Our Black Year

by Maggie Anderson

  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.

  “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.

&
nbsp; “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 s
ee 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.”