Our Black Year

by Maggie Anderson

  For each listing I tried to include a picture of the entrepreneur, the business logo, a personalized blurb about why I like the business or the owner, a link to their website, and basic information about the goods or services. I’d close each description with something kitschy like, “Now fill your closets with Jordan’s Closets today!”

  We tried to stay upbeat. Still, it had been a rough ride. We felt more than a little defeated, and it was only April. The Dew had appeared, as had a few more quality, stereotype-breaking Black-owned outlets that we depended on and were happy to support. But the disillusionment that the Linda Johnson Rice fiasco engendered stayed with me like a stain that wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I scrubbed.

  And then there were our children.

  We were very protective of them for obvious reasons. Cara would turn four in July, and Cori was two for most of the year. Before we began our experiment we’d promised ourselves that the girls would not endure discomfort or fear. We would manage the fallout of our public pledge during business hours when, for the most part, the girls were in preschool or otherwise occupied. They were young enough that one brand of bubble bath, apple juice, or breakfast cereal was as good as another. But we knew we’d have to forgo certain family activities we’d gotten used to, like taking the girls to the Oberweis Dairy ice cream parlor in downtown Oak Park or to the River Forest Mall for pretzels, Chuck E. Cheese’s and Monkey Island, all located less than four miles from us. During The Empowerment Experiment, family time meant spending a lot more hours at the park and doing arts and crafts, having a puppet show, or watching TV—which was perfectly fine with the kids—and more trips to Alan’s house (John’s brother), where they could play with their cousins, who were their ages. The girls had become somewhat familiar with the routes to our former recreational destinations, so we tried to avoid going down certain streets with them in the car. But when that old route was unavoidable or one of us had simply forgotten to take an alternate road, we’d endure a “Please Momma, I want pretzel, Momma.”

  Experiment or not, they were accustomed to me saying no to requests like that. But in the past we would follow the denial with a promise to go another time. We didn’t make those promises during this year. Fortunately, their lives were still so full that they did not make much of a fuss about it. And when the four of us sat down to dinner at home, we would push the project aside and erect the Anderson Force Field that would deflect all things potentially harmful to the girls.

  Our kids were one thing, but certain family outings, such as birthday parties for our daughters’ cousins and friends, were a little trickier. Luckily, we had two pretty decent options for gifts. For children of our friends, who knew what we were doing, buying something from Jordan’s Closets was okay. But when one of Cori’s classmates had a birthday party and we didn’t know her mother very well—or how she’d react if we gave her child resale clothing—we bought a wonderful children’s book about Africa and the alphabet from Afriware. Another time we bought a McDonald’s gift card—always a hit with the parents—for a friend of Cara’s. This child’s party presented another complication because it was held at Chuck E. Cheese’s. This happened a couple times during the year, and we decided to roll with it—preventing Cara and Cori from attending would be cruel and pointless. It wasn’t as big a deal as our friends thought. Beyond buying a gift, parents of the partygoers hardly ever had to spend money. We took the girls to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and they had a ball with the ten tokens that each guest received as part of the party package. We just had to be sure the girls got the most out of each token, something John ensured by encouraging them to play the games that ran for the longest time.

  John and I had to tweak our social life as well. Things we’d gotten used to—like going out for steak and cigars at Shula’s, martinis at Gibson’s on Rush Street, and tapas at Quattro—for the most part evaporated. But our friends wouldn’t let us escape the Black bourgeoisie’s life entirely. When I cohosted my close friend Colette’s bachelorette party, everyone involved knew that everything—from the hotel suite and the alcohol to the hors d’oeuvres, restaurant, limo, and cake—would be made, distributed, sold, or owned by an African American, and I made sure they were. But when Colette’s sister and cohost, Paulette, insisted on having the party at the W Hotel, I went, of course, and had a great time enjoying the hors d’oeuvres, cake, and limo. But I did not spend my money at the hotel, which was not Black-owned.

  Our friends did make cursory attempts, out of respect for our pledge, to host events at Black-owned establishments, like Park 52 restaurant in Hyde Park and the M Lounge just south of downtown. When we had no say in how a party or outing was planned, we would still attend but not spend any money. That meant we’d go to the bar but order water, which is what happened when a close friend had his fortieth birthday party downtown at Jefferson Tap & Grill. It was awkward, but we smiled, ordered another round of “nature’s champagne,” and stayed true to the cause—while also avoiding a hangover. That crimp in our social life wasn’t all that painful. We had two girls under the age of four, and I was traveling more often to see Mima and for the project, so it wasn’t as if we were looking to go clubbing every week or even every month. We didn’t have the time or the energy. Our lives were moving toward something more enduring.

  The main problem at that point was clothing for our daughters. Among the businesses we had trouble finding were Black-owned shoe stores and other outlets with children’s clothes. Jordan’s Closets was wonderful—clean, bright, and with a wide selection—and the owners, Joslyn Slaughter and her mother, Jera, were two of the most hardworking, lovable ladies I will ever know. But the fact that I couldn’t find a place that sold new clothes and shoes for children was aggravating. Is that really too much to ask?

