Excerpt from: "Black, Just
Like My Mama"
“HARLEM”
“MY
HARLEM"
Harlem was sassy, spicy, fashionable, hip, classy, clean, and relatively safe in the early 1950s. It had a special
ambiance. The city was alive, with its own enticing allure. Even the smells that emitted from it were always changing,
offering fleeting whiffs of aromas that peaked one’s interest, but for a moment. There was something new in the
offing at every corner turned, every day experienced, and every new person met.
Harlem was filled with laughter, joy, amusement, happy hours, dancing to the huck-a-buck and doing the
Madison, hanging out at the Renaissance Ballroom, The Cotton Club, Central Park. It was going to the Apollo to see Hazel
Scott, Daddy Long Legs, Muddy Waters, Etta James, Doo Wop groups, Amateur Night, and going to see shows of most of the great
Negro entertainers of that time.
Even the sounds of Harlem had their own
stamp of uniqueness. The hustle and bustle of cabs, buses, police sirens, fire trucks, and ambulances competed for attention.
The roar and tremble from beneath one’s feet vied for its share of the stage as subways raced to their destinations
underground reminding everyone that just as rushed as the city was above, there was also the frantic pace below.
During
the week, Negroes of every hue from the whitest of white to blue-black could be seen waiting at bus stops, hailing cabs, walking,
heading up and down the subway steps, or driving their own cars to work. Occasionally, hung over drunks hunched up against
stoops, or on the side of buildings could be seen displaying their past night’s folly. Leg weary prostitutes could
be seen heading inside to sleep the day away to prepare for the night ahead.
As they rushed to work, many people wore uniforms. Some were maids, butlers, bellboys, redcaps, policemen, firemen,
doormen, and some wore uniforms that were not recognizable. There were men in suits, ties, and hats that were certain
giveaways that they were lawyers, doctors, or some kind of professional. The women who wore professional clothes seemed
to always have on cotton gloves, and hats. The one thing one noticed about all of them was that they did not act the
same way as they did when they were seen every day on their blocks after work, or on the weekends.
When Mama took us to school, and I saw them headed to work, they looked very serious. There was no jolly “hello”
with smiles and hugs attached. Just a quick glance, a terse “hi,” with a slight semblance of a smile, and
then they were hurriedly gone. I didn’t understand this transformation until many years later. That “work
face” was the one they put on to meet the “man.” Just about everyone except some of the professionals worked
for white people. They had to maintain a certain attitude and demeanor when dealing with those white people, and the
time between awaking and arriving at work was the time spent on readying themselves for that reality. I dare say that
they all hated having to wear masks, but survival required it.
Negroes dressed to the nines on the weekend. After the long work week, Friday signaled not the end of the week, but
the beginning of the weekend which meant, “party time.” This was a time when “work hard and party
hearty” was the going trend, all masks were removed, and real personas were back.
Friday
nights were greeted with crowded bars. Some people, anxiously ready to get the weekend started, stopped at the bars in their
work clothes for a few drinks, and sometimes a good soul food dinner of chicken, chitterlings, pork chops, greens, mashed
potatoes, string beans, candied yams, and corn bread that most bars made available according to their specialty knowing how
Negroes loved good food. Some folks would just have a few drinks, go home to eat, shower, dress, and bring their lovers
or spouses back out with them. Of course, there were those who left their spouses home because the weekend to them was
“playtime.”
The clubs were standing room only with plenty of good food, and nothing but the best of entertainment. It was not unusual
to see renowned performers frequenting the watering holes of Harlem. This was the place where they were accepted on
their own terms, and loved by their people.
Harlem
was a good place to be then. Of course life was hard, and money scarce, but there was togetherness and love in the air,
respect for one another, and a sense of cohesiveness that made all the Negroes, West Indians, and Puerto Ricans residing there
feel a part of something good and worthwhile. Almost every able-bodied person was either working, or doing some kind
of legal hustle to make it. Of course, there were the numbers’ runners, and hoodlums running around living by
their wits, but they were like an old man’s teeth, few and far between.
