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A review by ebonyutley
Home To Harlem by Claude McKay
2.0
Home to Harlem is hard to critique. The book has to be read in its temporal context, and, without contradiction, its critics then would be rolling over in their graves now. For example, I am obsessed with season two of Pussy Valley in 2022. The writing is smart, and it’s a snapshot of southern culture—the strip club, the drugs, the sex, the fashion, the music, the slang, the violence, the poverty, the gentrification, the joys, and the pains of sheer survival. Home to Harlem is the same only in a different geography nearly 100 years ago. Just like some black critics weren’t ready for something so raw in 1928; some black critics now aren’t either, but I am happy to report so many folks are appreciating the work P-Valley is doing. I wonder how the TV show will be received 100 years from today...
Just typing 100 years ago helps me understand Home to Harlem context even more. McKay was on a mission to accurately reflect black life and there’s a lot of detail to help him do that. There’s so much color. I’ve never read anything so attuned to the colors of black people—bright, chocolate, purple, honey brown, regular brown—everyone is described by their skin color, but not their hair texture which I find interesting. McKay is also good with the colors of the environment. Everything has a color. Every action is meticulously explained from how people walk, what streets they were walking, what they were wearing when they walked, and how their bodies moved when they danced.
I kept waiting for something to happen. Something dreadful like a violent death or a deep betrayal and nope, nothing really happens. Even when something did happen, it was usually one of the characters telling or remembering a story that happened to someone else. I came to accept that Harlemites just living their lives was the plot and the point. But no one does it alone. There are several endearing friendships between the main character and his pals. They might just be hanging out, but you sense how deeply they care about one another even if no one ever says it. People lived their lives the best way they knew how even if that was living in a room, spending the day’s pay as soon as they got it, drinking and gambling all night, taking a few drugs, and finding someone to love as long as it lasts even if they had to exchange money to get it. I did not expect the through line of the book would be a man looking for a woman, but in truth, isn’t that what we’re all looking for—our someone to make the doldrums of everyday life a little less dull?
I can’t say I recommend Home to Harlem for the casual reader. If I were in a black history or black literature class and we were reading other novels in context, sure, but to pick it up for fun and read all 340 pages, you gotta set your expectations. I read it because I wanted to immerse myself in the different Harlem epochs which it did, but in truth, I could have done it in a short story and not the novel. But McKay reminds me to appreciate all aspects of black life all the time. There’s no one way to be black and all the ways deserve representation and appreciation.
Just typing 100 years ago helps me understand Home to Harlem context even more. McKay was on a mission to accurately reflect black life and there’s a lot of detail to help him do that. There’s so much color. I’ve never read anything so attuned to the colors of black people—bright, chocolate, purple, honey brown, regular brown—everyone is described by their skin color, but not their hair texture which I find interesting. McKay is also good with the colors of the environment. Everything has a color. Every action is meticulously explained from how people walk, what streets they were walking, what they were wearing when they walked, and how their bodies moved when they danced.
I kept waiting for something to happen. Something dreadful like a violent death or a deep betrayal and nope, nothing really happens. Even when something did happen, it was usually one of the characters telling or remembering a story that happened to someone else. I came to accept that Harlemites just living their lives was the plot and the point. But no one does it alone. There are several endearing friendships between the main character and his pals. They might just be hanging out, but you sense how deeply they care about one another even if no one ever says it. People lived their lives the best way they knew how even if that was living in a room, spending the day’s pay as soon as they got it, drinking and gambling all night, taking a few drugs, and finding someone to love as long as it lasts even if they had to exchange money to get it. I did not expect the through line of the book would be a man looking for a woman, but in truth, isn’t that what we’re all looking for—our someone to make the doldrums of everyday life a little less dull?
I can’t say I recommend Home to Harlem for the casual reader. If I were in a black history or black literature class and we were reading other novels in context, sure, but to pick it up for fun and read all 340 pages, you gotta set your expectations. I read it because I wanted to immerse myself in the different Harlem epochs which it did, but in truth, I could have done it in a short story and not the novel. But McKay reminds me to appreciate all aspects of black life all the time. There’s no one way to be black and all the ways deserve representation and appreciation.