I was just a boy when my father brought me to Harlem for the first time, almost 50 years ago. We stayed at the Hotel Theresa, a grand brick structure at 125th Street and Seventh Avenue. Once, in the hotel restaurant, my father pointed out Joe Louis. He even got Mr Brown, the hotel manager, to introduce me to him, a bit paunchy but still the champ as far as I was concerned.
Much has changed since then. Business and real estate are booming. Some say a new renaissance is under way. Others decry what they see as outside forces running roughshod over the old Harlem.
New York meant Harlem to me, and as a young man I visited it whenever I could. But many of my old haunts are gone. The Theresa shut down in 1966. National chains that once ignored Harlem now anticipate yuppie money and want pieces of this prime Manhattan real estate. So here I am on a hot August afternoon, sitting in a Starbucks that two years ago opened a block away from the Theresa, snatching at memories between sips of high-priced coffee. I am about to open up a piece of the old Harlem -- the New York Amsterdam News -- when a tourist asking directions to Sylvia's, a prominent Harlem restaurant, penetrates my daydreaming. He's carrying a book: Touring Historic Harlem.
History. I miss Mr Michaux's bookstore, his House of Common Sense, which was across from the Theresa. He had a big billboard out front with brown and black faces painted on it that said in large letters: "World History Book Outlet on 2,000,000,000 Africans and Nonwhite Peoples." An ugly state office building has swallowed that space.
I miss speaker like Carlos Cooks, who was always on the southwest corner of 125th and Seventh, urging listeners to support' Africa. Harlem's powerful political electricity seems unplugged -- although the streets are still energized, especially by West African immigrants.
Hard-working southern newcomers formed the bulk of the community back in the 1920s and '30s, when Harlem renaissance artists, writers, and intellectuals gave it a glitter and renown that made it the capital of black America. From Harlem, W. E. B. DuBois, Langston Hughes, Paul Robeson, Zora Neal Hurston, and others helped power America's cultural influence around the world.
By the 1970s and '80s drugs and crime had ravaged parts of the community. And the life expectancy for men in Harlem was less than that of men in Bangladesh. Harlem had become a symbol of the dangers of inner-city life.
Now, you want to shout "Lookin' good!" at this place that has been neglected for so long. Crowds push into Harlem USA, a new shopping centre on 125th, where a Disney store shares space with HMV Records, the New York Sports Club, and a nine-screen Magic Johnson theatre complex. Nearby, a Rite Aid drugstore also opened. Maybe part of the reason Harlem seems to be undergoing a rebirth is that it is finally getting what most people take for granted.
Harlem is also part of an "empowerment zone" a federal designation aimed at fostering economic growth that will bring over half a billion in federal, state, and local dollars. Just the shells of once elegant old brownstones now can cost several hundred thousand dollars. Rents are skyrocketing. An improved economy, tougher law enforcement, and community efforts against drugs have contributed to a 60 percent drop in crime since 1993.
At the beginning the author seems to indicate that Harlem
A．has remained unchanged all these years.
B．has undergone drastic changes.
C．has become the capital of Black America.
D．has remained a symbol of the dangers of inner-city life.
My father was a gruff man. I couldn't remember the last time he had tenderly stroked my cheek, tousled my hair or used a term of endearment when calling my name. His diabetes had given him a short temper and he screamed a lot. I was envious when I saw other fathers plant gentle kisses on their daughters' foreheads or impulsively give them a big bear hug. I knew that he loved me and that his love was deep. He just didn't know how to express it.
It was hard to say "I love you' to someone who didn't say it back. After so many disappointing times when I would flinch from his sharp rebuff I began to withdraw my own warm displays of affection. I stopped reaching out or hugging or kissing him. At first this act of self-restraint was conscious. Later it would become automatic, and finally it was ingrained. The love between us ran strong but silent.
One rare evening out, when my mother had successfully coaxed my usually asocial father to join us for a night in the town, we were sitting in an elegant restaurant that boasted a small but lively band. When it struck up a familiar waltz tune, I glanced at my father. He suddenly appeared small and shrunken to me not powerful and intimidating as I had always perceived him.
All the old hurts welled up inside but I decided to dare one last time.
"Dad, You know I've never ever danced with you. Even when I was a little girl, I begged you, but you never wanted to! How about right now？ " I waited for the usual brusque reply that would once again slice my heart into ribbons. But instead he considered me thoughtfully and then a surprising twinkle appeared in his eye." I have been remiss in my duties as a father then." he uncharacteristically joked. "Let's hit the floor and I'll show you just what kind of moves an old geezer like me still can make!"
My father took me in his arms. Since earliest childhood I hadn't been enfolded in his embrace. I felt overcome by emotion.
As we danced, I looked up at my father intently but he avoided my gaze. His eyes swept the dance floor, the other diners and the members of the band. His scrutiny took in everyone and everything but me. I felt that he must already be regretting his decision to join me for a dance; he seemed uncomfortable being physically close to me.
"Dad," I finally whispered tears in my eyes. "Why is it so hard for you to look at me？" At last his eyes dropped to my face and he studied me intently. "Because I love you so much", he whispered back. "Because I love you. " I was struck dumb by his response. It wasn't what I had anticipated. But it was of course exactly what I needed to hear. His own eyes were misty and he was blinking.
I had always known that he loved me, I just hadn't understood that his vast emotion had frightened him and made him mute. His taciturn manner hid the deep emotions flowing inside. "I love you too, Dad" I whispered back softly. He stumbled over the next few words" I ... I'm sorry that I'm not demonstrative." Then he said "I've realized that I don't show what I feel. My parents never hugged or kissed me and I guess I learned how not to from them. It's... it's.., hard for me. I'm probably too old to change my ways now but just know how much I love you." "Okay" I smiled.
When the dance ended, I brought Dad back to Mom waiting at the table and excused myself to the ladies' room. I was gone just a few minutes but during my absence everything changed.
There were screams and shouts and scrapings of chairs as I made my way back across the room. I wondered what the commotion was all about. As I approached the table I saw it was all about Dad. He was slumped in his chair ashen gray. A doctor in the restaurant rushed over to handle the emergency and an ambulance was called but it was really all too late. He was gone. Instantly they said.
What had suddenly made me after so many years of steeling myself against his constant rejection ask hi
A．He was a bad-tempered man because of the disease he had suffered.
B．He was an asocial man with little idea of using body language.
C．He was an affectionate father who seldom joked.
D．He was a loving father without much warm demonstration of love.
