Thursday, June 25th, 2009
As the horn section swaying behind Femi Kuti blasted funky brass melodies, and waists wiggled to the drummer on stage, I caught sight of a beautiful woman, hair braided African style with little bits of blue thrown in. A real Nilotic look, with defined cheek bones and a thin physique. An arm from the white guy on her right, short black hair and a slick black shirt, slipped around her waist and pulled her in. She turned to him, looked him in the eyes, and kissed him.
OK, standard romance novel stuff. But, this was a trend at the free concert of Femi Kuti, the loud and loved son of the slightly-more-legendary Nigerian musician, Fela Kuti. As there are certain bars where gays go to find other gays, singles bars for as-of-yet-uncommitted professionals, particular curbs where skateboarding teenagers congregate, and churches where only Black Baptists worship, this concert, in a more subtle way, was THE spot to bring your spouse or significant other of another race. And not just any pairing of ethnicities, but specifically, it seemed, for heterosexual Black/White couples. I was excited, kind of giddy actually, seeing so many young couples, or weddded, middle aged White men being lead adorably by the hand through the shifting crowd by Black women.
These couples were here and there throughout the masses of people standing and swaying before the stage where Femi shouted to us about sex and music in Ibo (?) and English, where his horn section drifted to the right, drifted to the left in unison, and where his dancers shook glorious hips in figure eights, and they seemed to be just part of the natural environment there. That's what I loved. Usually, when, or if, one sees a Black/White interracial couple in public, they stand physically apart, whether on train or sidewalk, adoring one another with hand, lips, and whispers in quiet protest of the standard color-matching lovebirds cruising the streets in normalcy. Or maybe there's no conscious protest at all and I'm overpoliticizing the matter, but these duos of opposing tones ebracing under the bangs of the drums and the pressure of other bodies squeezed in front of the stage added so much to the concert. They made it a thorough experience. Perhaps Femi Kuti concerts are peppered with these couples because Femi and his band have a cosmopolitan aura, being a group of Nigerians dressed to the nines in traditional Nigerian clothes who speak English better than I do, and who are used to touring around Europe. Perhaps it was just coincidence, but I think not. Some hipness in the summer air of Prospect Park, a diverse crowd of Femi devotees, and Femi's open attitude towards sex (love too, maybe), brought these mixed couples together, I think.
But I was soon part of the phenomenon, stopping scribbling in my journal to heed the call of my friend Tori, a brilliant Trinidadian woman and schoolmate, as the crowds funneled out from the bandshell under the trees. We ambled slowly with the directionless masses in shorts and t-shirts, or tight tops and short skirts, and I made mention of the phenomenon I saw throughout the crowd, that I had never seen so many hip, interracial couples in one place, and she jumped right on the comment. She talked about how cool the couples seemed, and by her smile she seemed to be as excited as I was. I realized, as we moved along Prospect Park West, amid carhorns and brownstones, that we looked just like what were going on about: she a well dressed, stylish Black woman, me a White guy in watered down summer clothes. Our talking dipped to silence now and then and a breeze blew.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Greek's in West Harlem
Tuesday, June 16th, 2009.
The weather cool and breezy like heaven might be, I cruised across Amsterdam Avenue after picking up a scribbled-upon resume in the neon-lit Career Center at City College. The local restaurant & diner run by a few beautifully wrinkled Greeks with quietly laboring Mexican men, looking almost abandoned with the blinds partly drawn, and its decomposing but endearing white plastic signage over the door declaring that it is just that, The Greek's Collegiate Restaurant, waited on the other side of the thoroughfare. I had to grab something to nosh on before heading down to Williamsburg to tutor for that one tiring hour, and to prep myself for the phone interview for an internship but 2 hours off.
Some concerted searching for information on The Greek's on Google today only yielded a couple of happy recommendations of the souvlaki and pea soup, and a grieved declaration that the restaurant was facing an end to its days soon if the landlord would not let them renew their lease. The prospect of renewal, from what I read, seemed dark. But my experiences there are bright.
This local joint is a special place. Thriving, with bells dinging and plates clinking and feet shuffling along the linoleum floor, The Greek's, as I've come to know it from hearing the name tossed around the City College Campus, is an establishment with a real 1940's Midtown Manhattan diner look to it. From the fading sign outside to the rotating stools at the counter where classic pastries wait under plastic, to the old waitresses in blue formless shirts who chat forcefully with one another in Greek, it seems of another time and place. That's why it stands out, for it does not blend with the block where it sits, flanked by auto repair shops, bodegas, and little arroz con pollo y platanos type restaurants serving up classic food from the DR. Nor does it resemble at all the new cafes, products of gentrification and the New Harlem "Renaissance" (real-estate boom), such as Cafe One across the street, or the block of new restaurants, including Tres Pasos, over by the 1 train stop on Broadway.
