Finding Home

by Natasha Helwig (Canada)

I didn't expect to find USA

Sometimes visions will come into my mind of a place I’ve never visited before. These thoughts will become so vivid that it almost feels like I’m tapping into past life memories that are suggesting “It’s time to go home - something or someone awaits you.” I usually succumb to the feeling, get on a plane or hit the road in my car and dive into these visions, hoping to experience serendipity or interesting chance encounters. Maybe it’s the recent documentary I watched on Malcolm X, or the re-release of the movie Harlem Nights, or just a serious craving for live music that I don’t have in Toronto - but my thoughts at this time were screaming “Go to Harlem, New York" It’s a Sunday afternoon in September as I walk out of 125th Street Station up the raggedy stairway out onto Malcolm X Blvd. I breathe in the air and smell the scent of incense burning from a local street vendor’s table mixed with weed from someones apartment. I decide to check out the table, touch the crystals that are meant to heal your mind, body and soul in various ways, size up the fake jewelry, smell the oils and bargain with the owner on whether or not I want to pay $10 for a particular clear quartz crystal that she’s told me will heighten my intuition. I drop the ten, take my crystal and saunter off. As I walk down the street, I take in the gentrification that’s happening around me. My heart feels broken as I see the obnoxiously enormous Whole Foods staring at me, next to the tall brownstones that look like Malcolm X walked out of himself. For a moment, I transport myself back to the fifties (well my imagination of the fifties because I wasn’t born yet) and pretend that I can see men and women skipping across the street in suits, dresses, and furs - dressed chic, stylish and bubbling with excitement getting ready to hit a show at the Apollo Theatre or a club to dance the night away. I wonder if life was simpler back then…or harder. If the streets could talk, I’d guess the latter. I grab a drink at Red Rooster restaurant. I’m enamoured by the eclectic artwork on the walls, the smell of fried chicken and waffles and even more so astounded by the sultry voice of the live musician they have in-house that day. Again, she takes me back in time to days I can only imagine. After downing my drink, I walk back outside, letting the autumn sun hit my skin. Unbeknownst to me, I stumble into Muhammad Mosque No. 7 where sharply dressed men stand outside like guards - stoic and assertive - and a tent is setup of a man selling Malcolm X paintings and artwork. He says this is where "Brother Malcolm” had taught. An excited feeling hits my chest as a realize that I’m standing in front of history. The following feeling is one of uncertainty. I realize amidst the gentrification, street vendors, new cafes, restaurants and live music, there is a history here - a deep rooted history of stories untold about one man and his fight that are about to, if not already, be removed, leaving only just a street name in his memory. There’s something abrasive, yet smooth and charismatic about Harlem. The busyness, panhandling and dirty roads come off strong initially, but as you turn down any street off of Malcolm X Blvd or walk into any bar or cafe, you are reminded that people live here, people raise families here, art is everywhere and music is alive in Harlem. I didn’t expect to find as much beauty and culture as I had in Harlem that day. This beauty is not necessarily seen with the naked eye. This beauty is hidden behind closed doors of mom and pop restaurants, art galleries, cafes and jazz dives, historic buildings that emanate black culture and make you think of what it might have been like during the Harlem Renaissance era, and brownstone lined streets that I envision liberated and outspoken black men and women walked, talked, gathered and fought on. On this day, Harlem feels like home.