Our Black Year (23 page)

You see it in other cultures too: Hawaiians call it Alamihi Crab Syndrome, the Swedes and Scandinavians know it as Jante's law, and in Australia and New Zealand it goes by Tall Poppy Syndrome. I even found a reference to it in a 2006 International Monetary Fund essay on why poor countries stay that way: “Citizens, fearing that the advantage gained by one group may come at the expense . . . of the other, become like crabs in a bucket, preventing each other from getting out,” writes Raghuram Rajan, director of the IMF's Research Department. “Uncertainty about who will get the benefits of reforms can further compound resistance.”

I call it the “Advancement is betrayal” perspective. It is about as defeatist an outlook as you could conjure.

Others have remarked on the by-products of this syndrome. In
Talking Dollars and Making Sense
, Stephens writes, “African-Americans have such a strong historical identity with poverty that we seem to define ourselves by what we don't have rather than what we do have.... If and when a brother or sister finds a way to create a profitable life, that person is immediately looked upon with suspicion and condemned as having ‘sold out.'”

That identity with poverty leads to laziness and, in Stephens's view, “is a self-fulfilling prophecy.” People think, “The few dollars I make don't mean anything, and I'll never have anything, so why try?”

Complicating matters is the fact that White efforts to derail Black economic empowerment have existed for about as long as “crabs in a barrel.” Laws to discourage Black entrepreneurship were established “almost as soon as the first settlers came to America,” according to Jessie Carney Smith, editor of the
Encyclopedia of African American Business
. “From the end of the Civil War to the modern civil rights era, whites drove blacks out of their trades.”

So Blacks found other ways to survive, most notably the aforementioned fraternal societies that became banking and insurance companies as well as businesses like shoemakers, draymen, and liverymen that Whites were reluctant to enter.

But the Black community remained fragmented. Some of this divisiveness, Dr. Walker told me, is borne of hopelessness, which was a product of all that formal opposition and something else: the horrifying widespread practice of lynching.

“It should be mentioned,” she pointed out, “that during the age of massive lynching of Blacks—according to the findings of Ida B. Wells—the largest number of Black men lynched were those businesspeople who competed with Whites”—not those facing the already highly suspicious charges of raping White women.

That wasn't only Ida B. Wells's conclusion. In a landmark 1931 report, two prominent sociologists—one White, one Black—studied thousands of lynchings in the South and refuted the impression that these horrific crimes were meant as punishment for those dubious allegations of rape. In fact, fewer than 20 percent of all lynchings stemmed from rape or similar charges; many were attempts by largely rural, poor Whites to fend off what they saw as economic and political competition from their poorer Black neighbors. In my research I found repeated references to an estimated two or three lynchings each week in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the South, and every reference listed economic competition from Blacks as a leading reason for the crime. Lynching was economic terrorism.

White violence against Black economic empowerment didn't end with lynchings. Look through enough African American history and you can find all sorts of violence perpetrated against successful Black businesses. In 1859 Black furniture maker Henry Boyd, considered the most successful African American manufacturer before the Civil War, closed his Cincinnati plant after it had been burned three times. In 1860 arsonists destroyed the elegant Sea Girt Hotel in Newport, Rhode Island, owned by African American hotelier and civic leader George Thomas Downing. The 1906 race riot in Atlanta, in which at least twenty-five Blacks were killed, and the 1919 race riots in Chicago, where twenty-three Blacks were killed, were directly traced to White tension over economic competition from Blacks.

I've never been one of those people who blame everything on slavery and the especially harsh realities for Blacks through the late-nineteenth
century; I do believe, especially now, that hundreds of years of slavery, slaughter, open and covert hostility, and various forms of exploitation have plenty to do with it. In any case, the result is that Blacks now have very few businesses, and most of them are concentrated in a few markets and industries—like hair braiding—and in a few locales—in poorer, predominantly Black neighborhoods. This would not be so catastrophic if those businesses were successful, expanding, employing more than one or two people, and dominating lucrative industries. You know where that's happening? Among Koreans, who have taken over the Black hair and beauty supply industry, which generates over $9 billion a year.

