshot from the home page of our website, a picture of John and me hugging and smiling. I couldn't believe it.

“We're so proud of you,” she said. “This was the right way to do it—with a beautiful Black family, just like the Obamas.”

That one got me blushing.

Michelle Powell introduced herself and showed me around the store, mentioning plans to get more space, add a refrigerated section, and open another store. Every idea was punctuated with a “praise God” or “Hallelujah.”

I bought dishwashing liquid, tissues, an ice tray, and a few other items, and I was pleased to discover I could use my debit card. Michelle pleaded that I stay a little longer until her husband, David, arrived. We talked about our families—she also had an ailing mother—and I learned that she and her husband, both longtime South Shore residents, had married a few years earlier and had no children. After a few minutes David entered. He was about the same size as his wife and had a short beard, light green eyes, and a deep voice. He was wearing jeans and a sweater under a leather jacket and baseball cap. He walked toward me and we embraced.

“I knew you'd be here sooner or later,” he said. He stepped over to Michelle and they kissed.

“Baby,” he said to her, “please tell me you said something to Maggie about the heat.”

Michelle shook her head. David turned to me a little sheepishly.

“We just can't afford to keep the heat on all day,” he said. “It's keep it on or stay open, you know?”

A pang of sorrow jabbed at my heart. How many shop owners in Oak Park or on Chicago's Gold Coast were forced to make that choice?

“Well,” I said after a couple seconds, “I'm glad you're open! I'm cold but I'm here!”

We laughed and they asked about our project, mostly to see how they could help. David told me about a barbershop on 79th Street that also sold men's athletic apparel, something that would interest John.

God First God Last became one of our regular haunts, a place where we could recharge our batteries and obtain what was on our shopping list. We fell in love with David and Michelle as well as with their ability to work merchandise miracles. The store's offerings always changed, which was part of the fun. I'd walk in and ask, “So what's new in here now?” and one of them would smile and lead me down a packed aisle to another discovery. One time it was Ebon-Aids, darker-colored bandages. Another time it was a huge shipment of girls' underwear. If I needed something—a scooter for my nephew, undershirts for John—they'd find it.

“Just let go and let God,” Michelle would say.

The only drawback was that, given its location, God First God Last was usually the last stop on my South Side route, so I would be short on time when I arrived. Plus, we got to be such an efficient shopping machine that I'd e-mail our list to the Powells, they'd pull the items from their shelves, bag them, and have everything ready to go when I arrived. When I'd get home, I'd always find candy for the girls tossed in the bag. David and Michelle are real sweethearts who also told us about Black-owned stores in the area—a T-shirt shop, a health food and vitamin shop, a record store—and shared stories of those businesses that had closed, some of which outsiders reopened. The Powells came to our events, taped news clippings about us on their windows, and even started a collection by the cash register. In March of 2010 I came by and picked up $171 they'd raised for the foundation we created. I had never been so moved by a donation.

I wish every shopping day was as promising as that first trip to God First God Last. Unfortunately, many outings had mixed results, which is what happened on another Saturday in February. It began with a visit to Mahogany Graphics in the Austin neighborhood. Owned by William Darke, Mahogany was listed in the Chicago Black Pages I had picked up at Farmers Best—Karriem was on the cover—and we figured it would be our new Kinko's. We needed business cards and promotional materials, and Mahogany seemed like an ideal business to provide that service.

The store was on Madison a couple blocks east of J's and Mario's Butcher Shop. As we drove we saw that the cleanliness spillover from Oak Park lasted for about three blocks or so, right up through J's. After that, it was pure, unadulterated West Side, with lots of trash strewn about as well as a fair number of drug addicts, homeless men, hopeless women, and restless teens way too young to look so hardened.

The short stretch surrounding Mahogany Graphics was full of activity. Most of the storefronts were open for business, even if there were bars on the windows. Mahogany's sported a unique design: It was windowless. The front facade was steel, like a garage door.

Although the streetscape was uninviting, it wasn't scary—just grimy and teeming with urban life. Some folks in work clothes or uniforms were rushing along. Kids by the bus stop, about a dozen feet from Mahogany's front door, were chilling as they waited for the bus to come, wearing standard urban gear: droopy jeans, Timberland boots, oversized sweatshirts, and plain, dark skullcaps. All of them had backpacks and headphones.

