Our Black Year (34 page)

Although some might disagree, we did not want EE to reinforce the problems that set Blacks apart in the first place. We weren't out to stir up that kind of trouble. But I know we've done a little of that. Having Whites
and
Blacks hammer us for being racist is confounding. As soon as we prove we're not militant, we then have to begin demonstrating we're not sellouts. It's a corrosive, no-win predicament.

So, yes, EE is about race, but not racial divisions. Labeling The Empowerment Experiment a racist endeavor is an easy way to shift the focus away from honest discourse. It hardens people's souls and preserves the ugly status quo in which Black businesses, neighborhoods, dreams, and children die. I'd go so far as to say it's cowardly.

In the long term we hope to see the realization of our dream to create The Empowerment Experiment Foundation Center, a place for research and education in Black economic empowerment. We'd probably base the Center in Atlanta, a city we love and have talked about moving to for a long time. The girls would get to spend more time with my side of the family, and now that Mima is gone, I need to take care of my father.

In our experiment we documented where our money went. The Center would do the same but on a much larger scale, incorporating thousands—maybe millions—of individual buy-Black experiments to track how the money consumers spent directly with Black businesses and indirectly via supplier, vendor, and franchisee diversity affects the quality of life in various neighborhoods around the country. Researchers would determine, as a result of consumers patronizing Black businesses, how many jobs were created; how many enterprises were created, rescued, and grown; how many new industries or markets were penetrated; how the
incremental spending made an impact on mainstream organizations with supplier, vendor, and franchisee diversity; and how many new partnerships and franchises were developed and contracts were signed.

The Center would also explore the opportunity gaps for Black businesses in markets where Blacks represent a significant portion of the customer base; study the cultural and historical reasons why Black businesses are not, for the most part, competitive; and look at why Black consumers aren't supporting them. Based on the information we collect, we would develop practical solutions and programs that would increase self-help economics in those areas.

All of these activities will be research- and data-driven because we know the preaching and begging ain't gonna cut it. The Center will rely on hard evidence to facilitate what we always knew was possible: social change powered by consumer demand. Hey, did I just come up with our tagline?

I'm grateful for the wisdom we gained through the year, tough as it sometimes was to absorb. And yes, some of that wisdom came in the form of disappointment in my people. Clarence Jones, Martin Luther King Jr.'s attorney, may have said it best when he told me that Blacks must “rededicate themselves 24/7 to the pursuit of educational and business excellence. They have to assume greater personal responsibility for directly or indirectly encouraging conduct that creates adverse social and economic pathologies in our communities.” These include all the common problems afflicting Blacks, according to Jones: “Rampant use of drugs,” “lack of parental guidance to male children,” “the cycle of young men going through life without a father,” and, of course, violence. “The Black killing fields that take place in many of our urban areas is not because the White man did it,” Jones said. “We did it to ourselves.”

This reminds me of an episode of
Boondocks
, the comic strip and animated series by Aaron McGruder. In it Dr. King awakens from a coma and finds himself in modern-day Black America. He is astounded, angry, and deeply discouraged. At one point he gives a blistering sermon, saying
that all he sees are “a bunch of trifling, shiftless, good-for-nothing niggers”; that Black Entertainment Television “is the worst thing I've ever seen in my life.”

“Is this it?” he asks his stunned flock. “Is this what I got all those ass-whippings for?”

Then he launches into a litany of character flaws possessed by “niggers”—a word that turns my stomach and should have a similar effect on all African Americans. They are “living contradictions” who are “full of unfulfilled ambitions,” who “wax and wane, love to complain,” who “love being another man's judge and jury,” and “procrastinate until it's time to worry,” who “love being late” and “hate to hurry.”

McGruder's criticism—regarding my generation and the one after it—is the frequent topic of discussion in Black forums and social settings. Although we acknowledge that we owe our freedom and our educational and economic opportunities to those who fought for equal rights, we do nothing to continue that struggle. In my speeches I take that point a step further—that we are, in effect,
negating
the impact of their efforts by not being the proud, unified, culturally aware people we used to be and that we shame our elders and defy their legacy by not focusing on our educational and economic empowerment.

On those days when I seem to have lost my way, I think about how—and more important, why—we embarked on The Empowerment Experiment. The short answer is: We had to do it. I hope we made a difference. I think we did, at least a little.

In the end I can't help admitting that I'm left with a fair amount of bitterness I'm unable to shake—more so than John, who does not let the failures and awful circumstances our people face get him down. He cares, but he's become a little numb after all we've been through. And he's much better than me at counting our blessings and continuing to work on making a difference where we can.

