New York a little bit

by Chiara Corno (Italy)

Making a local connection USA

Today Harlem. I don't arrive in time to enter the Baptist church of the great gospel mass; therefore I arrive in a small white church, located on the second floor of a building. All women inside: two officiants, believers, pianist. Only one big man, who arrived late. Officers say mass from behind a large altar, from which they emerge, like the puppets of the Muppets Show, only when they stand up to read the Gospel between one song and another. After the mass all the ladies come to meet and celebrate me: I am the only tourist, much younger than them and Italian. A old visually impaired lady unmasks me: ‘My dear, you wanted to see the gospel, didn't you?’. I look down, even though she can't see me, and I say that I prefer that intimate atmosphere, to the mass show full of tourists. And I’m not lying, only I will realize it later! In any case, everyone is smiling at me full of gratitude, she as well, although she didn’t buy it. The old lady was a musician and she was once in Italy for Umbria Jazz. So she insists that I go to 135th, where the Harlem Day Festival will start. And so I do. Along the way, under the August sun, stalls of associations, fried chicken and shrimps, non-alcoholic cocktails based on fruit and ginger beer, T-shirts that praise black pride and African American clothes. And music from the stands and from the assembled speakers on two stages down the street. On the main stage DJ sets alternate women and men from the political and civil administration of the neighborhood to celebrate the annual party and to remember above all Malcolm X. I walk around and look full of fascination and curiosity at the people of Harlem on the day of their festival, I drink a fruit cocktail, I buy a T-shirt and I dance in the street. And after a little rest in the shade of a willow tree, I go up Edgecombe Avenue to number 555 to go to Marjorie Elliot, who every Sunday at four opens the doors of her home to strangers and organizes a jazz concert. She herself, an actress and pianist, often plays. She started many years ago, to endure the pain of the death of her son, on a Sunday, the day that has since become the saddest of the week for her and that she turned into music. Music that is also a hymn to motherhood, always lived as a joy and never as a duty or a cross to carry. A hymn to life. Today the concert is in the park next door. When I arrive Marjorie is at the piano, and with her there are many musicians. The first part ends with “We shell overcome”. Then Marjorie thanks everyone on behalf of herself and her son. Now again the music, a light breeze, the sun filtering through the leaves of the trees in the park and I below, lying on the grass, listening, writing and enjoying so much beauty and mercy. Then also the lady who officiated mass this morning and one of the believers arrive. They recognize me and greet me happily, as if they met a distant niece. They are Marjorie's friends. During the break, other friends of Marjorie distribute a snack. Then Marjorie walks around the park to greet her friends and guests, and on the way back she makes a small detour, she sees me, lying on the grass to write, I smile at her, she smiles at me, I get up, she reaches me, she hugs me, she says: ‘Thank you, you are so great!’, and I am moved. I would like to squeeze her tight, but she is so thin and fragile that I’m afraid to break her. She probably is like that because she is all soul, a soul so big that it sucked in, dried up the body. In the meantime the music has returned, but now to sing, play, even just clapping, and everyone is dancing, musicians and spectators, “Oh when the Saints” and I cried of sweetness and despair, which is nothing else than emotion.