Those Who Don't

It was something my step mother-in-law said to us on our drive back to our apartment in Harlem that still, two weeks later, doesn't sit right with me.  For our second anniversary, we decided to keep our annual getaway close to home.  We stayed at a bed and breakfast in Burlington, New Jersey, visited Princeton University, and bought an oversized vintage Superman and Muhammad Ali print in New Hope, Pennsylvania.  The in-laws live in New Jersey, so we borrowed the car for our weekend away. They were kind enough to drive us back to the city after our trip.

We took an alternate exit off the Henry Hudson Highway, which let us out in the 160s.  As we were driving down on St. Nicholas Avenue, we passed through some of my favorite parts of Washington Heights and Harlem.  Interspersed between the bodegas, the Dominican groceries, and the ginormous El Mundo department store is the Mount Jumel Mansion, Jumel Terrace, the old James Bailey mansion (as in Barnum and Bailey), Alexander Hamilton's house, Hamilton Terrace, and the beautiful old, gothic mansion at the end of Hamilton Terrace that looks like it's owned by the Addam's Family.

Jumel Terrace (photo taken by me)

Side View of Jumel Mansion (photo taken by me)

 As we make our way down to our street, I pointed out all the sights that I love and that are often overlooked by the non-Harlemite.  I moved to New York six years ago and have always lived in Harlem.  Aside from being affordable, it's quirky and eclectic, packed with history, old school R&B and Bob Marley is always blasting from some open window, and the brown people out number the white people for once.  We bring up our dream of buying a fixer-upper and taking advantage of the Harlem home boom.  And without missing a beat, my step mother-in-law says, "But it's in Harlem." The car got quiet, and I try to see Harlem through her Indian immigrant eyes.  Black and hispanic people cover the side walks and streets. Dark skinned Africans are hawking shea butter, incense and good luck charms from the motherland, fresh cut mango and pineapples are sold from coolers, $1.00 icee hand trucks are on almost every street corner, children are playing in the street from the water from the water hydrant someone has busted open using a crowbar, and large Dominican families are loudly laughing and hanging out on the steps of their buildings.

As I reflect on the car ride and my step mother-in-law's comment.  I think what bothers me about the whole thing is that when I compare Harlem to the neighborhoods in New York, I see Harlem as the Promise Land for my people.  I see the Harlem Renaissance.  I see innovation and perseverance.  I see black as beautiful.  I see art.  I see people looking out for each other.  I see a vibrant and thriving neighborhood not crippling under the strong arm of gentrification, but in fact getting stronger.  My step mother-in-law's comment was thoughtless, ignorant, and coated in racism.  I just wish that she saw the beauty in where we chose to live, and not believe mainstream media's portrayal of African Americans and Harlem.