Our Black Year

by Maggie Anderson

  After perusing the merchandise at J’s, I thought, Just get something and get out of here. I grabbed a bag of potato chips, a few other packages of junk food, and diapers. When I got to the cash register, positioned on one of those glass counters with candy inside, I noticed that the clerk, presumably the woman I spoke with on the phone a few days earlier, was petite, tiny even. Her uncombed hair was pulled back in a rubber band. She was a little darker than me, with a small, pretty face, marred somewhat by acne, and she was young, maybe twenty-six.

  She was standing on a milk crate. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something moving near its base and looked down to see a pair of unkempt kids—maybe eight and eighteen months old, probably hers—playing on the filthy floor. I also noticed—because it is my habit to look whenever I see a young Black woman who appears to be a mother—that she was not wearing a wedding ring. I glanced back at the woman and asked if she accepted plastic, which she did. This was unusual, as we would later discover. Businesses in Black communities that accept debit and/or credit cards are as rare as a beat cop strolling down the sidewalk.

  As soon as the words “Do you accept credit or debit?” came out of my mouth, I noticed something else that became commonplace in establishments like J’s: When the employees or owners realize you’re a Black person who doesn’t speak with the neighborhood inflection—who isn’t from around there—they treat you like the president. Everything changes: They light up, smile, call you ma’am, and thank you emphatically, just as emphatically as they say, “Have a blessed day.”

  I wanted to tell her, “Look, I’m not so different from you. I grew up in the hood. I shopped at places like this all the time.”

  My parents, Cuban émigrés, arrived on these shores in 1967 with two young sons and the clothes on their backs—literally. Mima had sold her wedding ring to pay for their boat ride to Miami. Four years later I was born. My father, who is bronze-skinned, drove a Coca-Cola delivery truck. My mother, quite fair-skinned and with long, dark hair, peeled shrimp and cleaned fish in a seafood factory. In Cuba their relationship was no big deal. Here, they were a mixed-race couple, which they found bemusing. In 1979 our predominantly Black neighborhood erupted in race riots after an all-White, male jury acquitted five White police officers of the beating death of a Black motorcyclist. Everyone wanted to know: Are you Black or Cuban? Translation: Are you one of them or one of us?

  Incensed by the racism toward Blacks from Cubans, my parents sided with the Blacks. Soon they were explaining to us that we were Black too. “Don’t let people tell you you’re Cuban or you’re Latino,” my dad would say in broken English. “You’re Black. You hear me? You’re from Africa. Be proud that your race is Black.”

  My mother reinforced that message on our walks to school. She’d say that being from Cuba did not make us any less Black than my friends in Liberty City or those in Jackson, Mississippi. Mima always taught me that Black is beautiful, that I was from Africa—just like other Black people here—and that we spoke Spanish because our ancestors’ slave ship dropped them off at a different stop in the triangular slave trade.

  This shift in my heritage was curious and, some might argue, arbitrary, but one I embraced without question.

  Mima and Papa were deeply invested in all three of their children, and it paid dividends. I became the first Black child to make it to the state spelling bee and was bused to one of the best high schools in the area, where I became president of the honor society, editor of the school paper, and prom queen. I ended up at Emory University in Atlanta, studied political science, dreamed of becoming a US senator, and immediately got involved in political campaigns.

  But in my pursuit of all that, I drifted away from Liberty City, physically and psychologically.

  John’s story was similar to mine in that respect. Raised in Detroit, he attended a Jesuit-run, all-boys college prep school and ended up at Harvard. On his application he refused to mention his basketball prowess to ensure he was accepted based purely on his academic record.

  John and I would often discuss how we had gotten away from the masses in our choices of food, places we liked to visit, books we read, and TV shows and movies we watched. Nobody enjoyed Seinfeld more than we did, and I’m guessing that it’s not a huge hit on the West Side. We would notice that disconnect as we spent more time in our suburb, at the office, or when we were the only “chocolate chips” at a four-star restaurant and everyone treated us so nicely. We’d joke about whether they’d act that way if we looked like Lil Wayne.