  Black clothing retailers of almost any kind, especially those that met our needs and tastes, were tough to find. We searched online, walked the neighborhoods, asked the Black business owners we’d met, and we still came up empty. What we did find were a few online outlets for up-and-coming designers and a couple stores on the West Side we didn’t visit because they mostly carried urban gear that we did not like—bright jeans and shirts, and racy club outfits that might have appealed to us in our younger days, but not now.

  We wanted a place that offered the more professional, conservative selection I would get at Ann Taylor, Macy’s, Casual Corner, or from the Spiegel catalog. John’s clothes came from Brooks Brothers, Jos. A. Bank, and Bachrach, and we loved shopping PaulFredrick.com for his shirts and ties. He was elated when he found Agriculture Crop of Style right next to our favorite coffee shop in Bronzeville. Their stuff was really stylish and classy, but it was too pricey for everyday items. Dwyane Wade of the Miami Heat shopped there, which gives some indication of who could afford it. I discovered Kiwi’s Boutique on the West Side, but their stuff, although nice, was also a bit too hip for me.

  How could it be that we were so limited, especially as Blacks have a rich history in the apparel and design industries, dating back to the 1700s in Virginia when a man named Stephen Jackson started creating hats from leather and fur? Even in the harsh climate of the Civil War and post–Civil War era, dressmaking, millinery, and tailoring were healthy businesses for Blacks. There was Eliza Ann Gardner, an abolitionist and dressmaker. African American dressmaker Elizabeth Keckley designed Mary Todd Lincoln’s inaugural ball gown and supervised a staff of twenty or so young women. Ann Lowe created Jackie Bouvier’s wedding gown when she married a young politician named John F. Kennedy and was also the couturier to the Astors, du Ponts, Rockefellers, Roosevelts, and Vanderbilts. Her clothing was sold in Neiman Marcus and I. Magnin. There is a long list of others: Jesse A. Terry started a shop in Alabama in the early 1960s that became Terry Manufacturing Company, grossing more than $1 million a year by selling his clothes in places like Sears and maintaining a client list that included McDonald’s and the federal government. Willie Donnell Smith’s famous WilliWear Limited sold $25 million a year of cl
othing in the 1980s. Maurice Malone’s lines for men and women had sales of $8.5 million in 2000. Then there’s Russell Simmons’s Phat Fashions, Kimora Lee Simmons’s Baby Phat Line, and Sean “Diddy” Combs’s Sean John line. Sean John “Diddy” Combs, as most everyone knows, is not only an entertainment mogul but also the owner of a very hot line of predominantly men’s clothing and accessories.

  My guess is that Blacks don’t have as many clothing stores as we need for the same reason we don’t have as many grocery, electronics, furniture, or hardware stores. Perhaps we do best entering industries where the supply chain is short, where we can make the stuff ourselves and don’t have to spend too much on supplies and inventories—or rely on suppliers—and we don’t have to invest too much in things like real estate. That’s why Blacks are more heavily into restaurants; African and African American arts and crafts, music, and books; services like home health care; barber and braid shops; and day care centers. Those are businesses we can create and maintain out of our homes.

  Gary Lampley and Steven Rogers confirmed this. Lampley is the president of Black Retailer Action Group, or BRAG, a national group based in New York City that promotes African American employment in retail. He told me that having inventory and amassing the expertise that comes from years of experience are critical in the highly competitive retail industry—especially children’s retail.

  “There are a few children’s apparel lines—Baby Phat, Sean John, Rocawear—who are doing well,” he told me, although Baby Phat and Rocawear started as Black-owned and no longer are. Baby Phat was sold in 2004 to Kellwood Company; Rocawear followed in 2007, when Iconix Brand Group purchased it. They “were borne out of the hip hop music industry and [were] created after the women’s and men’s businesses were established,” Lampley told me. “The children’s clothing industry only has a few big players because that business is challenging.”

  He mentioned Belinda Hughes, a gifted sportswear designer who came out with the Boo-Boo Baby line of children’s jackets and coats in 1987 and enjoyed media exposure in places like the New York Times Style section. But, Lampley said, “she, like many African American designers, has a great deal of talent but lacks access to capital.”

  There it was—the phrase that kept coming up in my research on the dearth of Black-owned businesses: lack of capital.

  “Certain industries are just not potentially profitable anymore unless you come to the industry with a massive amount of capital,” Rogers told me, “and African Americans don’t have a legacy that enables us to have that massive amount of capital because the amassing of capital comes from generations.”

  Rogers explained that few Blacks have true “intergenerational wealth,” the monster wealth that started three, four, five, or more generations ago and has been multiplying ever since; the kind of wealth that could, if the market conditions were right, start a retail chain, or buy swaths of real estate in the hottest market and develop a commercial residential complex or three.

  “When you have family members who worked in America for almost 300 years for free,” he said, laughing, “that’s a hell of a starting point to be behind. Just imagine if my great, great, great, great grandfather had the chances that I had—if he weren’t denied things because of his race—where my family could be now. My family has done well,” Rogers said, “but the reality is we could be the Rockefellers. . . . The reason we’re not is because my family, most African American families, didn’t have the chance for that intergenerational wealth.”

