"White people really DO eat fried chicken..."

"Harlem Grandmothers" circa 1910, a decoration in the 125th St. & St. Nicholas Ave. subway station.

Harlem is a world unto itself, a world that is slowly becoming more and more familiar to me. I live just on the cusp of Harlem, in a strange little bubble that is created by and surrounds Columbia University. My street is rather quiet, mostly full of Columbia students or retirees, but a mere two blocks away lies 125th street, which is where Columbia ends and Harlem officially begins, at least west of Morningside Park.

Coming from my rather sheltered upbringing in my tiny mountain town, 125th street is still quite a novelty to me. For example, growing up in Colorado, I had never seen a sew-in weave shop, and on this one street, there are at least 20 of them that all offer affordable miracles in the matter of an afternoon. The ladies who come out of these establishments seem to glow as they walk out into the world, admiring their new lovely styles in store window reflections as they pass. The world on the street, aside from being filled with fashionable Harlem ladies, is a confluence of so many sounds, sights and smells that it can be a little overwhelming. For as many weave shops exist, there is an equivalent number of soul food restaurants and fried chicken cafés that offer hearty aromas as you pass by.

A few days ago, while running some errands on 125th, I decided to stop in one such establishment and sample the local cuisine. As is true most of the time when I'm out and about in this neighborhood, I walked in the restaurant and looked like some sort of albino in comparison to all the other people around me (I blame all of my ancestors for being from cloudy places and having no reason for pigmentation). One thing that applies to most situations in Harlem, is that rarely is anyone ever quiet or reserved in public. Everyone just shouts their business to everyone else in full voice, and that's just the way it is. Over the rumble of the crowd, I ordered my small box of chicken strips and went happily on my way. Everything in the world seemed pleasant enough; I had finished my errands, I now had a hot box of fried food to eat and while in line at the chicken place, I had just heard a very juicy story about a man named Terrell and some woman with a name that sounded like the combination of several small countries, all slurred together.

As I walked back toward my apartment, a man on a street corner, sitting with some of his friends, started to point at me and laugh. My first instinct was to look down and make sure my fly wasn't unzipped. All clear there. I then licked the inside of my mouth to make sure I didn't have a hunk of biscuit wedged in between any of my teeth, it wasn't that either. I wondered what it could possibly be. All sorts of strange emotions and junior high school flashbacks started flooding into my head; memories of embarrassing traumas from gym class or awkward social situations (of which I had many). Why was this man pointing at me and why were all of his friends laughing? Finally, he stopped laughing long enough to utter a few words, motioned to his friends and said "See, I told you. White people really DO eat fried chicken..." As they continued laughing, I walked on holding my box of chicken and breathing a sigh of relief, having avoided any embarrassment other than being quite noticeably white.

Although I often stand out here, I enjoy the neighborhood. I love seeing ladies in colorful flowing dresses wearing beads and cloth head dresses majestically gliding down the sidewalks. I love the little carts on the street selling coco helado on hot days, and all the little kids with their pocket change swarming around them. I love the park on the way to the subway that has the same little group of old ladies socializing each afternoon. I've picked out a favorite old lady of the group, she is always wearing a fancy hat of some sort. I look for her, specifically, every time I walk by, hoping to see which hat she decided to wear that day. I wonder if eventually I will become a routine part of the little neighborhood scene that people will see as a familiar piece of their day. All I know is that, so far, I have at least been able to confirm one man's theory about the dietary habits of my own people.