What Running a Business Taught Me About Black Ownership
I’d always dreamed of running a thriving agency where talented creatives of color could collaborate and grow freely. Instead, I spent years as a solopreneur, securing contracts and creating work to sustain myself.
For much of my journey, I was stuck in the cycle of working for pay rather than building the agency I had envisioned. But then, finally, I did it. I hired a team, provided that safe space, and saw my vision come to life. Unfortunately, just as we were hitting our stride, the pandemic forced me to close its doors just a few years later.
Before the outbreak, we were helping clients create videos and documentaries, doing their PR and marketing work—then, everything came to an abrupt halt. That’s when my very first product-based business emerged: Alexander Farm & Orchard—the name lovingly given to my suburban backyard garden.
Years before, I’d learned to make handmade soap from the ridiculous amount of cucumbers I’d grown. One day, I posted a picture of my soap online to showcase my work of art. A colleague saw it and ordered 50 bars for a conference. From there, I made soaps periodically, but when the pandemic shut everything down, I turned to soapmaking more seriously.

Running a product-based business was a completely different beast. SKUs, inventory management, pricing every bar based on oil weight—it sent my head spinning. I gladly wore the “Black-owned business” moniker, but after a while, I began questioning it.
Was it really Black-owned just because I made the soap? My entire supply chain was “othered.” My key ingredients, like shea and cocoa butter, came from Black women in Africa—but I had no idea who truly owned those companies. Were these Black-owned enterprises, or were these women laboring for someone else’s profit? Meanwhile, nearly everything else—essential oils, packaging, sodium hydroxide—came from non-Black suppliers.
I thought about the other businesses that popped up during the pandemic—women selling press-on nails and wigs directly from China. They were also called Black-owned businesses, but was that accurate? Were we truly owners, or were we simply middle players in someone else’s game?
This question stayed with me because it’s not just about labels—it’s about ownership, visibility, and building sustainable Black wealth. If we don’t know who controls the supply chain, can we really call it Black-owned?
What Makes It Black-Owned?
If a Black entrepreneur owns the business, then yes, it is a Black-owned business. There’s no debate here. But ownership is only the first step. This question asks us to examine the ecosystems that either uplift or restrict our growth. If we’re serious about building lasting wealth, shouldn’t the suppliers, manufacturers, and distributors we rely on be Black-owned too?
This isn’t just a thought experiment—it became personal when I started questioning my own supply chain and realized how difficult it was to source key materials from Black-owned manufacturers.
Take my experience with sourcing shea butter. When I attempted to source shea butter directly from producers in Ghana, I found the minimum order was two tonnes—far beyond what I could handle as a small business. I was at a crossroads.
After searching for alternatives, I found Baraka, a supplier that responsibly sources from women in Ghana while paying fair wages—a solution aligned with both my values and business needs. Before Baraka, I sourced my shea butter from Amazon. It was cheaper, but the more Amazon’s dominance grew, the more uneasy I felt about the lack of visibility into where my money was going. Baraka offered a different path—one where I could step away from impersonal, transactional buying and instead intentionally support fair wages and sustainable practices.
But shouldn’t true Black ownership be about more than just having our names on the door? Shouldn’t it be about creating Black-supported ecosystems—businesses owned by us and sustained through supply chains that intentionally circulate wealth within our communities? Yes, that distinction may come at a higher cost, but that cost is an investment in something bigger: long-term, self-sustaining Black prosperity.
Systemic Barriers in Black Entrepreneurship
The challenges I faced sourcing shea butter are part of a larger pattern. Systemic inequities and limited access to capital mean that breaking free from these barriers requires more than entrepreneurship—it demands ownership of key production and distribution steps.
Without control over our supply chains, we remain trapped in systems that extract wealth from our communities while giving little to nothing back.
Ideally, the entire supply chain—from fabric to packaging to distribution—should be Black-owned. Shaun King’s now-defunct clothing line, A Real One, was a bold attempt to build a fully Black-owned supply chain. Although it’s no longer operational, it offers an example of how challenging—and rewarding—building sustainable Black-owned systems can be.