  In fact, and maybe this comes as no shock, half of all Blacks in the United States have less than $6,200 in wealth, while the amount of wealth among Whites and Asians is eleven times higher. That means Blacks have much less money to invest in the business and less collateral to use in getting a business loan. Add lending discrimination to the mix, and it seems like an ideal setup for failure.

  Speaking of business loans, research suggests discrimination in this arena is alive and well. The loan rejection rate for Blacks as well as Hispanics is abysmal compared to that of Whites. In 2002 experts from Dartmouth, Wellesley, and Williams colleges conducted a study that analyzed data from the National Surveys of Small Business Finances, finding that “[B]lack-owned firms are more than twice as likely to have a loan application rejected relative to white-owned firms.” A total of 62 to nearly 66 percent of Black loans were rejected, compared to 27 to 29 percent for White-owned business loan applications. For the loans that were approved for Black-owned businesses, those firms had to pay interest rates that were 1 to 1.7 percent higher than what White-owned firms paid.

  All of this—the lack of business capital and its consequences—manifested itself in our older daughter’s feet, which seemed to be expanding on a daily basis.

  When we made the pledge on January 1, we knew we had a three- or four-month grace period until the girls started growing out of their clothing and before they needed new clothes for spring. We knew we’d find Black-owned stores where we could purchase what they needed. In fact, the beauty of spring’s late arrival was that it gave us a few more weeks to locate those outlets. But by April we still hadn’t found one in the Chicago metro area or online. The Dew felt like The Downs.

  Shoes were only part of the problem. Our girls’ clothing shortage had become obvious, at least to me. Cara’s belly started peeking out from a few of her blouses. Two or three pairs of jeans were “flood pants” that looked even worse when she put on boots. Her panties, pajamas, and socks were too tight. Her only shoes were boots, dress shoes, and corduroy or suede shoes. Now that spring was approaching, she’d need new sandals and tennis shoes.

  Cori’s situation was a little less worrisome. She had become accustomed to—and, bless her heart, delighted by—wearing her big sister’s hand-me-downs; it meant she was becoming a big girl as well. To me it was the source of mounting anxiety.

  I kept thinking how easy it would be to plop the girls into their car seats, run over to the nearest Kmart, Target, Children’s Place, or JC Penney, and take care of all our shopping in one trip.

  But we didn’t even discuss it. We were trying to stay upbeat, aware of our commitment and proud about making it. Those mass retailers? They didn’t exist. What also didn’t exist was a pair of shoes for the elongating feet of our three-year-old daughter. But we were cool with that.

  Until David’s christening.

  David is our nephew, the son of John’s brother, Alan, and his wife, Pam. All the cousins were close. Cara and our niece Ashley were born two weeks apart. They were a couple of princesses who delighted in wearing all the fancy, frilly adornments they could dig up or beg us for. On the morning of her brother David’s christening, Ashley for sure was going to present the full princess package in all its extravagant ornamentation. Cori and, especially, Cara had to rise to the challenge, which meant I had to rise to the challenge.

  “The Dew done good,” John joked when he pulled open the blinds to our bedroom the day of the christening. It was a bright May morning.

  “Hi, Mommy,” Cara said, wandering into our bedroom. She kissed my nose and said, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, sweetie.” I kissed back and squeezed her. One of those magical, little mommy moments. Then it hit me. I shot up in bed, my eyes wide.

  “What the hell is she going to wear?” I asked John.

  He gave me a slightly perturbed look and said, “Heck . . . what the heck is she going to wear. We’ll figure something out.”

  I jumped out of bed and started pacing, tugging at my hair. Cara’s look went from soft and sweet to a little scared. John rolled his eyes. Sleepy Cori stumbled into the room and begged me to pick her up. Those big brown eyes melt my heart every time she looks at me the way she was looking at me that morning.

  “Go to daddy, sweetie,” I said, rushing past her. I hustled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and out the back door. The day was sunny but chilly. Cara could wear one of her winter outfits, which allowed me to finesse our EE-induced shortcomings a bi
t. My mood brightened. I went back into our bedroom, apologized for my craziness, and played with my babies. John made coffee.

  After a few minutes I started rummaging through Cori’s closet, where I kept the girls’ fancier dresses, and I felt pretty satisfied with my options.

  I laid out their dresses and focused on tidying up the house, cooking up a light breakfast and getting some work done on EE. The day seemed to be rolling along nicely enough. Then it came off the tracks.

  Cara’s shoes did not fit.

  They were a pair of basic black patent-leather shoes, which complemented the navy blue dress with a big white bow that I helped Cara put on, along with stockings and a matching hair clip. She slipped a purse onto her shoulder and then started putting on her shoes. We discovered they were about a size and a half too small.

  “C’mon, honey,” I told her, trying to feign brightness. “You . . . can . . . ,” I grunted as I shoved her feet in the shoes, “ . . . do . . . this.” With them packed inside, I sighed.