Welcome to New York City
There are some places you visit, and there are some places that live in you. New York City lives in me.
More specifically, Harlem lives in me. It is in the way I walk like I have somewhere important to be, even when I do not. It's how I can spot foolishness before it gets within five feet of me. It is in my love of a fresh pair of sneakers, my ability to make a whole story out of one facial expression, and the little bit of sass that still shows up right on time.
Okay, sometimes it shows up early.
Growing up in Harlem was not perfect, but it was full. Full of sound, flavor, movement, lessons, characters, culture, and community. The kind of childhood where a simple walk could become an adventure, a fashion show, a life lesson, and a neighborhood news briefing all at once.
One of my favorite walks was from St. Aloysius to the penny candy store. And when I say penny candy, I mean the kind of place where a child could walk in with a few coins and leave feeling rich. You had to make strategic decisions. This was serious business. Did you want more pieces, or did you want the good stuff? Were you sharing, trading, or protecting your stash with your life? That little brown paper bag held joy, negotiation skills, and the earliest version of budgeting most of us ever learned.
Before school, there were butter bagels from the bodega. Nothing fancy. No artisanal butter. Nor hand-crafted cream cheese. No twelve-dollar breakfast sandwich with an ingredient you have to Google. Just a warm bagel, enough butter to leave evidence on the paper, and a quick stop before getting where you needed to go.
After school and on summer days, the stoop was our social network, we knew nothing about planned play dates. Long before timelines, likes, and group chats, there were sunflower seeds, quarter waters, and whoever happened to be outside. We did not need a formal invitation. You came downstairs, found your people, and figured out the day from there.
And double Dutch? That was not just jumping rope. That was athletics, music, timing, confidence, and neighborhood performance art.
“10, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 1, boppity bop.”
If you know, you know. If you do not, I cannot fully explain it to you. You had to hear the ropes hit the pavement. You had to feel the pressure of everybody watching while you waited for the right second to jump in. Know that hesitation could ruin your whole entrance. Honestly, double Dutch prepared us for adulthood. Watch the rhythm, trust yourself, get in there, and keep moving.
Harlem also gave me New Breed Martial Arts and my dojo life under Kushinda Lamaar Thornton. Kushinda was one of the many influential men in my life, and he helped keep me out of a whole lot of trouble. Martial arts took up much of my free time, which, looking back, was probably exactly what I needed. It gave me structure, discipline, focus, and a safe place to put all that energy.
It also taught me how to protect myself in these Harlem streets, because let us not pretend that was not useful.
But the greatest protection was not just physical. It was having adults who saw something in me, expected something from me, and gave me somewhere to be. That kind of influence can quietly change the direction of a young person’s life. At the time, I may not have had the language for mentorship, prevention, or community care. I just knew I had people who kept me busy, held me accountable, and did not let me drift too far toward foolishness.
My friends and I would walk to Rucker Park, because Rucker was bigger than basketball. You could feel the energy. It was history happening in real time. It was the crowd, the players, the commentary, and the possibility that you might see somebody do something you would be talking about for the rest of the summer.
Then there was Skate Key.
Skate Key was a whole vibe. That is the testimony.
IYKYK.
And Harlem Week? The African American Day Parade? You did not just show up. You arrived. There was a difference.
Your outfit had to be on point, and that usually included a fresh pair of 5411s. Harlem turned the sidewalk into a runway before social media ever gave fashion influencers a title. Everybody was looking, everybody was being looked at, and nobody wanted to be remembered for the wrong reason. It was the epitome of a fashion show, only louder, prouder, and with far better commentary coming from the sidelines.
We would walk to Two-Fifth, which is 125th Street for those who are not from Harlem, just to see who was there. I can admit that now. We were not always shopping. Sometimes the entire agenda was to walk, look cute, run into people, pretend we were surprised to see them, and collect enough information to discuss later.
That was community engagement, Harlem edition.