  For the most part the examination of the “class clash” in the Black community is, among members of the Black upper class, limited conveniently and comfortably to a rather benign discussion. Our educational and professional accomplishments have taken us to the higher echelons of American society. We can sample what John and I as well as some of our Black friends call “White Life,” a phrase we soften to “The American Dream” when we’re in mixed-race company.

  We spend more and more time with educated, professional Whites, middle- and upper-middle-class folks who tend to be more progressive and less bigoted, but sometimes they are still very clueless. We are the affable, token Blacks at the dinner party, barbecue, or office party that just fifteen years ago was all White. That status can make us almost celebrities at these gatherings. People flock to us, asking about our backgrounds, where we live, even why my hair is “different” from most African American women’s hair. (White folks never say “not kinky” or “more Black.” They say, “Wow, your hair is so thin!”)

  At some point they tell us every detail about the lovely Black couple who attends their church or lives in their neighborhood. They want to introduce us. The logic goes something like this: They’re nice Black people. The Andersons are nice Black people. Nice Black people will like each other. And if both husbands play basketball, as I’m sure they must, well, we’re working up the Black friendship of a lifetime.

  They try very hard and are well intentioned, and we appreciate it—really. But something starts to grate. Chris Rock jokes about it in his 2009 stand-up routine, Kill the Messenger.

  I will give you an example of how race affects my life. I live in a place called Alpine, New Jersey. My house costs millions of dollars.... In my neighborhood, there are four Black people. Hundreds of houses, four Black people. Who are these Black people? Well, there’s me, Mary J. Blige, Jay-Z and Eddie Murphy.... [M]e, I’m a decent comedian. I’m a’ight. [applause] Mary J. Blige, one of the greatest R&B singers to ever walk the Earth. Jay-Z, one of the greatest rappers to ever live. Eddie Murphy, one of the funniest actors to ever, ever do it. Do you know what the White man who lives next door to me does for a living? He’s a fucking dentist! He ain’t the best dentist in the world . . . he ain’t going to the dental hall of fame . . . he don’t get plaques for getting rid of plaque. He’s just a yank-your-tooth-out dentist. See, the Black man gotta fly to get to somethin’ the White man can walk to.

  In other words, we have to make it to the top 1 percent of the Black population in terms of wealth, education, and professional status just to earn such a welcome into the average, White, middle-class experience. John and I frequently discuss this issue with other Black professionals. Invariably, someone says, “With most White people, except maybe for the rednecks, it’s not about race anymore. It’s about class. They’d probably invite us to dinner before they’d invite some other White couple who works in a factory.”

  Then someone says, “Yeah, but they still don’t want John marrying their daughter!”

  And we all break out laughing. Oh, aren’t we something. How nice it is that we’ve accomplished so much and went about it honestly, despite the obstacles our skin color and our country’s history imposed. Doesn’t this make us different, special, entitled? Haven’t we earned our exemption from the misery that most everyone else in our community endures? Being wonderful is so great.

  Of course, that is only part of the story. The more relevant and painful part involves tensions w
ithin the African American community, and we don’t discuss these as often because, although the Johns and Maggies of this country socialize with their White counterparts, they never spend time with the lower classes in the Black community. That gap is widening. It’s an issue discussed by various intellectuals, sociologists, and writers, the most prominent perhaps being the distinguished academic and author William Julius Wilson, who served as a social and public policy adviser to President Bill Clinton.

  Professor Wilson started talking about the importance of class differences in Black America at least as far back as the late 1970s. In his groundbreaking book The Declining Significance of Race, he points out that political, social, and economic changes from about 1950 to the end of the century did away with barriers that restricted economic success to all Blacks. But those barriers have remained for the Black underclass, making life much tougher on them. In addition, Wilson contends that technological advances in the last couple of decades have exacerbated the problem.

