Our Black Year (18 page)

Although it was five miles southeast and in an area that felt much more like the West Side, I might swing by God First God Last God Always, our household goods supplier. Like Farmers Best for groceries, it was my only option for household and personal basics. David and Michelle Powell, the quintessential mom-and-pop owners, knew their
customers' names and hugged many of them—not just me—as they entered the store. Native South Siders, they were almost inconsolable over how the once-vibrant area around 71st Street had lost virtually all of its quality, locally owned businesses.

All of these entrepreneurs, my new close friends, were just two miles from Hyde Park and the University of Chicago, where only a few years earlier I'd lived for four years with John while in graduate school. I'm sure these people and places, or people and places like them, were there all the while. I never saw them back then—or even looked.

Now I was there at least once or twice a week. My trips to Farmers Best became so frequent, in fact, that Karriem set aside space in his office for me where I could conduct EE business. Stationing myself there was much less about convenience and much more about strengthening the relationship between EE and Farmers Best. We wanted everyone to meet Karriem, as he exemplified the potential of self-help economics. When the publisher of Chicago's Black Pages, the most reputable directory of local Black businesses, said he wanted to place our family on the cover of the 2010 edition and have me speak at their quarterly networking function for advertisers, I set up a meeting at the store. If the media outlets we spoke with wanted to see EE in action to help understand why we had undertaken the project, I'd tell them they needed to come to Farmers Best to meet Karriem Beyah. Nearly all of them did.

“KB” was everything we were fighting for. He sensed our respect for him very quickly, just as quickly as he perceived how serious our commitment was. He responded in kind, joining our four-member board of directors of The Empowerment Experiment Foundation, Inc. A 501(c)(3) we'd created in anticipation of funding from that group of wealthy Black corporate executives—which seems almost laughable now—the foundation was a way of assuring donors that we were going to use their contributions for research and social service–oriented projects after our yearlong experiment. We hired an attorney who specialized in establishing nonprofits, and we created the board, which consisted of John and me; a powerful attorney friend of Eduardo's; John's aunt, a highly respected public school administrator and community leader in Detroit; and now Karriem.

Sprung from a philosophical synchronicity, our relationship with Karriem was profound and deep. But at the same time, odd as it sounds, it was fraught with anxiety about our beloved Farmers Best. Odder still is that we rarely addressed it directly.

The truth was that Farmers Best was on unsteady footing from the outset and not because of anything Karriem did or failed to do. The plight of Black-owned grocery stores is similar to that of other Black-owned retailers. To top it off, the economy went into free fall about the time Farmers Best opened its doors in the summer of 2008. Not long after our very first visit to the store, we realized that we were going to have to do more to help Karriem increase traffic, and that meant devoting extra time and resources to Farmers Best.

This was a troubling prospect, mostly because financially we were floundering too. The business and marketing professionals in us were very nervous because almost none of the assistance the PBFs promised materialized. There were supporters, of course, like Cheryle Jackson of the Chicago Urban League, who had us on her TV show a couple times. Nonetheless, we felt as if almost everyone in Chicago who was supposed to shower us with love, praise, and aid was treating us like the Jehovah's Witness who rings the doorbell early on a Saturday morning.

But we had to save Karriem. So starting in April, I dove right in. Almost every day I'd ask him about his sales, what was going on with his suppliers, how much he spent on the produce run that morning. I started studying the grocery industry and became something of an informal consultant to Karriem. I begged my friends to go to his store, sending out e-blasts every week asking them to join his mailing list and trying to arrange carpools for shopping trips. The first promotional carpool e-blast said, “Did you know Chicago has a new Black-owned full-service grocery store? I'll show you AND give you a ride there!” I sent it to my EE database as well as those for a number of large Black churches, like St. Sabina, Apostolic Church of God, Salem House of Hope, and my church, Trinity United Church of Christ. My favorite e-blast was entitled “New Whole Foods Store on 47th Street. The freshest produce on the South Side!” When someone opened the e-mail,
they'd find a flyer I created for Farmers Best, with pictures of all the great produce. Then right under it: “Well it's not Whole Foods, but you get the same fresh, top-quality products, and at a greater value to your wallet and your soul. Support this first-class Black business today! Click here for a ride.”

We were trying so hard, fully leveraging our own networks to get more customers to give Farmers Best a chance. Nothing was working. We felt as if there was some unholy power conspiring against Karriem's enterprise and, by extension, EE. There were days when I would be the sole customer in the store.

Because Farmers Best was in a strip mall, it shared the parking lot with other stores, including a Little Caesar's pizza parlor. One afternoon in May I saw a vision in a toga-clad, sandals-wearing foam mascot: the Little Caesar's guy.

I had this “aha” moment. Farmers Best was clean, well stocked, efficient, and had competitively priced products. The reason it was struggling was simple: It lacked effective marketing. We needed to get serious about it.

Karriem fully embraced the idea and, in fact, had already planned to purchase prime-time radio spots and a full-page ad in the local Black Pages directory. I sat with him in meetings with various ad reps for the two major Black-themed—but not Black-owned—radio stations and helped decide which ads to buy. We'd advertise weekly sales and promote community events at the store with the theme “Farmers Best Springtime Series” as well as a tagline I created: “Live Your Best Life at Farmers Best.” We devised promotions and gave out coupons at the store and online. I wrote the radio ads and press releases, and our PR firm sent them to media outlets. Almost every Friday and Saturday in May and June Karriem set up a tent and decorations, played music, and grilled premium meats and veggies in the parking lot.

