Remembering Harlem

In an unhurried pace the three of them walked down the Harlem block with interlocking hands.

The touch of their palms and the reflections of their memories vaulted stories. Stories that passersby would never know. They were two generations of women with decades between them and diverse life experiences.

An endowment of the grace and generosity of the living spirit.

The tempo of their path was deliberately slow, and their dialogue echoed impressive reflections of a time that had long passed. The two elders of the trio were petite women of strength and resilience who absorbed the ebbs and flows of the pavement that they stood upon and the structures of change that surrounded them.

The migration of decades had delivered an alteration to this neighborhood with its emotional familiarity and intimate nuances. A visual engagement to a place that they had once called home.  It was over seventy years ago when they left without emotionally abandoning it.  With eyes piercing and an occasional halt at the entrance of vintage brick constructions, they stood in homage and softly spoke of the people and places that have faded but remain ingrained in the historical vein of the structures.

They tarried in front of a building. The numbers had changed along with the architecture. While standing there one of the sisters commented that it was nice to know that the building now served as a residence for seniors.   

This reconstructed dwelling had once housed many families, including theirs, The Baldwins.  With nine children they occupied the largest apartment in the four-story walk-up.  They resided on the top floor, which has since evolved to the status of prime real estate, the penthouse. However, in their era it was the low budget rental.

I stood beside my two elders. My mother in celebration of her 90^th birthday, and my aunt.

I imagined the striking brick building that they spoke of from decades ago.  Their description offered an entrance into my private screening. It was visually illustrated as having large gothic-like columns on each side of its entry, and in between the columns was the offering of seating. A place to congregate and a station of repose before one’s entrance and ascent to the upper floors. The slates of heavy concrete were positioned to welcome and hold the weight of bodies in their youth and beyond.

I envisioned oblong transparent glass, encased in wood frames. Windows that afforded the observer live graphics of the sounds and scenes beneath them as they looked down from their four-story throne. A vivid screening to the energy that encapsulated this Harlem street.  Looking up at the structures I visualized tenacious women layered in rich assorted shades of melanin as they sat behind windows and quietly observed or vocally contributed to the deeds that took place in their world of 131^st  between Lenox and 5^th Avenue.  

My elders’ internal branches reconnected them to an epoch of time that continues its excursion through the chapters of their mental memoirs and private diaries.  Their saunter down the concrete pavement prompted one of the sisters to reflect.

“The block didn’t seem so long when we were kids, we use to run from one end to the other.”  A testament that the energy and antics of youth often dismiss the authenticity of time and space.

There was conversation to the path that their feet would take them on this special day. We approached the end of the block and released the clutch of our palms before taking the climb up the entrance to the playground. An open space designed for recreational frolic. 

Decades had passed since their days of youthful play here, and it like many other things, had changed. It was not just the physical structure, it had also seen the struggles of the community as well. One could imagine the phases of reconstruction that the park standing on the corner of 5^th Avenue and 131st had seen. Thankfully, these elder sisters returned to witness the recent era of rejuvenation. 

They sat and watched children at play and adults at peace. While commenting on the additions to the park, a patron of the playground shared that things had gotten bad over the years but were progressively changing for the better.  It had entered its season of recovery and there appeared to be a resurgence of community and respect.

We tarried for a while and declined a stranger’s offer of free meals being distributed at a nearby church. The visual digestion of youthful hilarity was more satiating for us. After a short stay we made our exit from the park and paced our steps as we began our nostalgic path of departure.

Our car stood in idle as we drove out of the block. I happened to turn my head to the left. Looking out of the open window as the scorch of the summer day made its way in, I watched a young woman who stood on the sidewalk as her visitor exited from a cab. The women were not symbolic of the residents that filled the pavements of Harlem decades ago or appeared in the mental images of my elders as they took their stroll down memory lane. They were more representative of the women that I pass by in my walks along Park Ave. on the upper east side of Manhattan. Streets that display buildings with doormen and barren of the spirit that runs through Harlem.

Greeting her visitor with a contented pride in her residence here, she said, “Welcome to my neighborhood.”    It was a searing pronouncement that gentrification had arrived, settled, and found a new home on 131^st and Lenox Ave. and throughout the Village of Harlem. A village that is famously rich with African Americans, and the inheritance of a culture, that proudly and affectionately calls Harlem home.

This was the last image that I saw and the concluding phrase that I heard as we drove off. The elders were preoccupied in the recent reflections of their childhood neighborhood, and for that, I was thankful.