  “I think that the disadvantaged Blacks have really been hard hit by changes in the economy,” Professor Wilson said in a 1997 interview on PBS. “The computer revolution, changes in scale-based technology, the internationalization of economic activity had combined to decrease the demand for low-skilled workers . . . the gap between low-scale and higher scale workers is widening. Because of historic racism, there are a disproportionate number of Blacks in the low-scale, poorly educated category, and they are falling further and further behind.”

  That day at J’s Fresh Meats, we had unknowingly thrust ourselves into this more delicate part of the story: the widening chasm between the Black underclass and upwardly mobile Blacks. We realized that this experiment was not just about what we could teach an economically estranged and racially divided America; this journey would also teach us about our privileged roles as upper-class Blacks.

  As in every group, social stratification exists in the Black community. But our common history, the solidarity it fostered, and the culture we had created together always helped us to overcome those differences. For the most part, tensions among the classes did not exist. The lower-class Blacks believed in and admired the upper-class Blacks, and vice versa. Regardless of our socioeconomic status, we all had a vested interest in the struggle for freedom and equality.

  Collectively, we fought to ensure that some of us would be successful, a theory that W. E. B. Du Bois delineated in 1903, known as “The Talented Tenth.” Essentially, Du Bois believed all African Americans must push for the most talented to succeed. “Negroes must first of all deal with the Talented Tenth,” he wrote. “It is the problem of developing the best of this race that they may guide the mass away from the contamination and death of the worst, in their own and other races.”

  His vision was to develop Black men and women primarily through higher education. These exceptional few—teachers, doctors, lawyers, or engineers—would then become leaders in the community. It was a strategy dependent on the desire of those in the upper class to leverage their power and prosperity to help the underclass rather than improve their own individual standing.

  “Education and work are the levers to uplift a people,” he explained. “Work alone will not do it unless inspired by the right ideals and guided by intelligence. Education must not simply teach work—it must teach Life. The Talented Tenth of the Negro race must be made leaders of thought and missionaries of culture among their people. No others can do this work and Negro colleges must train men for it. The Negro race, like all other races, is going to be saved by its exceptional men.”

  Beyond leading our race with their education, wealth, and access, those who’d “made it” would serve another purpose, Du Bois contended. They’d explode or dismantle the foundations of the racist paradigm—that Blacks were inferior.

  The problem is that The Talented Tenth was an idea conceived at a time when political liberty was still an elusive goal. In the ’40s, ’50s, and’60s we were fighting for the right to vote, for equal opportunity in the workplace, and for school integration. As these dreams became realized and The Talented Tenth (TT) population increased, there was a blossoming of professional organizations, alumni associations, and social and neighborhood groups. These societies became increasingly popular, but they were less a means to enhance Black solidarity and more a way to allow the elite to interact with their own within White society. There are dozens of these groups now, from Jack and Jill, The Links, and Mocha Moms to the National Black MBA Association and Black Ivy (for alumni of the Ivy League). The average TT seems to be involved in at least two.

  These groups do good for the community. Indirectly. Some of these groups emphasize community service, promoting a scholarship fund, or offering a mentoring program. But actually working with the masses just isn’t done anymore. It takes up time that could be better spent planning that trip to the Inkwell—the section of Martha’s Vineyard where Black people congregate once a year—or getting your daughter ready for Cotillion or your sorority’s annual Debutante Ball. Besides, the problems in the Black community seem intractable—unemployment, drug abuse, educational regression, crime, gangs, AIDS, recidivism, and family disintegration. We just want to get away from them. These groups and events facilitate that exodus in a way that makes us feel like we are not actually “selling out.”

  Like many in The Talented Tenth, we had carved out our own lifestyle, combining the comforts and pleasantries of “White Life” with the traditions of the African American community. That’s what living in Oak Park and being a member of the Harvard Club and Trinity United Church of Christ meant. What it did not mean was spending any time in dilapidated places like the West Side, much less shopping there or having a real exchange with someone like the woman on the other side of the counter at J’s Fresh Meats.