We weren't leaving anything to chance, and Karriem was really grateful. The harder we worked, the closer our family grew to KB. He started delivering food to the house and including extra fruit and meat that was about to be tossed. We'd barbecue together. He and John would linger
over drinks and cigars. Still, anxiety intruded, even in those moments away from the store when we reveled in our friendship.

“Uncle Karriem is here! Mommy, can I open the door?”

Cara peered out of the living room window and saw KB's behemoth Excursion pulling up. She was almost four years old now, and it seemed like every hour she came up with a new “big girl” responsibility she wanted to assume.

“He's early,” I shouted. “I still have to tidy up downstairs. Girls, go with your dad. John, just keep him up here. Okay?”

Cara and Cori looked adorable. I'd just fixed their hair, and they were wearing pink tops and denim Capri pants—ensembles I'd purchased at Jordan's Closets.

“Yes. Cara, you can open the door,” I said, “but you have to do it with a grown-up. Okay? Never alone. Now go with Daddy!”

John was looking out the window.

“Don't worry, Mag,” he said. “It'll be a minute. He's on the phone in the car. You know he lives on that phone. We probably have another hour!” John broke into his impersonation of KB. Impersonations are one of John's fortes. I swear it's one of the main reasons I fell in love with him.

“
Now you make sure you get those carts out of the parking lot,
” John said in Karriem's deep, scruffy voice. “
If a cart is missing you're paying for it! And get rid of those bruised mangoes. No bruises. You hear me?
”

The girls were laughing while John paced up and down the foyer imitating KB's hulking gait and pretending to hold a phone.

Even I was laughing now, and that's exactly what John wanted. His anxious wife had been stressing about a guest's early arrival, and he had to ease that condition. He came over, hugged my waist, and whispered. “You can't blame the man for being early, right Mag? Would you want to hang around an empty grocery store in which you'd invested everything? Be nice, baby. I
know
you're going to yell at him for not calling first, but please don't. Give the po' brutha a break.”

They'd made plans to watch the NBA conference finals. The game started at six, and it was 5:30. I zoomed downstairs to the TV room, still giggling and shaking my head.

When I came back up a few minutes later, four boxes of fruit, a couple cases of fruit punch, maybe ten pineapples, and three huge watermelons crowded my previously neat kitchen counter. KB was swinging Cori by her wrists, and Cara was examining the booty. John was bending over the liquor drawer, about to make drinks. I wanted them to see me with my hands on my hips, eyebrows scrunched.

“Hey, Momma!” KB said, still swinging Cori. “I brought you the Mexican mangoes you love.”

“Don't give me that ‘Momma' crap, KB,” I said. “What's all this? Look at my kitchen. Does my house look like a Farmers Best warehouse to you?”

He smiled.

“Come here, man,” I told him. He stepped toward me and I kissed him. “You crazy. You know that?”

We sliced up a couple of mangoes, put everything else away, and then sat on the deck for drinks. The basketball game was still a few minutes from tip-off. The girls were flitting around, blowing bubbles.

“So how was business today?” John asked. “Gotta be busy. Memorial Day barbecues and stuff.”

I squeezed his leg under the table and didn't let Karriem answer.

“KB, did you talk to that reporter from
Time
magazine?” I asked. John kicked me back. “They going to do that follow-up story on you and the food desert stuff?”

“Oh, yeah,” KB said. “I gotta call him back.”

He didn't answer John's question. There was no need. We all knew that no one was coming to Farmers Best, even though we'd created radio ads, flyers, and sent out e-mails about tremendous sales on grill meats and produce, announcing free barbecue in the parking lot. It was perplexing and infuriating—but we just sipped our margaritas and ate the succulent mangoes that no one would buy.

A few days later when I was at the store, Karriem said, “Mag, I don't know what to do about this. Yvette Moyo's called like three times now, but I have never seen her in the store. Why should I call her back?”

Moyo was the founder of Real Men Cook, a national organization promoting positive Black male role models for at-risk youth. Through a series of fund-raising events, Real Men Cook raises tens of millions of dollars to provide various charities with resources for mentoring, tutoring, counseling, and scholarships. The events culminate in Father's Day picnics in twelve cities across the country, where Black men cook all day for the community. The Real Men Cook Chicago picnic is a huge affair, drawing major media attention as well as business, community, and political leaders. The mayor and governor show up every year. More county fair than picnic, the event features rides, a petting zoo, live entertainment, and several themed pavilions offering community services and sponsors' products, including those of State Farm, US Cellular, and Nielsen.

“Real Men Cook?” I said. “Calling us? This could be it! I'll see what she wants. You know Barack was a Real Man for, like, the past five years.”

Yvette Moyo called Karriem because one of Real Men Cook's sponsors, Jewel, the largest grocery chain in the Chicago metropolitan area, backed out at the last minute, and she wanted Farmers Best to be the official grocery sponsor and, in effect, rescue the event.

I made the call to the organization and then Karriem received a sponsorship proposal, which included donations of cash, produce, drinks, and meats to stock several pavilions. After I negotiated to ensure his marketing benefits—a mention and the store's logo in all advertising and on their website, prime advertising real estate at the picnic, a speaking opportunity on the day of the event, and space in the health pavilion for folks to sample Farmers Best produce—Karriem agreed to be the grocery sponsor for the annual Father's Day picnic held at Kennedy-King College, located in an underserved neighborhood on Chicago's South Side.