Say what you will about him, but he did something rare: every part of the production, from the fabric to the distribution, was Black-owned. His $165 hoodie wasn’t just a product; it was an attempt to build something that fully supported Black businesses globally.
Yet, he received immense pushback. Critics argued that $165 was too expensive and claimed they could buy a cheaper hoodie at Walmart. But those same critics stood in line for Jordans—a product that isn’t Black-owned and certainly doesn’t benefit a Black supply chain. This contradiction highlights the challenges Black entrepreneurs face when trying to create businesses that build community wealth.
While examples like Shaun King’s hoodie attempt remain rare, some Black-owned brands are working toward greater supply chain independence and scaling successfully. Take Mielle Organics, a natural haircare brand founded by Monique Rodriguez, which has prioritized working with Black suppliers. Similarly, Partake Foods, founded by Denise Woodard, sources from diverse suppliers while creating allergen-free snacks. Both brands show that although the path is difficult, it’s not impossible—and when done right, it contributes to long-term community wealth.
These businesses demonstrate how Black-owned enterprises can reclaim power by owning more steps in the supply chain.
The path to true Black ownership is challenging, but as more businesses prioritize building Black-supported supply chains, we move closer to creating self-sustaining systems of prosperity.
The Fight for the $2 Trillion in Black Spending Power
I was a non-traditional, online student finishing my degree in my 40s, and I distinctly remember studying something that stuck with me: African-Americans outspent every other ethnicity. Our collective buying power was so massive that we could have been considered our own small country, with a GDP to match. Today, that remains true.
In 2019, African American spending power was $910 billion—on par with the economies of the Netherlands and Saudi Arabia. By 2024, it’s expected to reach $1.7 trillion, rivaling Russia and South Korea.
Black buying power is massive—now at over $2 trillion annually—but it’s important to note that it doesn’t represent wealth or collective capital—it represents how much we spend. Despite making up roughly 13% of the U.S. population, majority Black-owned businesses accounted for only 3% of all classifiable firms in 2021 and captured just 1% of gross revenue. This stark imbalance is a glaring reminder that while we outspend nearly every other group, the flow of that money rarely benefits us in return. Our businesses remain underfunded, under-patronized, and disproportionately locked out of broader economic prosperity.
In contrast, other communities, such as Asian and Jewish communities, are known for circulating money within their ecosystems before it leaves, ensuring the wealth benefits their families and businesses for multiple cycles. The U.S. economy benefits enormously from Black consumer spending—a key driver in its GDP growth—but much of that profit is absorbed by corporations that are not reinvesting in Black communities.
Harnessing this spending power isn’t just about money—it’s about creating intergenerational change and stability. Redirecting even a fraction of that $2 trillion toward Black-owned businesses isn’t just an economic strategy—it’s a path to closing the racial wealth gap, creating local jobs, and securing financial stability for future generations.
We’re feeding an economy that doesn’t always feed us back. In 2022, only 2% of Black consumer spending supported Black-owned businesses. That’s the harsh reality, and it’s what makes conversations about supporting Black businesses and Black-owned platforms so critical.
Why Black Spending Supports Companies That Don’t Support Us
The irony is glaring. Many of us excitedly give our hard-earned money to companies that have shown blatant disregard for Black consumers. Think of the infamous incident where a major clothing manufacturer featured a Black boy in a “coolest monkey in the jungle” hoodie. Luxury brands like Gucci, Prada, and Burberry have faced backlash for culturally insensitive designs and campaigns. Yet, we continue to fund them while neglecting businesses that honor our culture and invest in our communities. This contradiction reveals a complex cycle of loyalty, survival, and misplaced trust.
But why do we continue to gravitate toward these brands, even when they’ve harmed us? The answer isn’t simple—it’s woven into the fabric of history, capitalism, and survival.
