The Great Depression began its long decline, which accelerated in the 1960s and '70s. Now the new renaissance has whites -- and well-to-do African Americans -- moving uptown. A Swedish couple lives in a condo on Malcolm X. A French filmmaker purchased a brownstone on 120th Street, three doors from where Ragland and Norwood are being pushed out.
"Once upon a time, you only saw white people in Harlem if they were buying drugs or they were lost," said real estate broker William John Wooten, who is black and has worked in Harlem for eight years. "Now they are walking their dogs or going for a jog."
Renters Samuel Ragland, left, and Eugene Norwood, right, who face losing this Harlem home when it sells, meet with tenant organizer James Lewis.
(Photos Helayne Seidman For The Washington Post)
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Harlem's name is squeezed and trademarked. That old Heroin Alley? In Realtor-speak it's SOHA: South Harlem. NOHA is North Harlem. A real estate ad proposes rechristening it all as "The New Upper West Side."
"You have some newcomers whose attitude is: 'I'm buying property and your time is short,' " said Karen Phillips, a longtime Harlemite and planning commissioner. "And you have young black kids who haven't spent time around wealthy whites. It's a very delicate dynamic."
Harlem's population is 77 percent black, down from 87 percent in 1990. It is 2 percent white, a figure that is rising fast. Over in the Mount Morris Park Historic District, Bill Rohlfing sits in the vastness of his designer brownstone just off Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard and talks of being elected the first white block association president in at least a century.
"I was stunned to be elected," says the real estate developer. "The black homeowners told me that I had gotten a lot done and that I don't see in color. Three years ago, I don't think this could happen."
Two blocks to the west Martha Reeves Jews, an African American, sits in Zzaj, her new art and gift gallery on St. Nicholas Avenue, amid hand-crafted plates and $800 jazz clocks and imported steak knives. All of it is beautiful and none of it is cheap.
Harlem's history, one is reminded talking to her, was never written exclusively by the shipwrecked poor. Roberta Flack, Maya Angelou and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar purchase townhouses now. There's no reason, Jews says, that they -- and white new arrivals -- should ride a subway 50 blocks south to Bed, Bath & Beyond just to decorate their homes.
"I grew up in South Bend, Indiana, hearing stories of the Harlem Renaissance -- it represents the beauty of my people," Jews said. "This is Harlem," she said. "This is what Harlem was."
Cast Out
Few working-class Harlem residents would reject this rebirth. Even those who can't purchase a million-dollar condo know that crime has dropped by half. When the rich raise a ruckus, more cops walk the street, supermarkets open and the schools take a turn for the better.
Some low- and middle-income Harlemites have mined their own vein of gold. Some teachers, bus drivers and social workers scooped up hundreds of city-owned brownstones for a pittance. Others obtained deeply discounted condos.
This has boosted black home ownership by three full percentage points in the past decade, though it still stands at just 10 percent, compared with 33 percent citywide. "This has created equity for a whole class of African Americans who a generation ago could not even buy their own business," said Wright, of Abyssinian Development Corp.
The downside is that rents have jumped and Harlem's low-income residents spend an average of half their income on rent. Demand remains fierce. Last year, Renaissance Plaza, a smart-looking cooperative, opened its doors on 116th Street. Thanks to city assistance, the co-ops were priced for people with incomes between $36,000 and $133,000. In days, the developer received 4,000 applications for 240 apartments.
No housing is under more stress than Harlem's dense concentration of single-room occupancy homes, known as SROs. They have long housed Harlem's working class -- the factory laborer come north, the nurse trying to bring her family from the West Indies, and impoverished retirees.
One block of West 120th Street, which has a row of fine turn-of-the-century houses, had 20 SRO buildings in 1995. Today, one remains. Landlords must obtain certificates of non-harassment from the city before they can convert SROs into single-family brownstone homes. In the early 1990s, when the market was dormant, city agencies handled a few dozen applications each year. By 2001, that shot up to 159, with 83 granted. The next year, the city signed off on 208 applications to turn SRO buildings into single-family homes.
Fidelity Trust Realty Inc. posted a Web site photo of the SRO on 120th Street, where the Army veteran, Ragland, and his friend Norwood live. It claimed the building -- which is listed at $1.3 million -- had a certificate of non-harassment.
In fact, a judge has denied the certificate, determining that the landlord had cut off heat and electricity, broken bathroom pipes and threatened elderly tenants. The Manhattan District Attorney's Office posted a warning notice on the door. When a reporter pointed this out to Fidelity Trust's owner, he deleted the claim from the Web site.
"Landlords threaten people; goons kick in doors," said Lewis, organizer for the West Side SRO Law Project, which receives city funding and represents these tenants. "Some speculators seem to think that their greed gives them the right to kick people out."
In these gilded days, Harlem's future trajectory is difficult to discern. Maybe the market washes away the poor. Maybe the housing market tanks and Harlem enters a new valley of shadow.
Or maybe the neighborhood that the Rev. Adam Clayton Powell Sr. called "the promised land" finds a new resurrection. Karen Phillips, the planning commissioner, recalls a time when friends asked, half embarrassed: Is it safe to move there?
"I'm an optimist -- Harlem has a chance to be one of the few neighborhoods where you have a true mix of races and incomes," she said. "The challenge is to keep the housing affordable and to remind people that we live in a neighborhood with a heritage of struggle."