  But there I was, credit card in hand. I didn’t want to embarrass this woman because of our obvious, painful class distinction. I tried to, let’s say, “blend in.” I changed my tone, infused a little more Ebonics and Southern drawl into my small talk. Basically, I reverted back to how just about everyone in Liberty City talked when I lived there.

  She made adjustments too. I was a guest, like anyone from Oak Park with advanced degrees from the University of Chicago would be, even a White person. I was much more that person than I was a sistah, a Black mother needing some groceries. Unlike during the civil rights era, when Blacks from diverse backgrounds felt as if they were in the same struggle, the only thing that stood out now was the unavoidable, awkward relationship of a poor, uneducated Black woman serving an upper-class, highly educated Black woman—two planets orbiting around each other. “You have a blessed day,” she said, smiling, trying to bridge all that was between us with kindness. I thanked her and smiled back. I headed out the door, climbed back into the truck, and was a little overwhelmed with all that had converged in that stooped store.

  How dare you run a business like this, I thought. Then I remembered those babies on the floor, and my heart broke.

  The J’s Fresh Meats lady was the stereotype we see caricatured in the news and in the movies, the one we whisper about when we see her in the Black restaurants in gentrifying areas of Chicago’s Hyde Park, or the one we disdain when she dares to make her way to the malls, parks, and restaurants of our exclusive suburb.

  We were wrong to judge her, but the certainty of our assessment assuaged our guilt. That was one of the perks of being in the Black bourgeoisie: We could utter the most prejudiced remarks about people like her—comments we would denigrate White folks for saying—because we are Black. When White folks look at her with pity or hate, they do so without knowing who she is or why her life has ended up this way. But we know. Many of us come from backgrounds similar to hers, and we have cousins and childhood friends like her. That is the difference.

  But my education in urban food shopping was just beginning.

  Our next stop was Mario’s Butcher Shop, a few forlorn blocks away from J’s. “We’re the heart and soul of the We
st Side,” claimed the big sign out front. It looked like an ideal place for the adventure portion of the experiment. More of a full-service grocery, with a parking lot, shopping carts, even Martin Luther King Jr.’s picture on a front window, Mario’s advertised seven different types of chitlins on sale—black chitlins, green chitlins, sausage chitlins, cleaned chitlins, boxed chitlins, tub-o-chitlins, half-tub-o-chitlins. I thought, Am I in some parody flick? Is Martin Lawrence going to come stomping out of the door in drag?

  But finding a full-service grocery store in a place like the West Side is a miracle, no matter what it may look like. Folks living in Austin buy food from convenience stores, gas stations, and liquor stores, or they take the bus or drive to Oak Park.

  We were about to park when I noticed a woman pushing a shopping cart. I rolled down my window.

  “Hi,” I said, in my Perky Maggie tone, smiling. “I’m trying to find a Black-owned grocery store. Do you know if this place is Black-owned?”

  “Hell, no,” she said.

  “But, I saw the Martin Luther King picture and all that. Are you sure? Should I just get out and ask?”

  “You don’t have to go and ask, honey. No way is this place Black-owned. It’s owned by some Italians or some Greeks. You walk in, the whole family is working there. No way is this place Black-owned. There are no Black-owned grocery stores.”

  She treated us like we were insane for thinking it might be otherwise. I said, “Okay, well, thank you,” and she loaded her bags into the trunk, got in her car, and pulled out.

  We decided to go inside anyway, just to be sure. On the wall, past the photos of Jesse Jackson and Malcolm X, was a photo of a White guy and his family—the owners. But all the customers in the store were Black. We walked to the produce section and saw that it was dirty; all we found were bruised apples, near rotten bananas, and smelly potatoes in a cardboard box. We found an entire lane of greens, but they were wilted and gave off a stench. I saw mold and decided we weren’t going to explore the meat section. We turned and walked out. We had had enough for one day.