Gentrified
I went back home, to Harlem the other day,
353 West 115th Street, between Morningside and
Manhattan Avenue,
The place I was raised and where I grew.
Stickball, in the middle of the street, and Ringling Coca
1,2,3.
The girls jumped Double Dutch on the sidewalk,
While the adults sat in Morningside Park,
and drank Shaffer beer, Ballentine Ale, and talked,
in the summertime to way after dark.
And, any adult could discipline you,
when your parents got home you already knew,
your momma was going to whip that ass,
just because somebody said you was being bad.
Skellies, strike out and tag,
wise potato chips and a soda in a brown paper bag.
Mister Softee, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry
or, Italian Icies, coconut, banana and cherry.
Sometimes …
we played spin the
bottle
down old Mr. Jones basement.
The lookout got twenty five cents.
One day Willie Mays stepped out of a limo,
and the adults watched from their windows.
Why he came to our street that day, who knows.
But he did. We played stickball with the, “Say Hey Kid.”
Every now and then we’d cross the park,
had to be home before dark.
Columbia and Amsterdam Ave, the white folk section
Just curious kids but we had direction.
When the cops would come we’d run,
chewing on boozooka bubble gum.
Jump the wall from that strange place,
“Jeronimo!”
And land in Harlem where we were safe.
Adults gave rent parties on Friday nights,
And, there was bound to be a fight.
But no one ever pulled a gun.
Everybody was just trying to have fun.
Couldn’t do that if someone ended up dead,
Fill the glass up with ice and Johnny Walker Red.
Dancing to James Brown and Motown,
Twisting to Chubby Checker, getting down.
115h Street, my home on my way to being grown,
where I first learned about life,
that there were times to run and times to fight.
My family moved from 115th Street when I was
twelve,
just before the neighborhood turned to hell.
It was a horrible thing to see,
an entire neighborhood brought to it’s knees,
drug pushers and young kids scrambling dope,
one by one people losing hope.
Many of my young friends lost their innocence
as death and dying became consistent.
They traded in their talents and dreams,
for a life of crime and streets that were mean.
I was lucky that my family moved away from 115th
Street,
Where girls got turned out and the boys now packed heat.
I was only twelve when we moved away,
Just in time nick of time some people might say.
We didn’t leave Harlem though.
Just moved uptown, just so you know.
It was just a little better up there,
More arts and culture to share.
I graduated high school, college, and continued my life.
But everytime I come back I come to
115th Street or things just don’t seem right.
So here I stand on 115th Street, 2016,
And the street that is no longer mean.
No stickball or girls jumping rope.
No kids with dreams filled with hope.
It’s a tree lined street now, idyllic and serene.
No images of the past can be seen.
Surreal and unreal at the same time,
wondering if it was all in my mind.
In Morningside Park, an Asian guy teaches his son how to
ride a bike,
as I remember my Dad doing the same thing years ago under the twilight.
White people walking with their baby carriages and dogs,
I wonder if they know the history of a people that struggled
to live in Harlem and worked so hard.
Property value suddenly gone up, sky high,
people left forced to move out, live or die.
Harlem will never be the same,
But clearly what’s inevitable is change.
Change truly is inevitable,
evidenced by A Harlem Tavern, and A Corner Social.
That’s incredible.
I walk up Lenox
Avenue and marvel at all that’s new.
A Whole Foods on
Lenox, healthy food too.
Crimes gone down
I hear,
people walking
the streets at night, no fear.
An, international
coffee house on 129th.
think I’ll stop
in to have some coffee and a bite.
I walk in and am
greeted with suspicious eyes.
I’m never caught
off guard but to this I’m surprised.
“May I help you,
she passive aggressively says.”
--- A coffee and
some raisin bread. ----
She takes my card
with no smile or welcome,
And suddenly I
feel like I’m being shunned.
This can’t be,
not in Harlem my home.
I look around and
see no one that looks home grown.
And suddenly I’m
feeling all alone, in Harlem my home.
Something is
wrong, something’s not right,
And I get this
feeling deep inside like I want to fight,
for my right to
be who I am, stand a Harlem man.
For that I will
take a stand.
I’m all for
multi-culturalism and all that.
But to move in
and take over,
Well, America has
a history of that, that’s fact.
I take my coffee
and raisin bread and shake my head.
This feeling I
try to let go, try to shed.
Never before in
Harlem did I feel I wasn’t home.
But, I felt it
this day, a feeling deep inside my bones.
I looked the
pretty brown woman in her face,
Cleary she was
the one out of place.
Youthful innocence
hiding the disgrace.
She gave me one
of those half smiles,
I recognized that
she was only a child.
And she didn’t
have a clue,
of the history of
Harlem and the people, if she only knew.
I took my seat
and looked around
at all the people
not from this Harlem town.
I sighed and
drank my coffee, ate my raisin bread.
Gentrification
has it’s place,
But it’s got to
be done with respect, honor and with grace.
Because, the
history and culture cannot be replaced.
And the people, the beautiful people,
no matter what ain’t
going no place.
This and thought and knew, smiled and continued to drink my
brew.
This is for
Harlem everyday, all day.
Levy Lee ….