So it's interesting to sit in The Greek's, watching Dominican girls go by, chatting and gesturing like mad, while the inside bubbles with a diversity of races, styles of dress, and accents. From above my vegetable omelette and steaming mug o' tea, I observe students, young and unknowing, an asian girl and a black guy in a smart casual work outfit sitting at a table in the back, thin, shaved-headed white guys going and coming, and a West Indian woman approaches the counter beside me to pick up her order. She drops a straw onto my mug of tea accidently while grabbing something, and I make a joke about how I'm going to start sipping hot tea through a straw from now on, and she chuckles like Misses Clause. The atmophere is jovial, and the youngish Greek men at the cash register recieve all the customers with the same "How you doin' today miss/sir?" and the old waitresses give them all the same slow, soft smile regardless. All come and go in this spot with pretenses dropped, and the Greeks just keep on doing business. And as well they should, I thought to myself, as I hopped from my beat stool and dropped six bucks on the counter for a big veggie omelette with home fries and a delicious mug of tea, and the cashier grabbed it and rung it up on the ancient register with a real bell and a lever to open the cash drawer.
I hope they can keep on forever. They're a real piece of history, sittin' on a hill in Harlem.
The weather cool and breezy like heaven might be, I cruised across Amsterdam Avenue after picking up a scribbled-upon resume in the neon-lit Career Center at City College. The local restaurant & diner run by a few beautifully wrinkled Greeks with quietly laboring Mexican men, looking almost abandoned with the blinds partly drawn, and its decomposing but endearing white plastic signage over the door declaring that it is just that, The Greek's Collegiate Restaurant, waited on the other side of the thoroughfare. I had to grab something to nosh on before heading down to Williamsburg to tutor for that one tiring hour, and to prep myself for the phone interview for an internship but 2 hours off.
Some concerted searching for information on The Greek's on Google today only yielded a couple of happy recommendations of the souvlaki and pea soup, and a grieved declaration that the restaurant was facing an end to its days soon if the landlord would not let them renew their lease. The prospect of renewal, from what I read, seemed dark. But my experiences there are bright.
This local joint is a special place. Thriving, with bells dinging and plates clinking and feet shuffling along the linoleum floor, The Greek's, as I've come to know it from hearing the name tossed around the City College Campus, is an establishment with a real 1940's Midtown Manhattan diner look to it. From the fading sign outside to the rotating stools at the counter where classic pastries wait under plastic, to the old waitresses in blue formless shirts who chat forcefully with one another in Greek, it seems of another time and place. That's why it stands out, for it does not blend with the block where it sits, flanked by auto repair shops, bodegas, and little arroz con pollo y platanos type restaurants serving up classic food from the DR. Nor does it resemble at all the new cafes, products of gentrification and the New Harlem "Renaissance" (real-estate boom), such as Cafe One across the street, or the block of new restaurants, including Tres Pasos, over by the 1 train stop on Broadway.
So it's interesting to sit in The Greek's, watching Dominican girls go by, chatting and gesturing like mad, while the inside bubbles with a diversity of races, styles of dress, and accents. From above my vegetable omelette and steaming mug o' tea, I observe students, young and unknowing, an asian girl and a black guy in a smart casual work outfit sitting at a table in the back, thin, shaved-headed white guys going and coming, and a West Indian woman approaches the counter beside me to pick up her order. She drops a straw onto my mug of tea accidently while grabbing something, and I make a joke about how I'm going to start sipping hot tea through a straw from now on, and she chuckles like Misses Clause. The atmophere is jovial, and the youngish Greek men at the cash register recieve all the customers with the same "How you doin' today miss/sir?" and the old waitresses give them all the same slow, soft smile regardless. All come and go in this spot with pretenses dropped, and the Greeks just keep on doing business. And as well they should, I thought to myself, as I hopped from my beat stool and dropped six bucks on the counter for a big veggie omelette with home fries and a delicious mug of tea, and the cashier grabbed it and rung it up on the ancient register with a real bell and a lever to open the cash drawer.
I hope they can keep on forever. They're a real piece of history, sittin' on a hill in Harlem.
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