As a young actor I came to ny in 1979 and slept on my cousin Alphonso’s couch. My first night in town he took me up to 125th street and metro North. Back then it was a MAJOR drug block with hundreds of strung out people on the street. I asked Alphonso “ why is are people yelling out numbers?” He said “ those are prescription numbers “. Later he climbed through a cinder block hole in a doorway and beckoned me inside. I refused to enter. He said “ fine! Then wait outside!” Reluctantly I followed being deathly afraid of that proposition. It was a devastating sight, as you can imagine the inside of a crack hole. We wandered from room to room seeing the affect this drug had on these relatively young people. Later that night when I got back to Alphonso’s couch he grabbed me and said “ if I ever hear of you ingesting any of that poison , I’ll find you and kill you myself!”

I met my wife at the 63rd street YMCA the week she arrived from Germany to study art at Pratt Institute. A vision. We fancied each other and shortly afterwards we decided to move to Harlem. Harlem resembled the neighborhoods where I grew up in Washington DC. The people looked the same, ate the same food, laughed the same, and enjoyed the same music.

Shortly afterwards,My closest living relative in New York, Alphonso B. Deal, A court officer, fish doctor ( Ichthyologist), avid bonsai collector and community activist was dead. Alphonso was gunned down on the street while trying to retrieve a stolen bicycle for an eight year old neighbor. 140th street was posthumously renamed Alphonso B. Deal Street. He had a tremendous love for Harlem and owned several brownstones here. His primary residence was on 140st street between Amsterdam and Convent. He was our inspirational mentor.

In 1985 we found the house of our dreams . Everyone called us crazy, even though our friends downtown had no problem joining us for our banging house parties.

In those days the name “Harlem” was synonymous with “ hell on earth “. “ How is it up there? Is it safe??” Our friends would say. Although We were young and Harlem was redlined, we obsessed on figuring the financial angles out, thanks to a gentleman named Garland Lamb who trusted us to pay him back monthly . At a rate of 14 1/2 % over 7 1/2 years! Needless to say all of our spare time and meager earnings went into our new home. But we were in love, had boundless energy , no fear of failure and loved the community. New windows, plumbing, boiler, roof, ceilings. Sanding floors, painting and stripping wood. Stripping wood ! I am certain Rock miracle chemical stripper has taken 4 or 5 years off my life. Oh well.

We raised two beautiful sons in that house. Although crack cocaine was devastating our community and fires were raging everywhere. Even the snow plows turned around at 110th street and headed back downtown. Shots fired?

No one to call. Food delivery, forget about it. Swept up the playground before the kids could play to get rid of the crack vials and needles. We were the forgotten Manhattan. But we loved Harlem anyway. And we loved our neighbors! They’d take your packages from the mailman when they knew you weren’t home. Knock on your door at night and give them back to you . The old folks had a tradition of giving a dollar to our boys, and chuckling as they scampered off to the corner store to buy sweets. My parking space was right in front of my door. Everyone knew that. The neighborhood “numbers hole” was right next door on the garden level. Every day between 1:00 and 2:00 o’clock a crowd gathered in front of our stoop. Familiar faces awaiting the total handle of different race tracks around the country. The last three digits decided who won and who lost. It was Harlem’s version of the lotto. Sometimes we’d sit on the stoop and chat with Mrs. Hagnen while she sunned herself. She lived to be 107 years old and was the first black resident in the neighborhood. She said she’d had her first born when she was in her twenties. Back then it was considered unsophisticated for a pregnant woman to show herself in public unaccompanied by a man. So she’d have to wait at home all day until her husband returned from work so she could finally take a stroll around the block and breathe fresh air. To this day I still enjoy listening to my neighbor Dapper Dan when he’s in the mood to “break it all down “ for me.

Occasionally I’d have to chastise the drug dealers on the corner for making a game out of throwing their “40’s” through the windows of the burnt out building across the street. “You guys need to stop doing that sh*t” ! There was never any reason to be afraid of reprisal. After all , they were our children. The misguided ones.

Speaking of the impact of crack cocaine, the only thing that was publicized about Harlem was the devastation, never the triumphs. The first time in my life I mixed concrete was to seal the entrance of an abandoned building that was being used as a shooting gallery. It was like wack a mole. As soon as one was sealed, another was broken open. Today’s recent home buyers probably don’t realize that their current fireplace mantle actually belonged to the home across the street after it was illegally extracted and sold on the black market. It was a constant battle for us to keep our abandoned brownstones secured. I’ve heard scores of new neighbors say “ we need to keep Harlem how it is. Beautiful row houses and exquisite architecture!” I smile. Harlem’s history didn’t begin the moment they bought their property. First it was the Lenape, then the Dutch, the British, the European immigrants and the Great migrationist…. And here we are today. Always changing always growing. Maybe we can learn from our history.

In our community we had our own dry cleaners, restaurants, insurance companies, shoe repair, butchers, candy stores, beauty salons, gas stations, mechanics and bakeries . All black owned. Not to mention doctors and lawyers. Where are they now? Where did they go ?

My wife said to me one day. “When I walk home at night alone from the subway station I always hear the young men on the corners whistling as I come down the street. I hear the same whistles repeated all the way home “. I hit the streets in a huff to find out who was disrespecting my girl. Only to find out they were whistling to the young men in the next blocks that my wife was coming through, and to make sure she had safe passage. That was our Harlem.

Over time, more and more familiar faces began to disappear. Neighbors, who always asked you how you were doing, and actually waited for a response. Lovely folks. But they just couldn’t financially afford to keep up with a changing Harlem. Couldn’t resist a lowball offer to get out. “It’s some life we live in these rough places”.

But we still loved our 876 square acres of Harlem ! Sitting at the Baby Grand jazz club ( no cover) nursing a drink at the bar half the night, while Hilton Ruiz pounded the keyboard !! I can still hear the Hammond organ screaming through the streets every time I walk past where it used to be. It’s now a soulless glass cube. Gone forever.

I hope you learn to love this place like I have. Hopefully you love her more. Hopefully we can learn to embrace our differences and move forward in a way that enriches the whole community. Because Harlem is going to keep evolving and changing. It always has.

J.M.

Snow in Harlem