That Time I Left My Heart in Harlem
By Dijon Rolle
Every year around my birthday I tend to get a severe case of wanderlust. Traveling is one of the ways I celebrate the extra special occasion of my birth. I refuse to be convinced that “it’s just another day.” No ma’am. It’s not just another day … it’s my day and I’m gettin’ it in.
In fact, I pity people who say that. When I hear those words, I usually squint real hard, tilt my head to one side and smirk because I know it’s a lie. Birthdays are for food, fun, friends, gifts and yes … extra special treatment.
This year was no exception. So as custom, I purchased my tickets this time to Harlem. I found a charming little brownstone called the Melva Inn to lay my head for a few nights. Fun fact … I’ve always wanted to live in a brownstone. Maybe it was all those “Cosby Show” and “Living Single” episodes I watched growing up. They always seemed to be filled with smart, upwardly mobile, attractive, and carefree black folks.
Plus, brownstones hold so much history. Baby if those walls could talk … all the tea they would spill. Imagine all the families, parties, late night shenanigans and fabulous people that paraded up and down those steps. Imagine the poets, writers and musicians who called Harlem home. All unapologetically black and livin’ their best lives.
I imagine what it might have been like during the Harlem Renaissance. When Duke, Zora, and Langston and others held court and jazz clubs jumped on every corner.
There’s always been something about Harlem that’s tugged at my heart or as one Harlemite I met described it “there’s a different type of blackness here.” Perhaps that’s what I was in search of. The history and the ghosts of a glorious time where we could finally feel free to be young, gifted and black. Harlem’s demographics may have changed and yes there’s a Whole Foods now, but the culture remains. The pride remains.
Two train rides later and I was soon steppin’ out of the 125th Street subway station (I actually sat next to sports journalist Bomani Jones on the subway, but I was too busy worrying about if I was on the wrong train or not to speak. Bummer.) I wandered for a few blocks until I found the Melva Inn and dropped my bags off in the “James Baldwin” room on the second floor.
This wasn’t my first visit to Harlem, but this time around I had the luxury of enjoying it at my own pace. I lingered along the streets and debated which restaurant to try. I listened to jazz at Gin Fizz, ate Jamaican food, chatted up the locals and sipped Sangria at Corner Social on Lenox Ave. I people watched, flirted and strolled through Sugar Hill like I lived there.
One of the highlights of my time in Harlem was attending First Fridays at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. I was lucky enough to catch a tribute to the late great DJ Frankie Knuckles. I’ve always loved house music and I was long overdue for a dance. Despite every inch of the floor being packed, I danced all night long in the center of a swelling sea of Harlemites. I danced it out and sweated all my makeup off (always a sure sign of a good time). No adult worries of work, school, life or anything else. I felt free in Harlem. I swatted the balloons that fell from the ceiling and blissfully ushered in my birthday as “Superman” by Black Coffee thumped through the speakers.
I later found out that we were all dancing on top of writer Langston Hughes’ final resting place. His ashes are interred beneath the floor of the Schomburg.
I felt so much love in Harlem and my heart was incredibly full. I didn’t feel like a visitor. Every person I met had a laundry list of recommendations for local restaurants or things I should do during my trip. I listened, took notes for the next time and swapped contacts for future dinner dates.
There would definitely be a next time. I’ve already made plans to return, preferably when it’s a little warmer. I’m ready to savor the sweetness of summertime and sunshine in my beloved Harlem and dance a little more.
Maybe Harlem isn’t just a place after all … maybe Harlem is a feeling. A feeling that had me floating all the way back home smiling, fat, happy and full of confetti cake. This birthday was one for the books.