If one person didn’t have something they needed, someone would lend it to them for the moment. There were always
a few professional people around to fill in the gap when there was a high-cost need like the Negro dentist around the corner
on Manhattan Avenue who took whatever anyone could afford to have work done on their teeth. He had enough well paying
customers to be able to afford to do charity cases, but nevertheless, he was an appreciated person by those he helped, and
the community cherished him. Even Negro medical doctors who wouldn’t take a dime from people they knew were destitute,
helped when they could. It wasn’t a time when people were preying on each other, or taking advantage of each another
to get over on a wide scale. Everyone was hurting to an extent, and the only way for us all to make it through was to
help a brother or sister out. It was a glorious time when we liked each other, because we were a reflection of each
other knowing but for the grace of God, go any of us....
There were Negro owned businesses too, but the groceries,
candy stores, butchers, fish markets and clothing stores were basically owned by Jews. They would hire Negro men, women,
and boys to work for them, and sometimes gave them food to take home to their families, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Many of us kids would go to the candy stores without having enough money for the candy, or in my case, Indian brand pumpkin
seeds. They would just wave us off accepting whatever we could pay. We would happily scurry off to play. I often asked
Mama why the Jews owned all the stores. She said they lived in Harlem before Negroes came to live there.
The store I remember everyone being excited about most was when Roy Campanella
opened a Liquor Store in our neighborhood. He had gotten hurt, and couldn’t play baseball anymore. He opened up
a liquor store on Eighth Avenue near 112th Street.
Every time us kids passed there, we used to go peek in the window to see if he was
in there, and when he was, we would go in to speak to him. He was a very nice man. He didn’t shoo us away
like a lot of the storekeepers. He knew we were in awe of him, and took time with us. He would swing his wheelchair
around and come outside to talk to us to keep us from coming in. He told us he could lose his license, if we were caught inside
by the wrong people.
On the corner of 116th Street and Eighth
Avenue, was the Morning Side Theater. Every Saturday we would go to the movies and watch Tarzan flicks. Edgar
Rice Burroughs name was so familiar to us that no one could mention Tarzan without us kids saying, “Edgar Rice Burroughs
made Tarzan.” His name covered the whole screen at the beginning of every Tarzan movie making it hard for us not
to notice.
Our
parents didn’t have a lot of money, but my brother Ernest and I had all the popcorn, goobers chocolate-covered peanuts,
dots, and milk duds that we could eat. Most Saturdays there were two features, and four to six cartoon features.
Going to the movies was an all day adventure. When our father was in town, he used to drop us off when the movie opened
around noon, and pick us up at four or five o’clock. Saturday was always a fun day for us. Saturday is still
my favorite day.
Sometimes
we would walk home alone when we got out of the movies before time for Daddy to come. He didn’t want us hanging around
the theater, so he told us to leave without him since we knew our way. Home, was two city blocks away, but we would pass bars
that were usually full, and loud with music and laughter with all kinds of people lounging outside in front of them. No one
ever bothered us. Everyone knew everyone else around our way, so if anything went wrong, there was always someone in
the stores, or ambling around who knew and protected us. Even the Chinaman and his family who ran the Chinese restaurant
two doors down from the theater on Eighth Avenue looked out for the kids playing, or going to and from the stores.
116th Street was always crowded with shoppers, or people socializing. It was “the
place” to meet up with friends to go somewhere, or just hang out. We were too young to do either, but we soaked
in the scenery and ambiance of it all. I remember feeling content, and safe. I didn’t know it then, and
I couldn’t put a name to it. But, now I realize that it was a feeling of being surrounded by people like me who collectively
cared about me, and were supportive and protective of me because I was a part of them and they were a part of me. As
I look back, I can’t remember having those feelings at any other time in my life. There was such a strong sense
of belonging that cannot be recaptured, canned, or resurrected. It was preserved for that time, that moment, that place, and
those people.
