One weekend I was invited to Georgica beach in East Hampton by Jason (not his real name) one of my Jewish classmates. On that same beach Jason’s mother was talking with a Black man. Having been out there a few times you didn’t see too many of us that weren’t there in some domestic capacity. By that point I could immediately identity someone important. This man gave off a regal bearing. They approached Jason and myself playing in the sand. I looked up at him, although he wasn’t tall he was towering over myself and Jason. A lean frame, a unique heart shaped face with bulging eyes, his kind gapped tooth wide smile that appeared to wrap around his head caught me off guard. At first sight I thought he looked like a frog. My friends mom was regaling us with quick soundbites about who this man was. When she paused he looked directly at me, “Who is this beautiful child? She knew he wasn’t referring to her son even though he was a cute kid too. She said, “Where’s my manners. That’s Stacey ( my legal name) Jason’s friend from school. Jimmy meet Stacey. You already know Jason.” Jason paid him no mind. I responded with a hello. She then continued, “By the way, Stacey is from Harlem too.” He smiled at me when she said that. I literally shrunk and my smile instantly vanished. All I could think of was she told this stranger I was from Harlem. At that time if you said Harlem it was like saying you were poor. Harlem wasn’t the beautiful place of the Renaissance.
My section of Harlem was empty garbage strewn lots, condemned rat infested tenements and herione addiction and poverty had gripped the community. It wasn’t a place you wanted stay in but escape from. Which was something I did Monday through Fridays and in moments like this. I couldn’t focus because her mentioning Harlem put me in different mood. Embarrassment. Jimmy registered exactly what I was feeling. The unfairness of being black and poor. Harlem said that in one word. Jimmy politely told his friend to excuse us for a moment. She didn’t question it, she grabbed her son’s hand and they walked down the beach just out of ear shot. Jimmy, the frogman’s face now stern. That look I was accustomed to when elders were getting ready to scold or in this case read you.
My little body told me to prepare myself. Jimmy then said, “Let me tell you something young man. We are from Harlem. And Harlem is a beautiful place. I don’t care what it looks like, because it’s full of wonderful people. They are your family. I don’t care wherever go or who you meet, no one will ever mean as much to you. You ain’t white and never going to be. Nothing is wrong with you. We are very lucky we come from Harlem. And don’t you ever forget it. You understand me? I didn’t completely understand but I knew from his tone, how he looked through me that I wouldn’t forget it. I responded with, “Yes sir.” As he hugged me he said to call him Uncle Jimmy. That type of familiarity was a common thing amongst black folks. We shared a knowing smile. One you have with a kindred spirit. I never saw Jimmy again. That wasn’t until I got to college and I was given the novel The Fire Next Time by a female friend of mine. At the time I was questioning my sexuality. On the back of the book was a photo of the author. I said to her, “Wait a minute. That’s Uncle Jimmy. The frogman. She looked at me a bit puzzled then chucked, “That’s James Baldwin. You know the James Baldwin?” I had heard the name but honestly had never put a face with it. Until that moment. Uncle Jimmy was James Arthur Baldwin. How naive I felt. At that moment that memory of the two of us on the beach came flooding back. I told her of our encounter and the impact he made on me. Between him and my mother who was a strong advocate for black empowerment together they had became my North Star.
I began reading all of his novels. In time catching old clips of him speaking to large audiences or on talk shows gave me the courage to be fully present for my blackness, my intelligence, my art, my queerness, my creativity, my Harlem community. All I had to do was show up and show out. My crown had already been bought and paid for. I just had to rock it. His words whether in print or more importantly to my tiny impressionable soul are the essence of my fuel to this day. He should know that the trajectory of my life, my career leading up to this moment serves as a testament. I’m forever grateful I got to meet James Arthur Baldwin. Uncle Jimmy. The frogman. One of the greatest of all time. Happy 100th Birthday. -- Musa Jackson
