‘Harlem! Harlem? Unmute yourself!’ The young boy stares at the Zoom rectangle which is my face. He seems to be dozing. ‘Harlem!’ I try again. His head jerks up and he leans forward, almost falling into his computer. He reaches forward and unmutes himself; clicking the invisible button which connects him to me. ‘Harlem! Harlem on my mind. Where have you been?’ He hears me. He looks more intently at his laptop, then leans back and laughs.
I am pleased with myself. I have successfully transferred a joke with this small human. ‘Harlem On My Mind!’ I am referring to the title of a book I saw as a child; an adult level text from my Father’s library which I pulled off a dusty shelf, crawling under the piano with it to look uncomprehendingly at all the photographs.
There was no place of connection for me; a white child, raised comfortably in upstate New York amidst forests of trees, fields of corn and apple orchards. What have I to do with Harlem?
I have not leafed through that book for decades; the book where I was introduced to the image of a black Santa, bloody images of beaten men after a riot and abject, obscene urban poverty. I turned the pages carefully, lying on the rug under the sanctuary of a Steinway grand. It made no sense.
‘Harlem! Harlem on my mind! Where are you?’ He laughs and says, ‘Here I am, Miss!’ He has no idea how that book is turning itself in my mind, We proceed with the lesson and I know in some brief moment, an inexplicable moment, we are coming full circle. The book, the very pictures themselves which I stared at with trepidation, appear in the face of the little one watching me through a screen in which there is no contact, other than eyes, voice and spirit. ‘Here I am, Miss!’ I share my screen, but I keep the book…close and on my mind.
690 Saint Paul 