There was a time when photo backdrops lined the street. And if you grew up during that era, there is a very good chance somebody in your family has at least one picture of you posed in front of a dramatic backdrop, sitting in a wicker chair like you owned property and had a retirement account.
Bonus points if you had an asymmetrical haircut.
We were serving angles, confidence, and attitude before anybody told us to find our light. We were the light.
Then came the Dominican salons and those fifteen-dollar wash and sets. The doobies had the girls’ hair down their backs, swinging with a level of confidence that could not be purchased separately. You left the salon trying not to sweat, trying not to touch your hair too much, and praying the weather respected the investment.
Even the train ride told a story about the city. There was a time when the subway seemed to clear out at 96th Street, and the 3 train felt almost empty for the ride home. Next stop, Uptown. You knew the rhythm had shifted. You knew where you belonged.
Harlem taught me how to read a room, a block, a train car, and a person. It taught me when to speak, when to move, when to mind my business, and when minding my business was no longer an option. I gained street smarts that no classroom could teach and a confidence that still walks into rooms with me today.
It taught me that presentation matters, but substance matters more. That community can correct you and protect you. That style can be a language. That humor can help you survive hard things. That people need safe places, positive outlets, and adults willing to stay present.
That last lesson means even more to me now.
I would be remiss if I talked about my love for Harlem without mentioning Street Corner Resources and its founder, Iesha Sekou. The organization is near and dear to my heart because its work reflects something Harlem has always understood: young people need more than warnings about what not to do. They need people who show up, listen, mentor, interrupt harm, create opportunity, and remind them that their lives have value.
Street Corner Resources does the work that does not always fit neatly into a press release. It is community-led violence interruption, youth mentorship, healing, employment support, hard conversations, and trusted people standing in the gap. Iesha and her team turn street corners into places of hope, peace, possibility, and connection. They stay close to the community because real change requires more than dropping in when cameras are around.
When I think about the adults who helped keep me focused, including Kushinda Lamaar Thornton and the community around New Breed Martial Arts, I understand why that work matters so deeply. A positive place to go can change a life. A trusted adult can redirect a decision. A program that takes up a young person’s free time can open up their future.
That is not theory to me. That is lived experience.
Today, when I visit New York City, I am sometimes in awe of how much the city has changed. Some familiar places are gone. Some blocks feel completely different. The prices will make you clutch your pearls and check your bank balance. Buildings have changed, businesses have changed, and people have changed.
But then I hear a familiar accent. Catch a certain rhythm on the sidewalk. Admire people on the street dressed like the destination is lucky they decided to show up. I pass a bodega, hear music spilling out of a car, or watch people turn a regular corner into the center of the universe.
And there it is.
My New York City.
The city I love is not only the skyline, the lights, or the places tourists rush to photograph. It was the walk from St. Aloysius to the penny candy store. Those greasy butter bagels before school. Double Dutch ropes slapping pavement. Countless hours of eating sunflower seeds and quarter waters on the stoop. It is Rucker Park, Skate Key, Harlem Week, the African American Day Parade, fresh 5411s, wicker-chair portraits, doobies, and riding the 3 train home.
It is also the people who made sure children had somewhere to go, something to learn, and somebody watching out for them.
Harlem gave me roots and range. It gave me grit without taking away my joy. It taught me to love hard, laugh loudly, pay attention, protect myself, and show up looking like I meant to be seen.
If you are not from New York, you may not fully understand.
But if you are, you probably smiled at least once while reading this. You may have even started hearing that double Dutch chant in your head.
New York City has changed, and so have I. But the girl who walked those Harlem streets is still here. She is older, wiser, and slightly more likely to wear comfortable shoes, but she still has the street smarts. She still has the sass. And she still knows that when you come from a place like Harlem, you do not simply leave it behind.
You carry it with you.
#NewYorkCityDay #Harlem #HarlemRaised #MommyMixup #StreetCornerResources #NYCMemories #UptownForever