The day after Thanksgiving, I found myself moving into a cozy and cute apartment in what could arguably be described as the Upper West Side of Manhattan. This move thrilled me for a variety of reasons; my commute to work has decreased, I am surrounded by bars and restaurants that I can’t wait to try once we have a vaccine, and it’s now a bit more convenient for friends from other neighborhoods to reach me. This apartment really seemed to have it all, which is why my roommates and I signed the lease with little hesitation. However, in between signing and moving in, I found myself having to battle the very real emotional hurdle of saying goodbye to the neighborhood of Harlem.
Ever since I moved to New York City in February of 2019, I called Harlem my home. I was excited and proud to call this cultural mecca my home. Historic buildings and multiethnic restaurants were available as I stepped out of my door, and my neighbors were a beautiful mixture of all types of ethnic, cultural, and racial backgrounds as well. Between the beautiful park five minutes down the street, and the variety of reasonably priced supermarkets within walked distance, I felt I had found my corner of the city.
There were so many reasons that it made sense to make the move down, but I couldn’t help but feel like a traitor or a hypocrite for wanting to go. The truth is that while I do love Harlem, there were aspects of living there that didn’t make me happy. I particularly hated the block parties that happened on the street while I was trying to sleep. I was also beginning to really resent getting up before the sun to make it to work downtown on time. I had every practical reason to relocate, but a small voice in my head kept telling me that as a black woman, I owed it to Harlem to stay. Somewhere during my short period of time as a New Yorker, I had attached my personal identity to my geographical location. As a black woman who spent my entire life in predominantly white neighborhoods, I felt like I was making the choice to distance myself from my own people rather than embrace who I am.
It’s fascinating how easily our own minds can trick us. When I reflect on my life, I am no more or less “black” because of where I was raised or where I choose to live now. On top of that, how self-centered of me was it to believe that my zip code might be life-changing for an entire New York City neighborhood, The truth is that I can make just as big of a difference next to Central Park as I can in Central Harlem. And at the end of the day, what matters is that I am grounded in my own sense of self, and that I am committed to giving back to the community around me. Once I came to this realization, my eyes were properly opened to the beautiful neighborhood I am blessed to walk through each day. Now, I walk out my door and I see streets that are no less culturally rich and vibrant than the ones I walked 30 blocks above. And I walk a little lighter knowing that I am no less who I am because I choose to embrace the fact that this new melting pot of establishments and individuals are what make up my new home.
Ever since I moved to New York City in February of 2019, I called Harlem my home. I was excited and proud to call this cultural mecca my home. Historic buildings and multiethnic restaurants were available as I stepped out of my door, and my neighbors were a beautiful mixture of all types of ethnic, cultural, and racial backgrounds as well. Between the beautiful park five minutes down the street, and the variety of reasonably priced supermarkets within walked distance, I felt I had found my corner of the city.
There were so many reasons that it made sense to make the move down, but I couldn’t help but feel like a traitor or a hypocrite for wanting to go. The truth is that while I do love Harlem, there were aspects of living there that didn’t make me happy. I particularly hated the block parties that happened on the street while I was trying to sleep. I was also beginning to really resent getting up before the sun to make it to work downtown on time. I had every practical reason to relocate, but a small voice in my head kept telling me that as a black woman, I owed it to Harlem to stay. Somewhere during my short period of time as a New Yorker, I had attached my personal identity to my geographical location. As a black woman who spent my entire life in predominantly white neighborhoods, I felt like I was making the choice to distance myself from my own people rather than embrace who I am.
It’s fascinating how easily our own minds can trick us. When I reflect on my life, I am no more or less “black” because of where I was raised or where I choose to live now. On top of that, how self-centered of me was it to believe that my zip code might be life-changing for an entire New York City neighborhood, The truth is that I can make just as big of a difference next to Central Park as I can in Central Harlem. And at the end of the day, what matters is that I am grounded in my own sense of self, and that I am committed to giving back to the community around me. Once I came to this realization, my eyes were properly opened to the beautiful neighborhood I am blessed to walk through each day. Now, I walk out my door and I see streets that are no less culturally rich and vibrant than the ones I walked 30 blocks above. And I walk a little lighter knowing that I am no less who I am because I choose to embrace the fact that this new melting pot of establishments and individuals are what make up my new home.
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