My worst fear is that Black people will always be the pitiable, ridiculed underclass. We built nations and empires, invented industries and revolutionary products, and conquered slavery, rape, and genocide. We put a Black man in the White House.

And we're still stuck at the bottom.

How will history view this generation of African Americans? Will they say that we had it all, that we made headway in corporate America and in the legal and educational arenas, but we earned our individual success and left our neighborhoods for disrespectful outsiders to raid? Will they say that we sold our history, potential, dreams, and destiny in exchange for the comforts of suburban life, shunning our own entrepreneurs and professionals, and treating them with condescension? Did we squander our chances? Fail to deliver on so much promise?

Or will history show that my generation—realists and dreamers, rich and poor—came together to empower those whose power had slipped away or was stolen, the masses who have yet to experience the American Dream? Will future generations say that the civil rights movement is alive because we realized that our liberty and political equality are moot if our economic power is disregarded and delegitimized? Will my generation usher in another era of pride and unity, which used to define our people, and once more express our greatness? Will we counter the enormity of the status quo, the fear of change, the ridiculous aversion we have to prosperity with common sense, creativity, and courage? Can we just try?

In November 2010 Cori was turning four and we wanted to get her a new bedroom set. My plan was to buy it from Seaway Furniture, a quality, Black-owned business on the South Side, about twenty miles from our house. Two big malls, a Target, Wal-Mart, Kmart, JCPenney, and a Sears are all within three miles of our place. Several furniture and mattress stores operate in my neighborhood. But we had our reasons for going to Seaway. The day before the expedition I called to check the store hours.

The line was disconnected—another quality Black business gone. When I hung up the phone, I stared at John and felt empty.

I know: It's tough. You're busy, weary, skeptical, and, yes, cynical and pessimistic. Trust me, I know. I am too. But I still believe.

John. I could just stop these acknowledgements here. With you. And that's all I ever want to be. With you. Thank you, my love, my buddy, my thought completer, my frame of reference, my soldier, savior, prince, and king—for balancing my crazy with your calm, believing in me, bettering me, and being there for me even when I could not return the favor. I love you. I love us.

Eduardo, my big brother, otherwise known as the “third leg in EE's three-legged table,” we could not have done this without your faith, guidance, and visionary leadership. Thank you for being our counsel, confidant, and manifesting the magnificence of the Waite family. My whole life I depended on you and tried to be you. You made me read
Souls of Black Folk
when I was nine years old. Now we both know why.

Tom, my oldest brother, if I had one-tenth of your integrity, courage, and good ol' grit . . . Thank you for always protecting me. Thank you for preempting my sadness, shame, and suffering with your strong shoulders and soft heart. Thank you for keeping God first.

Papa, you will never know how much you mean to me and how deeply I appreciate the privilege of growing up with your love. Losing Mima was the only time you've ever needed me as much as I need you. And still, you never allowed me to give up or let up on this project—and not because you believe in the fight but simply and purely because you believe in me. Thank you for trusting me with your tears, sharing with me your sadness, and, still, even still, pushing me through all the pain so that we could make it through. Your smile is always my goal line.

Cara and Cori, my two ladies in making, I thank you for making my heavy sun rise every day, for amazing me, and for keeping me alive. You liberate me and enhance me. You stole so many tears, spoiled my worries, and seized so much pain. Squirt-burger (Cori), thank you for reluctantly but sweetly sharing your Momma, for making us laugh, and for wanting to be a part of my scary world. Long-legs (Cara), thank you for your endless questions, for trying to understand everything just so you can be with me and be like me. Thank you, my girls, for making life beautiful.

And for the rest of the family . . . Angela, Alan, Damon, Pam, Kim, Deidrea, Sheri, Tristen, Lyndon, Jordan, Little Damon, Dad (in West Bloomfield), and Debbie . . . thank you for being my home team—dependable, loving, supportive, unchanging, flawed in a fun way, and real. Aunt Patsy, thanks for the guidance, the truth telling, and finding a way to include EE in your life.

To Regina Byrd, Jennifer Fisher, Colette Savage—my dearest friends. Thank you for being there for me, each of you in your own way, while I try to shake up some minds instead of martinis. Know that although I have not been able to hang out with you guys, I live on the memories of our crazy times and hold on to our pure and perfect friendship.

To my new and growing EE family, I thank you for helping me find my purpose and for infusing your dreams into mine. Never for personal gain, your love, encouragement, assistance, and charity are pure and unconditional, and somehow you made me believe that I deserved that. I know I ask a lot of you, and though I hate needing you so much, I love depending on you . . .