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

grimy and teeming with urban life. Some folks in work clothes or uniforms were rushing along. Kids by the bus stop, about a dozen feet from Mahogany’s front door, were chilling as they waited for the bus to come, wearing standard urban gear: droopy jeans, Timberland boots, oversized sweatshirts, and plain, dark skullcaps. All of them had backpacks and headphones.
    Then my eyes fell on a young lady—a girl, really—who looked to be fifteen at the most, with two babies tucked warm and snug in a double stroller. She wore a turtleneck with a jersey over it, a fleece hoodie over that, and pants. No coat. The temperature outside must have been 20 degrees, and a light snow was blowing around. My mind started working.
    â€œI hope those ain’t her kids, John,” I said.
    â€œBaby, you know they are. Who else does that but someone who has no choice? Stop wishing for stuff, honey. Do something about it.”

    I went silent, thinking about that kid and her babies. John looked over, placed his hand on my knee.
    â€œShe’ll be alright,” he said. “Let’s park and meet Mr. Darke.”
    Finding a spot was difficult. So as John circled back, I tried to inventory the business prospects nearby, hoping I would see a shoe store, hardware store, fishmonger, bakery, or anything with products for my children or house. No luck. We did see three fried or barbecued food shacks, two churches, two tax preparation franchises, and an African braid salon.
    Right under the bright Mahogany Graphics sign, I saw an older gentleman locking the door. He was wearing a dark wool overcoat, dark Dockers, and a Kangol hat.
    â€œJust let me out,” I said.
    After locking the door Mr. Darke stood there for a second, maybe to make sure he’d remembered everything. As I approached, I felt jittery. Explaining what we were doing wasn’t always easy. Most people got it, but there were always some, especially from poor, tough neighborhoods like Austin, who clearly saw me as one of those condescending, missionary types who went to African villages to tame the savages.
    I was also nervous because he looked busy and his age was a little intimidating. No doubt he’d acquired a certain amount of wisdom about human nature and had seen plenty of efforts like ours come and go without really changing a thing. I had run into opposition from older folks before, and it’s daunting. Once I met a local politician at the South Shore Cultural Center, a Mecca of Chicago’s Black community, where the most exclusive events are held. The politician was giving a speech during Black History Month about how badly we needed to unite for the sake of our children and bring back the spirit of the civil rights era. I was so moved that, when he finished, I fought my way through the crowd to tell him about our pledge. His response?
    â€œThat’s nice,” he said. “You’re wasting your time, though.”
    That kind of cynicism hurts, but I understand it and I guess it was on my mind as I walked toward Mr. Darke that cold afternoon. He looked tired and frayed, but when he saw me, he smiled. Then I noticed he was
looking right past me, at John and the girls, who had just arrived. Though he didn’t say a word about it, I knew Mr. Darke was pleased to see a Black man with his kids.
    John stuck out his hand.
    â€œHow you doing? I’m John Anderson, and this is my family. Do you have a second? Looks like you’re headed out.”
    â€œNaw, naw,” Mr. Darke said. “I’m fine. I have to make a run. I have a long day ahead of me.”
    â€œWell, we like to hear that!” I said.
    I told him about The Ebony Experiment, and he loved it. He insisted we call him Bill. When I said we’d like to use his printing services, he gave me a brochure and started walking us to our car.
    â€œActually, Bill,” I said, “we’re going to walk around a bit, find some more awesome Black businesses