Our Black Year

by Maggie Anderson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 - “You Have a Blessed Day”

  Chapter 2 - Canvassing the Community

  Chapter 3 - Leakage

  Chapter 4 - A Dose of Reality

  Chapter 5 - “A Mighty Economic Power”

  Chapter 6 - The Turbulent Dew

  Chapter 7 - The Colors of Racism

  Chapter 8 - The Trouble Is Us

  Chapter 9 - In the Groove

  Chapter 10 - Our Problems,Your Solutions

  Chapter 11 - A Rewired Family

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Appendix 1

  Appendix 2 - The Empowerment Experiment

  Notes

  Index

  Copyright Page

  To Mima, for showing me how to love,

  how to fight, and that oftentimes,

  there is no difference.

  Introduction

  It all started with dinner.

  In 2004 my husband, John, and I were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary. That night we were the only Black people at Tru, a five-star restaurant in Chicago’s ultra-exclusive Gold Coast neighborhood. Instead of enjoying the romance of the moment, though, I ruined it by bringing up the discouraging status of Blacks in America. Although we moved on to other topics, they all seemed to lead us back to how fortunate we were and how we should be doing more to help improve the situation—The Black Situation.

  John, a highly educated financial planner, talked about how too few Blacks own businesses, and this has led directly to forlorn neighborhoods and a general hopelessness that ultimately results in crime, violence, drug abuse, lousy academic performance in miserable schools, teen pregnancy, and shattered families. Eliminate economic disparity and you start to make structural progress on all these intractable problems.

  Don’t get me wrong. Black people have made great progress in America. We fought for and achieved integration in housing and education, the right to vote, and equal employment opportunities. When we came together to elect the nation’s first Black president, it sparked an awareness of our power. And yet there is no awesome American success story like that of Wal-Mart, Penney’s, Hilton, Hershey, Sears, or McDonald’s coming from a Black family because there is nothing in our culture, history, or experience that tells us we can do it. And it won’t happen until we have a sense of pride in each other, like our Hispanic counterparts; until we believe in the possibility of intergenerational economic empowerment, like our Jewish friends; and until we make it our mission to become a successful group of entrepreneurs, like our Asian and Middle Eastern peers.

  At the moment Blacks are a distant third to Asians and Hispanics in every measure of entrepreneurial progress, including success rates and revenue growth, even though just forty years ago we were first by a wide margin. Our neighborhoods had those grocery stores, dry cleaners, department stores, drugstores, and banks—all owned by local entrepreneurs. Now so many of our neighborhoods are run down that everyone has come to accept this as the norm. Black kids can go their whole lives without ever encountering a Black business owner.

  These communities are starving to death because the money Blacks earn and spend—nearly $1 trillion of buying power—flows right out of those neighborhoods. Maybe you’ve heard the jokes about it, jokes along the lines of “Man, he was running away from the cops faster than a Black dollar out of the community!”

  Only those people directly affected by these circumstances seemed to care—not people like us.

  Okay, I thought. Maybe next time we’ll go to a Black-owned restaurant for our anniversary. But what would that accomplish, aside from pacifying our guilt?

  Anyway, who has the time to figure this out? We had our own great lives to build. John worked his way up from a middle-class Detroit neighborhood to Harvard and then earned an MBA at Northwestern. I grew up in drug-infested Liberty City, Miami, one of the poorest, most violent neighborhoods in America, and made it to Emory University, followed by the University of Chicago for a law degree and an MBA. We had achieved great success in corporate America—John as a financial adviser, me as a strategy consultant—but we hadn’t completely lost our moral compasses. John is active in 100 Black Men, a national mentoring organization that enhances the educational and economic empowerment of the Black community. I had been active in the Rainbow PUSH Coalition of religious and social development organizations led by Rev. Jesse Jackson Sr. We were mentoring youth at our church, and we donated to the NAACP and the United Negro College Fund.

  And, along with a lot of successful Blacks—especially those born in the mid-1970s and later, after the most explosive battles for civil rights had settled into a more nuanced tug-of-war or been ignored altogether—we had developed a dangerous sense of gratification, even entitlement, which is an awful state of mind. It renders you idle and robs you of the passion to make a difference. We’d played our part in allowing the Black community to be reduced to a massive consumer segment that every other group taps for their own benefit.

  Black people say stuff like, “It’s a shame how Black people think the White man’s ice is colder.” Then we get upset about how other groups—Italians, Jews, Arabs, Greeks, Asians, Hispanics—have, in effect, exploited the phenomenon. It’s a staple of Black talk radio. Tune in and chances are you’ll hear an angry exchange about how the Koreans took over the Black hair industry; or how so many major cosmetic, hair care, and toy companies have started Black product lines (Hallmark’s Mahogany cards, Dove’s “My Black is Beautiful” skin care, Mattel’s Black Barbie) that millions of us support while quality, Black-owned firms like Carol’s Daughter, Fashion Fair, and Kwanzaa Kidz struggle to stay alive; or how most poor, urban Blacks go years without seeing other races face to face, except for the shopkeepers and business owners who are draining money from Black neighborhoods.

