Mrs. Larsen, like Helga Crane, seems enamored of moving and movement. Up here in Harlem, we’re in constant motion, but not going anywhere. Staying still in Harlem is being trapped; it’s being inside a whirlwind of sophistication. Being in Harlem is claiming one’s space, not being put in one’s place.

I wish Helga Crane could have seen that, that she could have reveled in Harlem, not lost interest in it. She needs to embrace me and all that I am–the sweltering summer, being part of the Negro sea. The white race is indeed, as Mrs. Larsen observed, “lost, doomed to destruction by its own mechanical gods.” Why mess with that nonsense? Especially in another country where other Negroes are seen only on the stage?

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