Benjamin
![Picture](/uploads/1/8/7/9/18793802/1367974559.jpg)
East 127th street is also known as Langston Hughes Place
Just a couple stoops away, Benjamin is sitting, taking the last drags off his cigarette, eyeballing
me, waiting for me to make the decision to approach or not. When I do, he shakes my hand,
welcomes me to the neighborhood and begins his story, although he prefers not to be recorded,
thank you. He tells me he was born and raised on more or less the same block, Harlem anyway.
He recalls Harlem as always having been a safe place, though its face has been changing, it
was always a place he felt safe. He praises the idea of increased diversity in the recent years
of Harlem's faces, whilst reminiscing about the days gone by of children playing in its streets
instead of their hand-held video game accessories. He tells me names of several games he'd play
with his friends on the block: stickball, football, some sort of pogo game, something about box
tops, and others that I was unfamiliar with and didn't want to interrupt his flow to inquire about.
I press him to remember his time growing up right down the street from where we are stooping now.
He's quick to tell me about the cops: the cops used to walk around the neighborhood and you'd
see them, stop, say hello, and they'd say hello back. You got to know the cops, like Officer Joe,
who'd keep them in line on this particular street during the 60's. The name rolls off his tongue
without hesitation - he hasn't forgotten Officer Joe. But now, he says, cops are hidden away in
their cars, in those panopticon-esque towers, just watching, waiting, and throwing anyone against
the wall, cleaning this place up, Benjamin says. Not like before. But, "that's the one thing you
got to get used to, living here. The noise! Yes, all day, all night. Never gonna change. Everyone's
out and about, making noise. And just wait until it's summertime!" He tells me about the street
parties, where people barbecue all day until dusk, waving, chit-chatting, and inviting others
to grab a bite. He says he knows pretty much everyone that lives on the block, except for the
newcomers like me. Just then, his friends walk by and I get to meet Beatrice, Harry, and their
grand daughter Nayla, who must be 6 or 7 years old. I tell her I'm her new neighbor and she shyly
smiles and says, "Nice to meet you."
me, waiting for me to make the decision to approach or not. When I do, he shakes my hand,
welcomes me to the neighborhood and begins his story, although he prefers not to be recorded,
thank you. He tells me he was born and raised on more or less the same block, Harlem anyway.
He recalls Harlem as always having been a safe place, though its face has been changing, it
was always a place he felt safe. He praises the idea of increased diversity in the recent years
of Harlem's faces, whilst reminiscing about the days gone by of children playing in its streets
instead of their hand-held video game accessories. He tells me names of several games he'd play
with his friends on the block: stickball, football, some sort of pogo game, something about box
tops, and others that I was unfamiliar with and didn't want to interrupt his flow to inquire about.
I press him to remember his time growing up right down the street from where we are stooping now.
He's quick to tell me about the cops: the cops used to walk around the neighborhood and you'd
see them, stop, say hello, and they'd say hello back. You got to know the cops, like Officer Joe,
who'd keep them in line on this particular street during the 60's. The name rolls off his tongue
without hesitation - he hasn't forgotten Officer Joe. But now, he says, cops are hidden away in
their cars, in those panopticon-esque towers, just watching, waiting, and throwing anyone against
the wall, cleaning this place up, Benjamin says. Not like before. But, "that's the one thing you
got to get used to, living here. The noise! Yes, all day, all night. Never gonna change. Everyone's
out and about, making noise. And just wait until it's summertime!" He tells me about the street
parties, where people barbecue all day until dusk, waving, chit-chatting, and inviting others
to grab a bite. He says he knows pretty much everyone that lives on the block, except for the
newcomers like me. Just then, his friends walk by and I get to meet Beatrice, Harry, and their
grand daughter Nayla, who must be 6 or 7 years old. I tell her I'm her new neighbor and she shyly
smiles and says, "Nice to meet you."