“You know what you were asking before. About why I do this. It had something to do with the meeting tonight. I
mean...I don’t think our reasons are all that different.”
She nodded, and walked up the path to her daughters.
A week later, I was back out in Altgeld, trying to stuff Angela, Mona, and Shirley into my subcompact car. Mona,
who was sitting in the back, complained about the lack of room.
“What kinda car is this anyway?” she asked.
Shirley moved her seat up. “It’s built for the skinny little girls Barack goes out with.”
“Who are we meeting with again?”
I had scheduled three meetings, hoping to find a job strategy that would meet the needs of people in Altgeld. For now
at least a new manufacturing boom appeared out of our reach: The big manufacturers had opted for well-scrubbed
suburban corridors, and not even Gandhi could have gotten them to relocate near Altgeld anytime soon. On the other
hand, there did remain a part of the economy that could be called local, I thought, a second-level consumer economy-of
shops, restaurants, theaters, and services-that in other areas of the city continued to function as an incubator of civic
life. Places where families might invest their savings and make a go of a business, and where entry-level jobs might be
had; places where the economy remained on a human scale, transparent enough for people to understand.
The closest thing to a shopping district in the area was in Roseland, and so we followed the bus route up Michigan
Avenue, with its wig shops and liquor stores, discount clothing stores and pizzerias, until we arrived in front of a two-
story former warehouse. We entered the building through a heavy metal door and took a narrow set of stairs down into
a basement filled with old furniture. In a small office sat a slight, wiry man with a goatee and a skullcap that
accentuated a pair of prominent ears.
“Can I help you?”
I explained who we were and that we had spoken on the phone.
“That’s right, that’s right.” He gestured to two large men standing on either side of his desk and they walked past us
with a nod. “Listen, we’re gonna have to make this quick ’cause something’s come up. Rafiq al Shabazz.”
“I know you,” Shirley said as we shook hands with Rafiq. “You’re Mrs. Thompson’s boy, Wally. How’s your
momma doing?”
Rafiq forced a smile and offered us all a seat. He explained that he was the president of the Roseland Unity Coalition,
an organization that engaged in a range of political activities to promote the black cause and claimed considerable
credit for helping Mayor Washington get elected. When we asked him how our churches could encourage local
economic development, he handed us a leaflet accusing Arab stores of selling bad meat.
“That’s the real deal, right here,” Rafiq said. “People from outside our community making money off us and showing
our brothers and sisters disrespect. Basically what you got here is Koreans and Arabs running the stores, the Jews still
owning most of the buildings. Now, in the short term, we’re here to make sure that the interests of black people are
looked after, you understand. When we hear one of them Koreans is mistreating a customer, we gonna be on the case.
We gonna insist that they respect us and make a contribution back to the community-fund our programs, what have
you.