So why were we being tagged as racists?
“That’s not an unreasonable response from people who are otherwise well-meaning and decent White people,” said Clarence B. Jones, Scholar in Residence at the Martin Luther King Jr. Research and Education Institute at Stanford University and King’s confidant and attorney. “And that’s because they haven’t taken the time to carefully consider the difference . . . between the general economic conditions of the White community and the Black community.”
“In good faith,” he added, “their judgment is clouded by an illusion . . . that there is a level playing field, that there is no significant economic disparity between the capital assets in the African American community and the capital assets in the White community.”
This is a false assumption, according to Jones. The roots of that disparity date back to 1863, when four million slaves were freed—at least officially—by the Emancipation Proclamation. Two years later the “40 Acres and a Mule” order—giving freed slave families land and a barnyard animal—was established. Historians debate the scope of that specific order, but that dispute doesn’t change the overall impact of slavery.
“The principal economic consequence of slavery on the African American community is the failure of them to have any generational transfer of wealth,” Jones said, which reminded me of what Steven Rogers had highlighted regarding the lack of Black retailers. “Having no capital assets to transfer from generation to generation meant that you had successive generations of African Americans who were always economically disadvantaged,” Jones said.
In explaining the factual and historical basis for his position, Jones pointed to President Lyndon Baines Johnson’s 1965 commencement address at Howard University, “To Fulfill These Rights.”
freedom is not enough.... You do not wipe away the scars of centuries by saying: Now you are free to go where you want, and do as you desire, and choose the leaders you please. You do not take a person who, for years, has been hobbled by chains and liberate him, bring him up to the starting line of a race and then say, “you are free to compete with all the others,” and still justly believe that you have been completely fair. Thus it is not enough just to open the gates of opportunity. All our citizens must have the ability to walk through those gates. This is the next and the more profound stage of the battle for civil rights. We seek not just freedom but opportunity. We seek not just legal equity but human ability, not just equality as a right and a theory but equality as a fact and equality as a result. For the task is to give 20 million Negroes the same chance as every other American to learn and grow, to work and share in society, to develop their abilities—physical, mental and spiritual, and to pursue their individual happiness.
I think we would all agree that hasn’t happened.
In search of a contemporary perspective, I sought out two people I met in the trenches: Tracye Dee, the African American owner of WineStyles in Chicago’s South Loop, and Joslyn Slaughter of Jordan’s Closets. I was curious about what they thought was behind the animosity toward our buying-Black effort.
Tracye told me she thought folks are fearful of a unified effort by African Americans, a group that many see—accurately—as deeply divided. “People are so afraid of something different,” she said. “I think they worry that we’d take away from their patrons and their family businesses. I feel like telling them, just give it a chance. You’d find that you may even benefit from it.”
Joslyn Slaughter said much the same thing. “We’re not used to seeing something like this from African Americans,” Joslyn said of EE. “But if we had the presence of mind . . . to bring all our talent to bear, we would be a lot further along. We’re a minority, yes, but we’re a big minority. We could move mountains, and I think that scares some White people.”
Fear can be a powerful force. Why do you think everyone from politicians to insurance sales reps to real estate agents use it? It’s effective, easy, and serves their immediate needs, but it also kills progress and opens the door to much worse. Yet the fear endures.
African Americans were brought here centuries ago as slaves, a circumstance that created an assortment of enduring emotional and psychological scars. These have been inflamed, transformed, and passed along from one generation to the next. The media basically continues the fearmongering by portraying us as dumb, loud, shiftless, predatory, and immoral, in stereotypes ranging from the obese welfare mom and the vulgar rapper to the ignorant athlete.
Fear is what prompted the “white flight,” mostly in the 1960s, that occurred in the panicked home selling in Chicago and other cities. As a result, the once “good” Irish, Italian, or Jewish neighborhoods, like on Chicago’s West Side, have become almost all Black and all feral.
A half century later those neighborhoods remain lost. Folks who once lived there look back with sorrow and anger at what their communities have become, and just about anybody—Black or White—who has to drive down those streets does so with the windows raised and the doors locked. Add to that the African American riots on Chicago’s West Side and in many urban areas after Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, the Black Power movement, and the armed insurrection the Black Panthers advocated, and the fear seems justified. When some folks think about Blacks getting more powerful, they may flash on those images as well as more recent ones and think: Those jackasses are going to be in charge? We can’t let that happen. It’ll be anarchy.
There’s a logical progression from fear to resentment to hate, which is, of course, much more destructive. Images of the vulgar rapper or the welfare mom quickly become what some White folks, or Asians, or Cuban Americans want—no, love—to see so they can justify and fuel the fear and anger that leads to outrage. These stereotypes become the only images those folks will let in.
The Empowerment Experiment got caught in all that quicksand. As much as John and I tried to extricate the conversation from the mud and refocus it on self-help economics and inclusion, we kept getting stuck. This emotional morass was hindering the movement we were trying to build, and it was poisoning our souls.