The Role of Respectability Politics in Spending
During slavery, Black people were stripped of dignity and constantly policed on their appearance. Respectability politics, which still lingers today, taught us that looking “presentable” in the eyes of white society could mean safety, survival, and eventual acceptance. Wearing luxury brands became a modern extension of this—a status symbol representing success and worthiness in a society that historically denied us both.
The Influence of Poverty and Capitalism’s Grip
Growing up with limited access to material wealth has fostered a desire to own things once deemed out of reach. Luxury goods became more than material items—they were symbols of liberation from a history of deprivation and systemic exclusion from wealth-building opportunities.
They represented something many of us had been denied for generations: proof of progress, visibility, and success. But capitalism saw our longing and exploited it, feeding us a dream of freedom through consumption while denying us the financial literacy to break free.
It’s capitalism’s grip—promising that buying luxury goods will fill the void left by years of deprivation.
The Cost of Misplaced Loyalty
This cycle of misplaced loyalty drains our communities of wealth, enriching companies that profit from our culture but fail to reinvest in our futures. As we challenge these narratives, it’s worth asking: What if we redirected this energy and spending toward businesses and brands that respect and reflect us, instead of mimicking systems designed to exclude us?
Aurora James, founder of the 15 Percent Pledge, recognized this gap and created a movement to address it by calling on major retailers to allocate 15% of their shelf space to Black-owned brands. As of 2024, the initiative has helped over 600 Black-owned brands find shelf space across major retailers, generating millions in revenue.”
The initiative has gained traction with brands like Sephora, Macy’s, and Nordstrom, which have committed to providing more opportunities for Black businesses to thrive.
“So many of your businesses are built on Black spending power. So many of your stores are set up in Black communities. So many of your sponsored posts are seen on Black feeds. This is the least you can do for us,” James said.
Her words remind us that Black spending power has sustained many brands that don’t reinvest in Black communities. If these companies can profit from our culture and loyalty, they can—and should—do more to ensure our communities benefit in return.
This contradiction—our spending power benefiting brands that exploit us—is one that major cultural icons have addressed. Jay-Z captured this tension perfectly when he rapped:
“I used to drink Cristal, them f*****s racist
/ So I switched gold bottles on to that Spade s**t.”
-“On to the Next One” from The Blueprint 3
This lyrical reflection highlights the internal tug-of-war many Black consumers face—supporting brands that thrive on our culture while simultaneously disrespecting it. By choosing Armand de Brignac, a brand he co-owned, Jay-Z wasn’t just making a statement—he was showing us the power of reclaiming our dollars.
We know these brands profit off our culture while disrespecting us. Yet, when Black-owned businesses set prices reflective of quality and sustainability, many hesitate. Shaun King’s $165 hoodie faced pushback, but Jordans, luxury bags, and high-end brands don’t.
Shaun King reflected on this in his blog, stating, “It costs more to build ethical, sustainable supply chains, especially when you prioritize working with Black-owned businesses. But for us, the integrity of the process mattered more than shortcuts.” This statement reveals a deeper issue: Black-owned businesses are often held to higher standards, with consumers expecting premium products at bargain prices while accepting inflated costs from non-Black brands without hesitation.
This isn’t just about shopping habits—it’s about shifting the value we place on loyalty and supporting businesses that reinvest in our communities. By doing so, we can break free from a cycle that drains wealth from our neighborhoods and perpetuates financial inequality.
Why Fanbase Struggles and Why Digital Independence Matters
This brings us to the larger issue of digital platforms. In a world where mainstream platforms profit from Black creativity while offering little in return, Fanbase—a Black-owned platform founded by Isaac Hayes III—offers an essential alternative. With tools for monetization and community building, Fanbase was designed to empower creators of all backgrounds. Yet, it hasn’t gained the traction it deserves. Why? Because we remain tied to platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook, despite their history of exploiting our talent.
But there’s another reason Fanbase struggles—a deeper, more uncomfortable truth: the lack of trust within our own community when it comes to Black businesses.