  It’s called the Middle Man Minority issue.

  Black filmmakers who depict life in the ’hood, like Spike Lee and John Singleton, always show it. The famous “D motherfucka’, D!” scene in Do the Right Thing is a great example. Remember when the kid walks into a convenience store and engages in a hate-filled exchange with the two Asian owners over batteries? That scene—and the entire movie, really—was about the frustration Blacks endure because we don’t own businesses in our communities. Not one Black business owner was depicted in a movie about a Black neighborhood. There were Hispanic-owned businesses, the Italian pizza joint, and the Asian convenience store. And there was racial tension that emerged because of it.

  The film was highly acclaimed and provoked some great dialogue about race relations, but nobody mentioned the core issue: economics. No one talked about money leaving the community—a phenomenon called “leakage”—and that it’s a critical reason why these communities are so battered.

  Then there are popular Black comedies, such as Friday, Booty Call, and Barber Shop. Many scenes unfold in the convenience stores and beauty supply stores owned by Koreans and Indians. That fact barely registers with Blacks because it’s part of our everyday experience that we’ve come to accept. In fact, a dollar circulates among banks, shopkeepers, and other businesses for nearly a month in Asian American communities before that money flows out of the neighborhood. In Jewish communities that neighborhood circulation is roughly twenty days, and in predominantly White Anglo-Saxon Protestant communities it is seventeen days. Want to know what it is in African American neighborhoods? Six hours.

  Here are a few more disturbing numbers:—Less than two cents of every dollar an African American spends in this country goes to Black-owned businesses.

  —More than 11 percent of Whites and Asians own their own businesses, co
mpared to only 7.5 percent of Latinos and 5.1 percent of Blacks.

  —White-owned firms have average annual sales of $439,579. Black-owned firms? $74,018.

  —In 1997 African Americans represented 13 percent of the population but owned only 3 percent of all US businesses, which generated 2 percent of the nation’s business revenues.

  The scenario is particularly galling when you consider that Blacks generally spend more on groceries, footwear, clothing, and shoes than the overall population and that Black teens in particular spend 20 percent more a month than the average US teen, especially on the categories of apparel, video game hardware, and PC software.

  John and I came across statistics like this all the time. And just like us, lots of Black folks would wring their hands about it. But at the dozens of meetings we attended—including national conferences for organizations like the National Black MBA Association, the Rainbow PUSH Coalition, 100 Black Men, the NAACP, and National Urban League—no one was doing anything about it. Maybe, I thought, these problems were just unmanageable. Mainstream media only mentioned the dearth of Black business owners in passing. Universities seemed too bogged down or maybe frightened to offend benefactors; taking a stand was perhaps too dangerous, too militant.

  John and I discussed these issues while we debated spending $60 for a celebratory lobster. But the irony wasn’t lost on us. At the end of our meal, as we paid our $250 dinner bill, we realized we were part of the problem. That money could have done at least a little good in a struggling Black community. Maybe it could have helped a Black entrepreneur employ more people, mentor more children, and serve as a source of pride in his neighborhood. Maybe it could have contributed to the tax base and helped to improve underfunded schools or served to defray the cost of an at-risk youth program, the kind that helps discourage drug use and teen pregnancy and reduces the number of Black men in prison.

  We realized something else, too, that so many others know deep in their hearts: Good intentions and spirited conversations won’t cut it.

  We had to act, and that action had to be distinctive, creative, and influential—something that would resonate with people who were feeling equally frustrated. We wanted to inspire, unite. We wanted to change things—or at least try.

  But how? We were just one couple.

  We thought about how we felt inferior when we’d go into a mass retailer and see nothing made by people like us, or the shame that would wash over us when walking through a Black neighborhood and the only functioning Black-owned businesses were a couple of chicken shacks, barber shops, and braid salons.

  We were well aware of the statistic that, second to the government, Black entrepreneurs are, by far, the greatest employer of Black people. And yet the African American unemployment rate is twice—and in some places, four and five times—the national average for Whites. Worse, we knew that and still never supported Black-owned businesses.

  What we came up with was bold and simple. It was not starting a foundation promoting entrepreneurship or a program to show aspiring entrepreneurs how to get funding, or launching a Black business directory, or initiating a Facebook conversation, although we would end up doing some of these.

  Rather, we would patronize African American–owned businesses exclusively for a few weeks and see what happened. We would “buy Black.” We even came up with a name: “The Ebony Experiment.”

  The idea was beautiful in its clarity in that it focused on economic disparity, the core of all those other problems we had been talking about. Even if it were just for a short time, The Ebony Experiment would illuminate that disparity in a very personal way while highlighting the potential that exists in Black America. Best of all, we would be walking the walk, as they say—living our commitment.

  I admit we got carried away that night, imagining how far something like this could go toward effecting real change. It was inspiring. It was heady. It was awesome.

  And then life derailed it.