Chapter 8
The Trouble Is Us
AFTER THE BRIEF DAYS OF HOPE FOR FARMERS BEST, things again began looking grim, and my mood became prickly. Despite our prodding, friends were doing nothing to support Karriem’s store, even though they said they would shop there. They were just telling us what we wanted to hear.
During my frequent trips to Farmers Best there were hardly any cars in the parking lot near Karriem’s Ford Excursion. The entire shopping center’s lot took up two blocks, and because Farmers Best was by far the largest building in the strip mall, there were about six aisles of double-sided spaces available for his customers. The other stores had no more than half that amount. Keeping my spirits up after pulling into that lot was next to impossible. I knew that empty lot meant that the inside of the store was a dead zone.
Before walking in I’d take a few minutes, clear my head, and push back the tears. Then I’d inhale and force a smile. I knew how humiliating this plight was becoming for Karriem, and I was trying not to make it worse. I’d hop out of the car, grab a shopping cart, and stroll down the empty aisles, all the while sporting a pleasant smile that bordered on the insane. And I’d buy. Then I’d buy some more. I knew my belief that buying a couple extra cans of beans or six-packs of Gatorade was going to make a difference was pathetic.
“Dang, baby,” John said one afternoon when he’d come out to the garage to help me unload groceries. He was laughing. “Did KB have a sale on Gatorade?”
“Stop, John,” I said. “You know exactly why I bought all that. At least I’m not wasting money. I’m only loading up on stuff that can sit for a while and that we’re gonna use eventually.”
“Honey, there is no more room in the garage for all this damn cereal and paper towels. You’re being ridiculous.”
He was right, of course.
“But John, you haven’t been there in a while. You just don’t know.”
“I don’t know?” he said. “I don’t know. I’ve been there. And man, it was bad. So sad.”
“So what am I gonna do? Go in there and buy some bananas and a pack of ground turkey and that’s it?”
“Sweetie, you can rent a U-Haul truck and fill it up. Ain’t gonna make a difference. You can’t fix it because you are not the problem. The problem is not us. You gotta stop blaming yourself.”
“But what about Karriem?” I said.
“Karriem’s a grown man. He already appreciates us. He’s facing a lot right now. But we’re not his problem. The rest of them not bringing their lazy behinds into that store . . . they’re his problem.”
John was right—again. And I certainly wasn’t fooling Karriem. We both knew that the marketing efforts, parking lot cookouts, and media photo ops weren’t working.
By this time I’d gotten into somewhat of a routine. As soon as I dropped the girls at day care in the morning, the doors of The Empowerment Experiment opened. I’d check and send e-mails, tally up recent receipts, and then call KB, whether or not I was making the trek to the store. When he needed to discuss the business with someone who cared and was not too busy with a day job, he’d call. And he needed to discuss the business all the time. Having a chat at around 8:30 in the morning became standard for us.
“Maggie, you are not listening,” he told me one particular morning. “It’s not that I couldn’t afford the meat—it’s that I couldn’t afford a price hike. It would’ve killed us.”
He was talking about a wholesaler who was upset that Karriem’s orders had tapered off.
“Okay, so he actually changed the price on you?” I asked. “Can he do that? We might be able to sue.”
“Can he? Can he? He did. What can’t he do? Those Italians own the whole strip over there. They have contracts with Certified Grocers. I’m just me. I’m no one. Just Karriem.”
“But I thought they liked you. That’s what you said.”
“Maggie, it’s not that. It’s us. I need more traffic. I agreed on a price with this guy based on my ordering twice a week. I’ve been ordering twice a month, if that, because I don’t have enough customers or money to justify those orders. So now he says he has to up my price. And I still gotta deal with these idiots at the Link office.”
Link machines, the devices in stores that process the state’s debit cards for customers receiving food subsidies—what used to be known as food stamps—were notorious for breaking down. Karriem’s was as temperamental as the worst.
“Okay, but they’re fixing that, right?” I said. “Now what about finding a new supplier? You don’t have any friends from Dean’s who can help?”
“Magz, let’s change the subject.”
I wanted to say, “Well, what other subject is there?” But I could tell he was frustrated. Besides, he’d already jabbed me about being an awful listener.
I knew I talked too much, but I was always trying to give him hope, a new solution he might not have considered when sometimes all he wanted was to vent. Karriem’s struggles did seem to mirror our own, but at least we’d get a break every now and then—a major piece in print or TV interview, a donation to the foundation, a call from an influential business leader offering support. For some reason he was not getting any of those. I felt responsible for him barely being able to stay afloat.
As the Fourth of July approached, we were hoping for a miracle, or at least enough of a boost to keep Farmers Best open for another couple weeks. There was one reason in particular why we were optimistic: the first of the month—three days before the holiday, in this case—is one of the monthly occasions when the government refills Link accounts. The sorry fact is that those are always busy days for food stores in poor areas, which often means African American neighborhoods. Add to that the spike in grocery shopping that occurs before the Fourth, and we were fairly confident the store would be buzzing with customers. Karriem flooded the radio with commercials that week. He grilled in the parking lot again. He offered tempting sales and specials.
Then the Link machine broke—again.
