Mohnednur the Grocer

What's stopping him — literally — is a vast expanse of Plexiglas.

by Bruce Schimmel

We've heard a lot recently about Joe the Plumber, the stump-speech action figure who represents the beleaguered small-business owner. And though the facts in his particular story may be iffy, its moral is still true.

Because small-business owners — be they tradespeople, retailers or professionals — are the DNA of the American Dream. And so it's good to honor the Joes of America — as well as the Bills and Steves who invented whole new industries in their garages.

Only let's extend our praise to all the entrepreneurs, especially those whose stories have been buried in the xenophobic mud of "Country First." Many of these folks love America with a special affection, and have a long history of bringing new life to our cities. They planted the family trees of nearly every American: They are our nation's immigrants.

So, please meet Mohnednur Salih — Mohnednur the Grocer, if you will — who came from Ethiopia to Philadelphia some 20 years ago. Naturalized, now 47, Salih is the married father of two; his older daughter is about to enter college.

Salih is Muslim; his last name, he says, means "peace." And though his new grocery is still struggling, Salih pours out his love and especially his gratitude for America — an emotion that more-settled citizens seem to have forgotten.

For more than a decade, Salih worked in UPenn's transportation department, saving and waiting. Last year, he and his family pooled their savings and bought a broken-down convenience store on a busy but iffy corner at 46th and Walnut.

Outside, Salih's "Super 7" still looks like a bad parody of a 7-Eleven. Covered in posters, its brick building squats in a treeless parking lot. It's a joyless location, wedged between a gas station and a bleak apartment house.

But Salih and his family believe in their neighborhood, and so are transforming this grungy grocery into a community oasis — to be called The Blue Nile. That river, explains Salih, with its origins in his native Ethiopia, is a source of life to those it serves, which is what he hopes for his store.

On a recent morning, shoppers shuffle in mostly to buy cigarettes or Lotto tickets. But Salih greets each, many by name. And bit by bit, the chips and snacks are being replaced by dates and lentils, as the store becomes more neighborly, even healthier. Salih believes that a Mediterranean-themed grocery will satisfy the diverse needs and tastes of the crazy mix of students, families and elderly living nearby.

But what's keeping Salih back — quite literally — is a vast expanse of bulletproof Plexiglas behind which he and his family run the register. And in a neighborhood with other barricaded businesses, it will take some guts to take it down.

Still, whenever anyone shows any interest in his shelves of bright beans, or in his giant crepes of homemade injera, Salih forsakes his fortress. He swings open its armored door, and, darting around, offers olives, sweets and nectars.

If it weren't for that barrier, Salih knows he'd make a lot more sales, more quickly. But he believes that his store will eventually brighten this corner of West Philly. It's a dream shared by Andy Toy of the nearby Enterprise Center, who's helping with marketing — as well as trying to convince local food groups to supply Salih with fresh produce.

Standing in front of the door still ajar, I ask Salih about the Plexi.

"Maybe by summer," says Salih softly, his eyes bright with emotion. "Maybe by summer that wall can come down." By then, he and his family may find the courage to remove it.

And by then, if all goes well on Election Day, we'll also have a president who understands the aspirations of all our entrepreneurs — including those from funny places, with funny names; a president whose mission is to take down all sorts of walls.

(bruce@schimmel.com)