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

like yours.”
    â€œWell, sweetie,” he told me, laughing, “you’ll freeze to death before you do that.”
    He must have seen my spirits sink because right away he pointed across the street to a place called Amos and Andy’s.
    â€œLook, you ain’t gonna find a better piece of fried chicken than right over there,” he said. “There you go. A Black business!”
    Just as I said we’d walk over and get a takeout menu, he shouted to a teenager at the bus stop, who smiled and came over.
    â€œHi, Mr. Darke,” he said. “What you need?”
    â€œI want you to run into Amos’s and see if they have any paper menus. I don’t think they do. Bring me one. Y’hear?”
    While we waited, I asked about a liquor store down the street and the dry cleaner a block away.
    â€œAin’t no other Black-owned stores around here,” he said. “I’m telling you. I would know. You might have better luck on the South Side.”
    Bill’s teenage helper came back and informed us that there were no takeout menus. Too bad—I would have ordered in dinner from there. John took the girls back to the truck, leaving Bill and me to chat, mostly about his business. Before we said our goodbyes, he looked me in the eyes.

    â€œDon’t give up,” he said.
    That day Mahogany became our printer; it still produces our business cards and promotional materials, along with a couple Black-owned Minuteman Press franchises we found in Philadelphia and Atlanta.
    Bill’s encouragement notwithstanding, I climbed back into the Trailblazer more than a little disheartened. But the girls were up for another adventure, so we headed east. In the distance I could see signs from some familiar brands—McDonald’s, Advanced Auto Parts, Athlete’s Foot—and thought the chances were decent that we’d find a business owned by someone in the community.
    Turns out the stores were in a strip mall next to a large car wash, Captain’s Hand Car Wash. Hmmm , I thought, that might be Black-owned.
    We pulled into the mall lot and parked amidst the swirling trash. The bass thumping from the car in the stall next to us—a tricked-out Cadillac Escalade with spinning, twenty-inch rims—was so loud the girls covered their ears. I was tempted to say something until I saw the three hundred–pound driver push himself out of his vehicle. I did, however, give him my best disapproving mommy scowl. He responded with a smile, showing off his platinum grille. He was wearing a fur coat and had a massive amount of jewelry dangling from his neck. All I could think was, Does everyone have to look like a damn stereotype?
    â€œSuccessful business owner perhaps?” I whispered to John.
    â€œUm, successful business man ,” John said. “And we ain’t buying what he sells.”
    Cara walked, holding John’s hand, and I carried Cori. We went into the Athlete’s Foot, the McDonald’s, and the car wash; we found Black employees and asked whether the places were Black-owned. They all said no.
    The strip mall was big, though, so we kept canvassing and hoping. We visited MK Cleaners; Whale Fish & Chicken; Joe’s Barbecue Fish, Chicken and Ribs; a T-shirt store; and a flower shop—completely struck out.
    I wanted to stop our search because I was mindful of the psychological impact this might be having on my daughters. Admittedly, they were
probably too young to appreciate what our research was uncovering, but everyone—I mean everyone —we saw on the street and in the stores was Black, but not the store owners.
    I told John I wanted the girls to stay in the car if we were going to continue looking farther east. He suggested we take turns getting out so we could avoid the hassle of pulling the girls from their car seats and then plopping them back in a few minutes later. With that, we left the mall, got back on Madison Street, and the first