When the Link machine breaks at a particular establishment, those cardholders go elsewhere. And if you’re running a business teetering on the brink of insolvency, say, like a certain brave African American grocer on the South Side of Chicago, an untimely Link machine breakdown can shove you over the cliff.
On the morning of June 29, the day after my birthday, I speed-dialed Karriem’s cell as I drove to the store to make sure he would be in when I got there. I had a bunch of shopping to do. The Fourth of July was around the corner, and Cara’s birthday is four days after that. Then there was my best friend’s bachelorette party that I was hosting later that week.
“You’re coming now?” he said. He sounded exasperated, almost angry, as if I’d said something wrong. “Today?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you’d be tired,” he said. “Didn’t you guys hang out late yesterday?”
“Yeah, but I’m fine. What’s wrong, KB?”
He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Mag,” he finally said—I could barely hear him—“please don’t come to the store.”
“What happened?” I said. “You get robbed?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Vandalized? Someone try to torch the place?”
“No, no, sweetie,” he said. His voice sounded so defeated. “Everyone’s okay. I just don’t have everything. I couldn’t make my orders and I told everyone to stay home. I don’t want you to see the store like this.” He explained that he did not have the funds to pay for his meat and frozen food orders. His suppliers would not let him pay on credit, so they would not deliver, and Karriem could not replenish his stock.
I hung up. Saying it was too painful for him, but I knew what had happened: He’d closed. It was over. How in the hell could we have let that happen? I pulled over. It was too much. I shut my eyes and shook my head. Then I pressed down on the accelerator and headed for the store. I had to see what was going on.
As I drove those fourteen miles through some of the most desirable and most forlorn neighborhoods in America, I kept replaying the events of the past few weeks. The brisk traffic at the store that we’d worked so hard to create had dissolved. Many folks who came for the promotions would buy only the items advertised or just redeem the $5-off coupons. Some showed up for the barbecues but never stepped foot inside the store. Or they came once and never returned.
When I arrived the parking lot was empty. I found Karriem sitting in his Excursion and I hopped in.
“Mag, I can’t keep throwing money into a black hole,” he said. He looked drained, resigned. “I have to close down. I’m ordering some of those ‘Going Out Of Business Sale’ signs, and I hope they’ll clean me out. At least I won’t have to throw away my inventory.”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked at him and just started weeping. Karriem hugged me. After a few moments I calmed down.
“Where are you going to shop now?” he asked. “I can’t believe I did this to you.”
I turned to him, wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. I was amazed at what I was hearing.
“You? Did something to me? KB, you are the project. I’m the failure, not you. Remember all that crap I told you about all those folks I’m going to bring in here? That you weren’t going to be able to handle all the customers? Remember all that? Dammit, Karriem! Don’t you see that we failed you and not the other way around?”
“Yeah, I remember,” he said, laughing ruefully. “You said we were going to have a ribbon-cutting ceremony for my second location as the EE Victory Party. That there was gonna be a flood. Black customers from Oak Park, Bolingbrook, South Shore, Harvey flooding into the store. Big flood! Yeah, I remember.”
He laughed louder, holding his stomach. He wasn’t being mean or insensitive. This was his way of maintaining sanity.
“And I believed it too. I was all in that Kool-Aid!”
I looked at that beautifu
l, empty store and was disgusted with myself. Then I started blubbering, and this time, a full-fledged weeping-Maggie avalanche erupted. John and I told Karriem we would change the world—one entrepreneur, one business, and one community at a time—starting with him, his store, and this community. The premise was simple and straightforward: Black entrepreneurs hire Black people and the dismal Black unemployment rate starts to drop. The neighborhood improves. People see what’s happening in that store and other establishments take root and grow. Momentum builds from the sidewalk up. That was EE’s promise—our promise to Karriem. I made him believe everything we’d told him. I poisoned him, his store, and his dream with our hopes and naiveté. I misled and let down this honorable man.
I ended up shopping that day anyway in a nearly dark store. I felt like I was grocery shopping after a nuclear apocalypse, as if I was rummaging through the lone food store on earth.
Karriem did order the signs, and he let everyone go except two employees he needed to help break down shelves, coolers, and other equipment to liquidate assets as part of the bankruptcy. In those few weeks after he closed I stocked up on whatever I could store in my house and whatever I could give to John’s brother and sister-in-law. Karriem would bring cartons of dry goods like chips, pasta, condiments, peanut butter, soda, and beans. It got to the point where he was stopping by almost every day on the way to his home, just to bring over some of the inventory he could not liquidate.
And the produce! We gave away cases of mangoes, oranges, and pineapples to family and friends. We spent an entire weekend peeling, cutting, bagging, freezing, and juicing. We had fruit smoothies for weeks. We tried to make the most of a depressing situation.
What was most agonizing about Karriem’s closing was the realization that no one but Black folks was to blame—Not ’da man, not ’da gub-ment . Us—the customer base that should have flocked to his place was apathetic, cynical, and otherwise missing in action. How much effort we as a people invest in denying the possibility of a successful Black-owned grocer was amazing.
Our Black Year Page 15
