Read Online Our Black Year by Maggie Anderson - Free Book Online

jacket and baseball cap. He walked toward me and we embraced.
    â€œI knew you’d be here sooner or later,” he said. He stepped over to Michelle and they kissed.
    â€œBaby,” 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.
    â€œWe 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?
    â€œWell,” 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.
    â€œJust 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