  I got pregnant and we traded the yuppie condo near the University of Chicago for a split-level in Oak Park, a comfortable, slightly urban, fairly liberal, and racially diverse suburb on Chicago’s western border. Ernest Hemingway was born and raised there, and Frank Lloyd Wright had lived there, designing twenty-five buildings in town.

  Our first daughter, Cara, arrived in July 2005. Then came Cori in November 2006. We had a deck built, then the roof repaired. After spending $30,000 on remodeling the basement, we realized that would have been a plum gig for a Black contractor. The same thought popped into our heads a few months later after we bought a Cadillac at a dealer thirty-five miles away, just because it had the color we wanted right on the lot, when there was one—owned by a member of 100 Black Men and an active role model for at-risk Black youth—only ten miles from our door.

  “So when are we going to start buying Black?” we would periodically ask each other. Despite our resolute response, the result was always the same: inaction.

  Then came a rainy morning in June 2008. We scrambled to get the girls to day care as the torrential rains just kept coming. When the storm finally let up, I was late for work and hopped on the train into the city. Standing in one of the aisles was our old friend Nat, who I hadn’t seen in years.

  Nat’s another Black professional like us, a lawyer. He’s equally frustrated with the situation in the Black community and is trying to make a difference. Years ago we volunteered together at PUSH.

  Maybe the rain brings out the more pensive person in all of us. Maybe not. But on the train we got beyond the small talk and began a discussion about problems plaguing African American communities. Nat finally asked me, Well, what are you going to do?

  I mentioned our idea about “buying Black,” and Nat wanted to hear more. We got off the train, and it turned out that we were headed to the same building. We walked and talked about The Ebony Experiment. His enthusiasm fed mine.

  Before we said good-bye, he suggested John and I put the concept in writing. We could then pass it on to Nat’s cousin Adrienne Samuels, a reporter at Ebony magazine, the iconic African American monthly that’s been promoting uplifting images, news, and stories about the culture and community since 1945. She might be able to generate some media attention or maybe even set up a meeting with Linda Johnson Rice, chairman and CEO of Johnson Publishing, which publishes Ebony and Jet magazines.

  That night John and I sat in bed and started outlining a plan. We would “buy Black” for ninety days—no, a year. We would save all our receipts and input our purchases into a spreadsheet to be analyzed later. We would enlist academics to monitor the potential of buying Black and use hard data to defy negative stereotypes about Black businesses. We would create a foundation, enlist a board of advisers, and set up a slick website. We would encourage others to join us. We would mount a media campaign. It would be part experiment, part social activism.

  The major goal was to prove that average individuals could generate significant economic growth in the Black community if they committed to purchasing from Black-owned businesses. John and I—and Cara and Cori—couldn’t do that alone. But our effort could shine a light on the issue and inspire the kind of examination that, in time, could make the point. It could—and, we hoped, would—inspire others to do the same.

  And yet as much as we wanted to make the world think this was a natural and normal way to live, we knew it would be a challenging undertaking. But we were both well versed in creating and completing detailed projects, so we went to work on this one. I would end the consulting work I had been doing on a contract basis. That made John the sole breadwinner. We, as a family, would accommodate him so he could make as much money as possible. As for our specific roles in the project, John would be involved with major decisions, meetings, and media appearances. My job was to run the day-to-day operations: monitor and answer all e-mails, do interviews, maintain the website, find Black-owned businesses, research economic empowerment issues, and call on business owners, community leaders, and other VIPs to tell them abo
ut us and beg for help. In addition, I would drive the girls to and from day care, shop, cook, clean, and, in general, take care of the family.

  The ground rules for our new lifestyle—and the lifestyle we hoped other African Americans would embrace—were simple: If we were going to make a purchase, we’d take a few minutes to do some research to see if we could get what we wanted from a Black-owned business. Or if we knew of a Black firm that offered the product or service, we would give them our business even if the company was a little out of the way or more expensive. We were going to be more proactive too. We would do research to find the Black-made products already available at mass retailers like Walgreens and Jewel, a prominent food-store chain in the Chicago area, and we would buy them. We would assess the recurring, everyday needs of the household and then see if a local or otherwise convenient Black business could fulfill them.

  A week after my chance meeting with Nat, amid the flurry of planning, I met with Adrienne to talk about The Ebony Experiment. Like her cousin, she loved the idea and started the ball rolling. She talked about covering the story for the entire year and helped us refine the concept. She even offered to take it to the corporate folks to consider sponsorship.

  In August of 2008 we got some jarring news from Atlanta, where my parents had been living, near my brother Eduardo and his family. My mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which kills within a year 80 percent of the people diagnosed with the disease. The five-year survival rate is about 4 percent.

  My mom, who I call Mima, the most powerful force for good in my life, had been given a death sentence at the moment I was embarking on what I saw as a life-changing experience and—if we were lucky—a powerful movement for all African Americans. Something she’d be so proud of. At first I was hesitant to tell her about our plans, but when I finally did, she loved the idea. I knew then that I couldn’t back out, no matter what was going on with her health.