The Weight of Internalized Distrust
This distrust isn’t new. Some of our grandparents didn’t want Black doctors, believing them to be less competent. The narrative that ‘if it’s white, it must be right’ still influences where we place trust and investments. In 2025, many Black people still hesitate to seek out Black-owned businesses. I’ve seen the disbelief firsthand—people who were shocked that I intentionally sought out and supported Black businesses as part of my business practice.
For some, supporting Black businesses is viewed as uncertain. Persistent stereotypes suggest that Black-owned businesses may offer subpar service or lack professionalism. These harmful assumptions manifest when Black entrepreneurs are frequently asked for “the hookup” or discounts, signaling a perception that their work isn’t worth full price. This isn’t just external bias—it’s internalized, and it often leads us to unconsciously question the credibility and competence of our own businesses.
This bias stunts growth by creating unrealistic expectations, leading Black businesses to underprice their services or face reputational challenges when they enforce fair pricing.
Fanbase is no exception. Isaac Hayes III has built a platform that contains everything content creators need to monetize their work, but many in our community don’t even consider him a serious contender. Instead, we debate among ourselves why we need to stay on Meta platforms, clinging to the notion that proximity to whiteness means legitimacy.

But here’s the thing: we’ve done this before. We’ve stayed at the lunch counters waiting to be served only to be met with hatred and disrespect. Why are we still stuck in this cycle of needing validation from platforms that don’t value us? When do we decide that our own platforms are worth building and investing in, even if they aren’t perfect yet? Facebook wasn’t perfect when it started either—but it was given room to grow.
The difference now is that we don’t have to sit and wait for inclusion—we have platforms like Fanbase that are waiting for us to step up and build alongside them.
Fanbase won’t thrive unless we give it that same space. To do that, we need to confront the distrust within our community. Sign up for Fanbase or explore the platform to see how we can support content creators directly.
We need to acknowledge that supporting Black businesses isn’t just an act of solidarity—it’s a strategic choice that builds collective power and wealth. Until we shift the narrative that Black businesses are inferior, we’ll remain dependent on platforms that profit off our brilliance while giving us nothing in return.
Why Our Business Success Depends on Black Business and Consumer Action Amid DEI Pushback
We live in a time where Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives are under attack, and Black-centered programs and funding face significant resistance. The pushback isn’t just rhetorical—it’s legal and financial. Black grant recipients have been taken to court by white challengers, forcing many into settlements and jeopardizing the very resources meant to support them. Founders are being targeted simply for trying to access funding set aside for marginalized communities.
This is why we can’t afford missteps. The environment is hostile, and the stakes have never been higher. Building sustainable Black businesses and platforms isn’t just an economic goal—it’s a necessary form of protection and resilience in a world that is actively pushing back on progress.
A Call to Action: Move with Intention
Let’s not wait for the next algorithm change or platform shutdown to wake us up to the fact that we’ve been building on borrowed land. Let’s start shifting our conversations and investments to platforms and partnerships that allow us to build something lasting.
When we debate whether a partnership is beneficial, let’s ask:
- Is the Black business gaining long-term growth and wealth?
- Are the profits being reinvested into the community?
- Does the platform or partnership give us control or at least favorable terms?
Supporting Black businesses, owning our supply chains, and championing platforms like Fanbase are interconnected steps toward true economic freedom. We have to think beyond immediate convenience and see the bigger picture.
It’s time to build our digital Hillman University on a platform by us, for us. One that can’t be erased.
It’s time to reclaim ownership of our stories, our businesses, and our futures. True empowerment starts when we choose to invest in ourselves—when we prioritize ownership over optics and build legacies that last. The future we deserve won’t be handed to us. But if we invest in each other, brick by brick, we will build it—and it will stand the test of time.
But we can’t do it alone. As the principle of Ujima teaches us, collective work and responsibility—uplifting each other’s businesses, voices, and platforms—will be the foundation of this legacy. When we come together with intention, supporting and building within our communities, we create a lasting foundation of strength, resilience, and prosperity.
Lisa N. Alexander is the author and founder of This Woman Knows and What Million-Dollar Brands Know. She is an award-winning filmmaker, director, producer, and writer and is the owner of PrettyWork Creative.