To make matters worse, only a small percentage of the Black-owned businesses that do exist are high quality and competitive. That condition perpetuates a debilitating cycle, Dr. Walker notes. Most Black businesses don't survive, and those that do survive can't generate enough money to expand, which often leads to their eventual demise. That environment plays into the cynicism, suspicion, and divisiveness among our own people.

Clarence Jones, the scholar in residence at Stanford's Martin Luther King Jr. Institute, told me that African American disagreement over buying Black is a result of the struggle for civil rights, a desire “to be considered and treated as part of the mainstream.... They don't want to be reminded of the economic disparities. They mistakenly don't see Black empowerment as a positive step. They see that as somehow a denigration and denial of their status as ‘equal' in this society and they, too, are living an illusion.”

As Jones pointed out, slavery exacted an incalculable psychological toll on Blacks, and segregation “scarred our psyche.” The overall consequence—apart from the lack of intergenerational wealth—was a lasting sense of lower social status.

“They should see [buying Black] as an act of pride,” Jones said, “as a validation of their self-worth, but some of them don't see it that way.” And so they resist. “That resistance must be challenged . . . in a sympathetic way,” he cautioned, “because you are dealing with a Black people who are inflicted with their own sense of inferiority.”

Chapter 9

T
HIS IS THE PART OF THE STORY WHERE OUR MARRIAGE falls apart; where the strains of driving thirty-six miles for paper towels, the realization that despite our best efforts we couldn't keep Karriem's business afloat, and the stress of forcing two little girls into an arrangement they couldn't possibly comprehend all combine to ruin a family.

Except they didn't. Thank God, exactly the opposite occurred.

While the jalopy that was The Empowerment Experiment was sputtering along, the four Andersons took hold of one another and drew closer. Maybe this was due to a feeling that we were alone in this, and despite the disillusion, we still believed in the experiment. Maybe it was anger with the rest of the world or a shared sense of heartbreak and loss. I'm not really sure. But I like to think it stemmed from the love John and I have for each other and that our values are so closely aligned. Although we might not have begun with the best-laid plans and things weren't working out the way we had hoped, that didn't change our belief that we needed to do something and that
this
was the something we both felt was right.

I know it's a cliché, but the hardship made me appreciate John's character even more. Those traits that drew me to him—his dependability, intelligence, trustworthiness, calm demeanor, and devotion to the girls, the community, and me—shone through during these trying months. He
told me that he grew to appreciate even more my prowess as a writer, my feistiness, smarts, and ability to work a room.

As for the girls, Cara and Cori were still young enough that they viewed EE as an adventure, for the most part, and this was helped by my ability to, uh, market the project to them. Plus, they had made some new friends and were treated like princesses in just about all the stores we frequented.

“Do it like Zinga, Mommy!” Cori said one Saturday in July while I worked on her hair. This hot summer day was going to be full of fun, food, and frolicking—EE style—for the four of us. “Zinga” was Nzingha Nommo, owner of Afriware Books, one of the few EE stores we'd found in Oak Park. Cori absolutely loved Nzingha's Afro, which was easily seven inches in radius. And both girls adored Nzingha, who always showered them with kisses. The cute bubble blowers we bought whenever we visited the store gave our daughters hours of joy.

I had promised the girls that we'd finally visit their new buddy Jori, and her mom, Ms. Faye, my tech-support person and the owner of a Quiznos franchise. Ms. Faye, Jori, the Quiznos store, and their backyard pool were all in Calumet City, a predominantly Black suburb far southeast of Chicago—almost in Indiana. Because the route from our place to theirs cut through much of the South Side, we were going to get the most from that hour-long trek by stopping at a few of our favorite businesses, starting with Afriware Books.

“Cori,” I told her. “Mommy really wants to braid your hair today, sweetie pie. We're going in the pool and I don't want your hair to get in your eyes.”

