Dear Harlem,

Well, it’s here. In a few hours, the movers will come to whisk us away to our new life in the suburbs. I’ll surrender my keys, and so will officially end our time together.

When I decided to move to New York in 2011, I never considered living anywhere else. The Upper West Side might have been more convenient; Brooklyn might have been closer to friends. But after seven years in a hostile Boston, I needed you. And you welcomed me, warmly. You took a Californian and made me a New Yorker.

When I left Spelman, I never thought I’d find another place into which I could melt. Just melt into the people around me and become, as Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “the cosmic me”. A place where history was as inextricably intertwined with my own, a home that spoke my language. For almost five years, you’ve given me another safe space. Generously. For that: thank you.

Don’t get me wrong, Harlem. You’re not perfect. Far too often, I’ve had to make split-second calculations about how to respond to a catcall on your streets. Walking without my husband is like running a gauntlet. The grocery store around the corner has a laughably expensive produce section. And you know, it’s never really quiet here. Never.

No, you’re not perfect. But who is? Not me, certainly. I’ve taken you for granted too many times to count. The first year here I didn’t make any effort to build roots, to meet my neighbors, the same things for which I denounce gentrifiers today.

And yet, you have been there for some of the defining moments of my life. I walked through your streets with my blue gown the morning of Commencement, and it felt like you were proud of me. We watched the George Zimmerman verdict come down here, grieved here. Chris and I were engaged here. We found out we were going to be parents here…and just when the shock of that had worn off, the doctor said, “So, there are two.” Our children have only ever known you as their home.

I’m going to miss the crossing guards who stand at the corners rain and shine, snow and heat, to get the schoolchildren to St. Mark’s safely. I’m going to miss the aunties and grandmas who coo at the twins when they walk by. I’m going to miss the sweet old lady on our hallway who sometimes sells heroin, and the young man down the hall who sings at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I’m going to miss the brothers who stand on the corner selling watermelon and lemonade in the summertime. The random obscenities flying through the air. The myriad variations of #blackgirlmagic I see just walking to the subway each morning.

And don’t even get me started on September. The older brothers gripping the hands of their younger siblings, all wearing matching Because of Them We Can backpacks. The dads carrying daughters on their shoulders. The moms lining up to watch their babies in afro puffs and fresh fades board the school bus. All of those little brown faces and the dreams they represent, headed off to school.

I’ll miss Muhammad, who hands out the papers at 135th Street. Joseph, who signed for all of our packages when we weren’t home. Deacon and and Deaconess Small, who are in their seventies and gave us the best marriage advice I’ve ever heard. Grayson and Karma and Oscar, and all of the other dogs who cause Aria and Carter to point and shout, “Dog!” Every. Single. Time they see them.

The drycleaner who only occasionally loses our clothes, and the kids playing ball in the park, and walking by the Schomburg, and the women in church hats and usher whites on Sunday mornings.

I’m going to miss them all.

Thank you, Harlem, for your blackness. Your unapologetic, proud, blackness. In times of fear, and rage, and confusion, you have given me a safe haven into which to retreat. When the Tamir Rice video was released, I didn’t have to paint a face on for you. No need to pretend I was okay when I wasn’t. I saw my own horror and anger and fear mirrored back to me on your streets. When I started looking for a church home, I only had to walk a block to find one of the most historic black churches in the nation. When I would board the train at 18th, exhausted from being a black woman in a world that values whiteness and maleness, I could close my eyes at 96th, open them at 110th, and breathe.

I never thought I’d be leaving you. I fought hard to stay with you, to find a way to make it work. But you, for all of your beauty, are still in New York City. And with two children who need more room than we can give them here, we just couldn’t settle for “making it work” anymore.

I know the next time I come to see you, you’ll be different. And trust me, I’m all for getting spruced up. But please…don’t let them Bed Stuy you. The red lines might get redrawn around you, but I’d like to believe you’ll always be Harlem. You are the home of the Renaissance, of Malcolm X and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevards. You were home to James Baldwin and Nina Simone. To Dinah Washington and Maya Angelou. To DuBois and Garvey. To Zora. And to countless nameless others who lived, loved, died, fought, and created in your arms.

And for a little while, you have been home for me, too.

Thank you for everything. “I was in love with Harlem long before I got there.” And I will be in love with you long after I leave.

Gratefully,

Alia