by Dan Perkins

Wherever I travel, I look for examples of outstanding leadership and entrepreneurship – especially in emerging communities.  Occasionally, I come across situations that pose extreme contrasts between those who “get it,” that is, understand what business is all about, and those that don’t.  I have encountered no clearer example of business extremes than during my dramatic run in with Houston’s cabbies.

Houston has certainly had its share of the limelight lately. In 2004, the city hosted Super Bowl 38, which will forever be associated with the antics of Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson.

On a more positive note, Major League Baseball (MLB) hosted the 2004 All Star Game in Houston last summer, and that event was conducted flawlessly.

I attended the All Star Game and had such a good time I decided to spend a few extra days discovering the city’s African American neighborhoods and history.

Houston, the nation's fourth largest city, is a great vacation destination for just about anyone.  The people are friendly, generous and fun loving.  Major attractions include the NASA Space Center for those who like space travel, the Downtown Aquarium for those who prefer encounters with alien creatures of the deep, and many other cultural amenities for every taste and fancy.

I stayed at the Hilton Americas, which served as MLB’s headquarters during the All Star Game.  Besides being a fine hotel, I prefer staying at hotels that are well serviced by buses, cabs and limousines.

To my surprise, shortly after arriving in the city, I began hearing accounts of people who had had difficulties with Houston’s cabbies.

One would think that cab drivers would be on their best behavior during a major event like the All Star Game, especially drivers servicing hotels that catered to MLB personnel, players and fans.  I soon discovered for myself, however, that Houston definitely has a problem with some of its cabbies.

The day after the All Star Game, I decided to visit the Buffalo Soldiers Museum.  I stepped outside the hotel and attempted to hail a cab.  It was nearly 1 p.m.  Anyone who has ever spent a summer in Houston knows the heat can be brutal.  On that particular day, the heat of the midday sun provided a searing contrast to the cool, comfortable, air-conditioned environment of the hotel lobby.  I could barely breathe as I stepped outside.

Across the street from the hotel were no less than ten cabs waiting in line.  As I approached them, I noticed that all of the drivers were from Africa.  One appeared to be Ethiopian, another Nigerian, and one might have been Egyptian, given his accent. 

I asked the first driver to take me to the Buffalo Soldiers Museum.  He said he didn’t know what that was.  I proceeded to the next cab, and asked the same of him.  He also didn’t know anything about the museum.  I continued down the line.  Several drivers said they had never heard of the place.  Others said they didn’t know where it was, even after I gave them the address.

I grew hot and angry standing in the blazing sun, going nowhere fast.  My blood really began to boil as I realized the drivers only wanted hotel guests who were going to the airport.  I shared a few choice words with them, but to no avail.

I desperately needed to do something, but what?  I decided to report the incident and my eyes quickly began to search for the names of the companies that owned the cabs.  A cluster of five vehicles belonged to Liberty Cab, which to my mind was a quite ironic. I concluded the name referred to the drivers’ approach to rendering service, not to a founding principle of our nation.  The drivers that ignored my requests for service were obviously at “liberty” to decide whom they would take, where they would take them, and when.

I found just enough comic relief in the name to regain my composure.  To be fair to Liberty Cabs, other cab companies had vehicles in the line up that day, and their drivers were equally unwilling to provide me with service.  Apparently, “service” has a very different meaning for Houston cabbies – or at least those cabbies, that day.

I cannot fully describe the elation I felt when I saw several yellow colored cars off in the distance, heading my way.  I felt the same incredible sense of relief and joy that stranded people feel when they first see a rescue vehicle or airplane.

As the first yellow colored cab approached, I began to wave my arms frantically to dramatize my need for assistance.  The vehicle had the name Yellow Cab Company on the side of the door, but when I got inside the cab, I noticed a small sign on the passenger window that stated the driver was an independent contractor.

I was thrilled beyond words to see a "sister" behind the wheel of my rescue vehicle.  I jumped in with all of the excitement of a child on Christmas Day.  I explained my plight as I settled into the passenger section of the cab.  It was immaculate, and cooled to a pleasant temperature.  I felt at home - or as much at home as anyone can feel sitting in a Yellow Cab.

My driver listened to my story but didn’t say a word.  That concerned me for a moment, but then she slowly and very deliberately put the cab in reverse and backed up to where a group of African-born drivers had gathered.

My driver rolled down the front window on the passenger side and glared at the men through her dark sunglasses.  In a slow but contemptuous voice she said, “Shame, shame on you men for not taking this brother to where he wanted to go.”

The men looked at her with puzzled and indifferent expressions.  “Shame?” asked one of the African-born drivers.  “Yes, shame,” she responded.  The man shrugged his shoulders and then resumed his conversation with the other drivers.  He was completely unaffected by my driver’s condemnation.  Visibly annoyed, my driver rolled up the window and drove off.

As we made our way to the museum, it occurred to me that those drivers might have been from cultures that fail to value women, or to believe women should hold positions of authority, especially over men.

In that instance, I was never more proud to be an American, a Black American.  I was delighted to see a sister in business as an independent contractor, delighted to be living in a country where women can work, own their own businesses, and command respect - even when a handful of immigrants failed to show respect.

As we drove into the parking lot of a museum filled with African American artifacts, it occurred to me that I had just been a part of a historic moment.  It wasn’t a big moment, but a moment nonetheless.  It was one of countless and seemingly ordinary moments that make up history.  I had been rescued by an enterprising woman, who, in her own way, exhibited the same quiet resolve, dedication and determination that woman of color have demonstrated since before the founding of our country.

While I delighted in being witness to a small, simple act of Black entrepreneurship, I was disturbed to think that the city of Houston had granted licenses to the men who had refused to provide me with service simply because they didn’t want to go where I needed to go.

Professional cab drivers are a vital part of thriving metropolitan centers, and as far as I’m concerned, drivers that fail to conduct themselves professionally should have their licenses suspended, and withdrawn if the problem persists.  Based upon my limited time in Houston, it appears the city has some work to do in this area.

Unfortunately, during the course of my travels, I lost the name of the woman who rescued me that day, but I wanted to acknowledge her quiet, but heroic deed nonetheless.  If you are ever in Houston, look for a bright Yellow Cab with a woman with a straight-forward, but pleasant disposition.  She will take you where you want to go.

The End