I've been writing on lavidalocavore.org lately, and I posted a diary there about a week ago that I thought might be of interest to Kossacks generally, as it is about not only community food organizations but also politics and especially politics as they are experienced by people in America who are of African ethnicity, and in this case, an exceptionally cool person of African ethnicity.
I've rewritten it some, but the title is the same, so if you want to read the original it's over at Jill's blog here.
Anyway, here's my current rewrite. Hope y'all enjoy it.
In the early 1990's, I worked for about five years, first a staffer and then for awhile as manager, of a small, cooperatively owned, organically-oriented, health food store in southern California.
The store was about 1400 sq feet in area, not so big. We didn't have any storage space worth beans. New deliveries were left in the aisles a lot. Sometimes people were irritated, sometimes they thought it was cool, like Grandma's attic.
We were open from 9 to 9, every day. Somebody had to be there at least twice a week around 6 am to unload about 3000# of goods from the parking lot. Sometimes it was just me. Sometimes it was me and a couple of guys who were working with me.
We didn't have a handtruck, at first. When we bought one, we got one with a lift and inflatable tires and it cost about $135 back then; but it was worth it. Some of my best memories were of me and the other staffers, there in the early morning, hauling in the cases of goods and playing punk rock and folk and all sorts of cool music on the cassette deck, rocking out and bringing in the food.
Often while we were open, there was only one person in the store (often me). We grossed about half a mil a year. We were situated on the edge of a small ghetto, and sometimes we would hear gunshots. And, sometimes we got robbed.
Our customers varied. Many of them were members of the Co-op that owned the business, and were very supportive, even helping to work in the store at times as volunteers. These people at times served as board directors, who were the bosses of whomever was manager at the time.
Some of our customers were street people, and their job was to crack food stamps. California didn't have food stamp cards and people would come in and buy penny "health food" candy from the counter to get the 99 cents in change back. Some of these people would also hustle money in front of the store, and some of them would hustle drugs a little further away from the store.
Stalwart customers, stalwart staffers too; those supportive Co-op people, to run this gauntlet. Indeed.
One of our customers was a fellow whom we (the staff) referred to as "The Voice." If I ever learned his real name, I've forgotten it. I also don't remember what he bought.
I do remember what he looked like - a tall, beautiful, African-American man - except African-British would be more like it, as he spoke with an impeccable BBC accent. Oh, and with dreads. I don't really know what Zulu warriors look like, but when I think of him, I think "Zulu warrior."
He was always extremely well-mannered at the counter. He rarely tried to talk to us otherwise. He was just there. He was imposing without being in the least intimidating. It was like being visited by a benevolent god.
Because, not only was he overall splendid in appearance and demeanor, but he sang. He would walk up and down the aisles of our tiny little store, and sing. I can't remember what he sang, but if I had to call it, I'd say gospel, hymns; something slow and somewhat religious, but in a deep restrained kind of a way, if that makes sense.
I do remember his voice; a beautiful, deep, rare bass voice. Ever hear the group; "The Bobs?" Like the bass in "The Bobs." Basso profundo.
I had a lot of stepfamily in Los Angeles, and one day at some dinner party I got to talking to one of my step-uncles about "The Voice," and somehow or other we sorted out that we both knew this guy - The Voice was not only a splendid health food store shopper, but he was a political activist. The Voice had been responsible for slapping down some law in California involving requiring one carried an identification card around when strolling around at night in public, by virtue of doing so, getting busted, and taking the whole thing to court until he won.
My step-uncle had, at the time, had the recent pleasure of seeing The Voice on the TV, because The Voice had been having the temerity to drive around Beverly Hills at night, and was duly arrested by the ever-vigilant Beverly Hills police.
The Voice was being interviewed by someone on the TV, and, as my uncle related; he stated, in his usual profundo, but with an unmistakable tone of weariness; "I suppose I'm going to have to sue them again."
I felt SO proud of him. It was funny; when you run a store that's selling food, and you're all really serious about doing the right thing, selling the safe food, taking care of the people; sacrificing for it, not making the big bucks - and you learn that one of your customers is going around fighting apartheid in Beverly Hills, etc. - wow! WHAT a rush!
I moved on from the Venice Co-op almost 20 years ago, but there are so many memories, and The Voice is one of them. And, I surely do hope he's still around somewhere, kicking ass and raising hell, and singing, beautifully, wonderfully, stunningly, in little health food stores.