I’m honored to write my first piece for HMGL. Although, it’s not about fantasy football or James Bond — it’s about why I live in everyone’s favorite NYC fairytale neighborhood.Harlem.
(Were you expecting something else?)
Matt asked me to explain what it’s like to live in Harlem. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a neighborhood like that?’ he wondered.
He is not the first to ask. My address spices up any NYC party conversation. For example:
A: “What do you do?”
B: “I’m a digital strategist/textile designer/social media consultant/freak.”
A: “Oh, that’s cool. Where do you live?”
B: “Williamsburg/Murray Hill/East Village. You?”
When I tell them where I live, their eyes open wide. They stammer and croak something involving the word “gentrification.”
Ah. That single word, allegedly rationalizing my residence.
But what if I actually just like it? I assure them Harlem is safe place to live, mentioning a Duane Reade just opened three blocks from my apartment. And they breathe a semi-sigh of relief.
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How did I get to Harlem?
After I got accepted to grad school in NYC, I made plans to live with one of my best friends from high school and college who was going to grad school at Columbia. I immediately booked a one-way ticket from Tampa — my hometown — and told my roommate I trusted him completely to choose our new apartment.
I had no clue where I would be moving; I was just so excited to make NYC my home. My roommate sent me pictures of our future apartment and it was rental love at first sight. I told him to sign on the spot.
The author on moving day.
After I told my uncle where my apartment was (he has lived in NYC for over 30 years; thus he acts just how you’d think), he ripped me about 50 new assholes.
“HARLEM? Are you CRAZY?” he asked. “Do you KNOW where that is? Do you KNOW how dangerous it could be?”
He wouldn’t stop making comparisons to my neighborhood and Serpico and Midnight Cowboy (and still hasn’t to this day).
The very next day, he went to my neighborhood, met my roommate for the first time and stood on my stoop for hours. He walked around the neighborhood. He talked to people on my block (which I’m sincerely sad was not taped for my later entertainment). He also walked around the neighborhood at night to give my father — his brother — a full report.
After he assured my dad the neighborhood wasn’t completely terrible, but also pointing out the staircase in my building looked JUST like the one in a crack-den apartment in Serpico, he made me get mace (which I still carry) and named himself Deputy Commissioner of Ivy’s Security.
Tepidly, he gave three-fourths of his blessing.
I flew into JFK weeks later, cabbed it to Hamilton Heights and promptly twirled about our beautiful, big apartment, Carrie-style. I went to explore the neighborhood, which wasn’t scary to me at all. It’s a mostly-Dominican neighborhood, complete with a McDonalds that delivers (!!!) only three blocks from my apartment.
Sure, I don’t live in Carrie Bradshaw’s New York. But recently, I realized that Jay-Z’s lyrics from “Empire State of Mind” are about my hood — yes, that’s my McDonald’s:
I used to cop in Harlem/all of my Dominicanos
Right there up on Broadway/brought me back to that McDonald’s.
So, no, my neighborhood is not TriBeCa. But it’s beautiful and cool in its own right. I found my favorite places to eat and walk within time. I’ve seen every ethnicity in my neighborhood: students, families, and everyone else.
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If I feel safe in Harlem, what is the lingering stigma about Harlem that makes people scared for me?
First, frankly, it’s because I’m not a big, black thug. Second, there’s the crime history. Third, I think Harlem makes people think of a lone tumbleweed rolling down a deserted street, landing at the door of a shady pawn shop.
Do I feel safe? I never haven’t.
Here’s why: In New York everyone is crazy in some way — from Larry David to Michael Bloomberg.
So, if you go into any New York neighborhood under the assumption that everyone is crazy, you will always have your guard up and your eyes forward.
Do I get whistled at in the street (“AY MAMA!”)? Sure. But it’s no different than assholes in their first suits from Barneys in Financial District bars are thinking, so it really doesn’t matter to me.
My roommate is muscular and black, so when we walk down the street together, people assume we’re just another hip, racially mixed couple to not mess with (we’re not, he’s gay). I like to pretend we’re Lady Gaga and Usher taking a stroll, just living our lives.
Like my roommate and I, Harlem is eccentric. It’s an urban Norman Rockwell painting tucked away next to the Hudson River. Old men play chess on the sidewalks on overturned milk crates. My dry cleaning guy waves at me every morning, cheerfully sweeping his stoop in a wifebeater and tube socks.
As opposed to many other Manhattan neighborhoods, there are no women on macrobiotic diets dictating to nannies on the sidewalks. On the contrary, women in my neighborhood let their husbands have it in the middle of the street, often wearing tropical-colored get-ups.
Everyone is loony in their own charming way.
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There’s more to my neighborhood than its diversity.
From a girlish perspective, my apartment features crown molding, exposed brick and a washer/dryer in my bathroom. From a real estate perspective, the pre-war architecture of my neighborhood is incredible, I don’t live in a shoebox and the rent is reasonable. And from a thug perspective, my address lends me a bit of street cred. The cashier at my bodega says I keep it real.
Jay-Z and Frank Serpico have (probably) been here. (Photo by author)
Besides the Duane Reade, Alexander Hamilton’s mansion is five minutes away. The best pizza I’ve ever had — from a place that really does look like it was in Serpico – is two blocks away, and the biggest, most authentic burritos I’ve ever had are across the street.
The West Side Highway jogging path and Riverside Park are a hop and a skip. On hot days, women sell shaved ice on the corner. Little kids play in the water of an open fire hydrant during summer. A breathless homeless woman is always posted up at the liquor store 62 steps from my front stoop: “Canyouspareadollarcanyouspareadollar…”
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In some ways, moving to Harlem on a whim was like a drunken Vegas wedding everyone thought would get annulled. “But I LOVE it,” I wailed to my parents. Almost three years later, Harlem and I are still going strong. It’s true — they say when you know, you know.
Carrie and Samantha once had this exchange on Sex and the City:
Carrie says, “I have to go to San Francisco on a book tour.”
Samantha replies, “You wouldn’t go to the Upper West Side. Suddenly, you’re going to San Francisco?”
And Ramona from Real Housewives made an inference that women brawl on the street 10 blocks north of me.
My reply: What the hell is wrong with the West Side, Carrie? And guess what the scariest thing is at the corner of 150th, Ramona?? A Taco Bell AND a KFC!!!
Yes, I’m a girl who stereotypically doesn’t fit the bill to live here, and I do love having girlish brunches downtown and am envious of people who live near Gramercy Park—but that doesn’t mean I can’t prevail in Harlem.
Nah mean?
Ivy Jacobson is an Editorial Assistant for AOL’s Patch.com. She does not have any other cool articles on HMGL (and probably never will, after referencing Sex and the City twice — TWICE — in this post). But if you ever need to know how to make a pirate hat, she’s your woman.
Should you see Argo and/or Skyfall? Find out here. Or try and make sense of the football season with this Halloween-themed primer. And stay tuned for more articles and the debut of a YouTube channel. Or bring it on home.