Harlem Renaissance

A friend from the Vineyard, who lives on the Upper West Side, invited me to lunch near her new job in--Harlem. Like everyone else with friends in the city, we'd heard about the gentrification gobbling up huge chunks of Harlem, a part of the city associated with neglect, poverty, and crime, all of this decay tainting the cultural significance when there had been such a thing as the Harlem Renaissance. There were discussions about "Yuppies" buying old brownstones, which they refurbished with all the Yuppie amenities: granite top counters, stainless steel appliances, and grand fireplaces. Since we were many miles away, we believed the 'hype' of this new trend, assuming all of Harlem was getting Yuppified, a Whole Foods surely to arrive soon.

As I got up to street level, leaving behind the subterranean maze of train lines that links all of this city, I felt a sense of, let me be frank, fear taking hold. I was in Kansas no more, as they say. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not a woman afraid of black people. I mean, I married one, for God's sake. I am racially sensitive enough to never assume all Black men are criminals, rappers, or thugs. I am the shrill 'wannabe Sister Souljah,' who is rabid when discussing all the stereotypes for Black men and the unjust racial profiling that occurs in our society. I know my husband can forget trying to hail a cab at night, if he's alone--even if most cab drivers are African. As a woman raising a half-Black boy, who will soon enough be a man, I am all too sensitive to the painful experiences of Black men in our culture.

But the crowded streets of 125th street, the lines of African vendors selling patchouli oils and incense, the countless homeless men and women, and the gangs of young black men, their pants on low enough to suggest a lifestyle that we associate with violence and crime, put me just a bit on edge. As I hurried across Martin Luther King Boulevard, I chided myself for being scared. See, my fear so visible on my face and in my pursed, stooped body would surely be interpreted by one of those young black men, who is neither a thug, criminal, or violent. And my fear would be another blemish for him during a long day of such blemishes, the end of the day bringing relief that it was finally over. Knowing all of this, I still couldn't help feeling what I was feeling-- fear. It probably didn't help that my husband and I just recently saw the new Jodie Foster movie where she is brutally attacked in Central Park. From the movie, it was obvious she, the character, lived somewhere in Harlem, each step outside her walk-up apartment's doors a signal of another dangerous encounter. This is a lame excuse, but perhaps an explanation.

I made my way to the Soul Food restaurant, which had glowing reviews for its food and ambiance on the web search I'd done before departing. Relief was what I felt for having made it without anything happening during the five long blocks from subway station to the cool interiors of this restaurant. After my pulled pork sandwich, iced tea and conversation, I accompanied my friend to her new offices, situated next to the Marcus Garvey Park. This park, named after an important figure in Black history, who would be profoundly saddened to see how the green space, named in his honor, could barely disguise the decay all around it. This park, like any other in the city, had the swing set and jungle gym, yet no children were there to enjoy any of the accoutrement to childhood innocence. I could imagine how this park, like so many others in the city, would be overrun with derelicts and drug dealers and users, casting such a sinister pall on something that was created with such good, wholesome intentions.

I wish I were more intrepid, daring enough to set up home in one of the gorgeous old brownstones that proliferates in this part of the city. As I raced past what appeared to be homeless people selling their collected wares from numerous dumpster bins, I knew there was no way I could live here with any measure of confidence. I had to think about why that was, why my 'comfort,' is derived from areas where there's just enough diversity for me to believe it is not what it truly is--an enclave for those privileged enough to believe they are more hip, more daring than they truly are. I can always rationalize and blame my child's safety as the reason for us not moving to such areas like Harlem or Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. And no doubt there is cause for real concern and caution where our child is concerned.

But is Harlem any more dangerous than the Upper West Side near the park? Wasn't it just this past week that a couple was held up at knife point in that glorious park just at dusk? If safety was my main concern, shouldn't a move to the suburbs be the more rational thing to do? Well, no need to be so rash. We all know how much antipathy I have for suburban life, in general. Richard Yates wrote searing and haunting tales of so much woe, lives disintegrating behind the big doors of Colonial homes with manicured lawns, the pristine setting unable to hide the emotional decay inside. The subway ride was just long enough to give me time to ponder the jumble of emotions and thoughts this quick trip way uptown had wrought. Soon enough, I was hitting the street at 14th, heading Eastward and upward to my 'safe' haven of pseudo-suburbia next to the East river.