“Mommy, but can I wear it loose? To show Zinga?”

“Okay, baby,” I said. “Okay.” A mom has to pick her battles. “You can wear it like Zinga.”

We met Nzingha during those first research-driven weeks in January. When I used Google to look for “Black businesses” and “Oak Park,” up popped a link to Afriware's website. Under the store's Helpful Links tab was a list of other local Black-owned businesses. We thought we struck gold. The majority of them were restaurants and some professional services
we didn't need—an accountant and a lawyer, for example. But the bakery, dry cleaner, two shoe stores, coffee shop, convenience store, and ice cream parlor definitely piqued our interest—until we started calling and found that all but one of the numbers had been disconnected. I called Afriware Books and left one of my trademark long-winded messages outlining our project.

That evening John was checking the messages as I was getting dinner together.

“Dang, John, you still on the phone?” I called from the kitchen.

“It's the lady from that bookstore,” he said. Then he listened for another full eight minutes.

“Yup,” John said to me, one ear to the phone. “You guys are gonna get along just fine.” He laughed. I knew exactly what he meant. Nzingha possesses a similar propensity for leaving long messages.

A couple days later our family was standing in Afriware's doorway. Greeting us was a statuesque goddess sporting a large Afro, shell necklace, kente-cloth wrap skirt and a tight T-shirt with the red, black, and green map of Africa. This was the image I had in my head when I first heard her smooth late night–radio DJ voice on my voicemail. She was so striking that I felt a little outdone in my Oak Park mom getup of baggy jeans, worn-out sweatshirt, and my hair balled up in a bun.

“Greetings, sister and brother,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. “What a beautiful family! I am so honored to have you in my store.”

The place housed Black classics—from
Roots
to
The Color Purple
—and all the hot reads from the Black intelligentsia, including Cornel West, Tavis Smiley, our pal Dr. Michael Eric Dyson, and Dr. Na'im Akbar, the prominent scholar and psychologist. The celebrity stuff was there too, including LeBron James's book and Steve Harvey's self-help digest for Black women. And, of course, there were T-shirts, dolls, figurines, books, and posters depicting our new president. The room was clean and bright, just like the surrounding area. Afriware was in a prime spot—across the street from the high school and just a couple blocks from downtown Oak Park. The store became our go-to place for children's books, birthday presents, and the like.

That Saturday in July, Cori's hair was a hit, and Nzingha was flattered. We bought a special-edition Michael Jackson T-shirt for my mother, who is a huge MJ fan, and picked up more bubble blowers for the girls. We told the girls it was time to wave bye to Nzingha, and they were about to protest until John told them we were going for ice cream and to see Ms. Tracye.

Tracye Dee, another vivacious beauty, owned the WineStyles franchise in the South Loop, a very hot, upscale neighborhood a few blocks south of downtown Chicago. In the last few years stylish new condos, eclectic restaurants, bars, and boutiques had transformed what had been a somewhat seedy, largely overlooked section of town. Now the area was teeming with young, cultured professionals. What John and I found so exciting was that Tracye's place was in the center of a cluster of Black-owned businesses. What the girls found exciting was that Tracye also had a gigantic Afro, she smothered them with love, and her store was right across the street from a Black-owned Cold Stone Creamery. While John and the girls headed for treats, I crossed the street and went into Tracye's fine establishment. I loved shopping there, and the timing was ideal. We were planning a wine-tasting fund-raiser to be held here in a few weeks.

Tracye came into our lives in May at a party and awards ceremony that Nicole Jones, owner of Sensual Steps Shoe Salon in Bronzeville, had set up to celebrate the four-year anniversary of her business and to single out a few noteworthy African American businesspeople. She'd asked me to present awards, one of which went to Tracye for community stewardship.

As the owner of WineStyles, Tracye loved interacting with her customers.

“They are always surprised,” she told me, “when I say, ‘Hi, my name's Tracye, and if you need anything, let me know.' I hand them my business card and they say, ‘Oh, you're the owner?' and then the questions start. That is really fun.”