Then my eyes fell on a young lady—a girl, really—who looked to be fifteen at the most, with two babies tucked warm and snug in a double stroller. She wore a turtleneck with a jersey over it, a fleece hoodie over that, and pants. No coat. The temperature outside must have been 20 degrees, and a light snow was blowing around. My mind started working.

“I hope those ain't her kids, John,” I said.

“Baby, you know they are. Who else does that but someone who has no choice? Stop wishing for stuff, honey. Do something about it.”

I went silent, thinking about that kid and her babies. John looked over, placed his hand on my knee.

“She'll be alright,” he said. “Let's park and meet Mr. Darke.”

Finding a spot was difficult. So as John circled back, I tried to inventory the business prospects nearby, hoping I would see a shoe store, hardware store, fishmonger, bakery, or anything with products for my children or house. No luck. We did see three fried or barbecued food shacks, two churches, two tax preparation franchises, and an African braid salon.

Right under the bright Mahogany Graphics sign, I saw an older gentleman locking the door. He was wearing a dark wool overcoat, dark Dockers, and a Kangol hat.

“Just let me out,” I said.

After locking the door Mr. Darke stood there for a second, maybe to make sure he'd remembered everything. As I approached, I felt jittery. Explaining what we were doing wasn't always easy. Most people got it, but there were always some, especially from poor, tough neighborhoods like Austin, who clearly saw me as one of those condescending, missionary types who went to African villages to tame the savages.

I was also nervous because he looked busy and his age was a little intimidating. No doubt he'd acquired a certain amount of wisdom about human nature and had seen plenty of efforts like ours come and go without really changing a thing. I had run into opposition from older folks before, and it's daunting. Once I met a local politician at the South Shore Cultural Center, a Mecca of Chicago's Black community, where the most exclusive events are held. The politician was giving a speech during Black History Month about how badly we needed to unite for the sake of our children and bring back the spirit of the civil rights era. I was so moved that, when he finished, I fought my way through the crowd to tell him about our pledge. His response?

“That's nice,” he said. “You're wasting your time, though.”

That kind of cynicism hurts, but I understand it and I guess it was on my mind as I walked toward Mr. Darke that cold afternoon. He looked tired and frayed, but when he saw me, he smiled. Then I noticed he was
looking right past me, at John and the girls, who had just arrived. Though he didn't say a word about it, I knew Mr. Darke was pleased to see a Black man with his kids.

John stuck out his hand.

“How you doing? I'm John Anderson, and this is my family. Do you have a second? Looks like you're headed out.”

“Naw, naw,” Mr. Darke said. “I'm fine. I have to make a run. I have a long day ahead of me.”

“Well, we like to hear that!” I said.

I told him about The Ebony Experiment, and he loved it. He insisted we call him Bill. When I said we'd like to use his printing services, he gave me a brochure and started walking us to our car.

“Actually, Bill,” I said, “we're going to walk around a bit, find some more awesome Black businesses like yours.”

“Well, sweetie,” he told me, laughing, “you'll freeze to death before you do that.”

He must have seen my spirits sink because right away he pointed across the street to a place called Amos and Andy's.

“Look, you ain't gonna find a better piece of fried chicken than right over there,” he said. “There you go. A Black business!”

Just as I said we'd walk over and get a takeout menu, he shouted to a teenager at the bus stop, who smiled and came over.

“Hi, Mr. Darke,” he said. “What you need?”

“I want you to run into Amos's and see if they have any paper menus. I don't think they do. Bring me one. Y'hear?”

While we waited, I asked about a liquor store down the street and the dry cleaner a block away.

“Ain't no other Black-owned stores around here,” he said. “I'm telling you. I would know. You might have better luck on the South Side.”

Bill's teenage helper came back and informed us that there were no takeout menus. Too bad—I would have ordered in dinner from there. John took the girls back to the truck, leaving Bill and me to chat, mostly about his business. Before we said our goodbyes, he looked me in the eyes.

“Don't give up,” he said.

That day Mahogany became our printer; it still produces our business cards and promotional materials, along with a couple Black-owned Minuteman Press franchises we found in Philadelphia and Atlanta.

Bill's encouragement notwithstanding, I climbed back into the Trailblazer more than a little disheartened. But the girls were up for another adventure, so we headed east. In the distance I could see signs from some familiar brands—McDonald's, Advanced Auto Parts, Athlete's Foot—and thought the chances were decent that we'd find a business owned by someone in the community.