Marcus B&P’s chicken and waffles has become my newest treat for myself.

It is honestly one of the best meals I have ever had downtown Newark, as an adult. I worded that the way I have for a very purposeful reason to be revealed later on…

Anywho…

Knowing the reputation of Marcus Samuels’s restaurants to be great yet pricey, a la his Brooklyn regulars, I felt no particular compulsion to actually go to this new Newark spot, beyond the urge of “being part of that moment.” And that’s just it.

I am a Newarker. Born and raised. A little backstory… I was born in Beth Israel Hospital. Grew up in West Ward on South 12th St. off Central Ave, around the corner from what was once club Dark Shadows. I spent many a day and night in Children’s United Hospital just around the corner, which was recently torn down, as it had been defunct and condemned for years now, and replaced by a huge school building that rather looks like a jail or otherwise municipal building. No disrespect.

I went to St. Rocco’s, at which police used to be posted up on our school steps because of the break-ins, fights and other nonsense characteristic of the hood in the 90s. And because West Side High kids used to always end up in fights with our middle school kids after dismissal. You would get it either way you left school lol! If you went to the left, West Side kids were waiting for you and to the right, Sacred Heart kids were waiting. My big cousin who attended Camden Middle, or my great grandmother who lived on Morris Ave in the New Community townhouses used to walk uphill to pick me up. We might get an italian hotdog from the spot on 14th Ave on the way home, except that Mama used to cook anyway, most of the time. And after school, us kids would run back and forth to the icy lady up the street from Mama, get candy from Bob’s truck or run to Marty’s for her to get whatever and con a dollar out of my grandfather so I could get a pickle and call NO DIBS so I wouldn’t have to share with my cousins.

I went to St. Rose of Lima with the legendary Mr. Wilson as my principal, and the legendary Paul as my gym teacher, who was my gym teacher at St. Rocco’s, too, previously. St. Rose was right up the street from Coopers and Coopers ice cream parlor so of course my grandfather and I indulged in pounds of corn beef and pastrami, as often or seldom as he could pick me up. Otherwise, my little cousin and I were picked up by whichever family member, or the church van to head to after school program at my home church, St. James A.M.E., at which Dr. William D. Watley was pastor at the time, and my week consistently consisted of choir practice, serving on usher board #1 for youth and our mentors on 1st Sundays (communion Sunday) and serving as an acolyte every other Sunday (altar kid), Girl Scouts which had moved from St. Rocco’s to St. Peters Baptist Church, under Pastor Morrast, and eventually the New Community senior building across the street, where my Poppy used to moonlight as security when I was a little, little kid. Or maybe Nana had some meeting or event for “the order” as she was and is an Eastern Star, so my gameboy and I would post up in the Grand East that you all know as the Prince Hall masonic building on Irvine Turner, with Bro. Chillis (sp?) as my babysitter LOL. Other times, we did the Share program at the church, bagging up free grocery for the community, and Mr. Johnson would treat Nana and I to fried fish sandwiches from the fish market on MLK and West Kinney. The projects were still there then. Poppy used to meet up with his buddies in the parking lot there to, “drink and tell lies,” in his words. I would be there with him sometimes, getting lessons on how to wash and properly wax the Buick. Turtle wax. Wax on. Wax off.

Both those schools are long gone, as the Archdiocese of Newark has long closed most of its schools for lack of funding, I was told.

Before I was born, my family lived all over the city and even in Orange and East Orange for brief spells, since our arrival from Rocky Mount, North Carolina in the early 1940s. Little Eastenburg, actually. Our town didn’t become part of Rocky Mount city proper until just a few years ago. My family has lived in what used to be Wallace Street which is now swallowed up by UMDNJ/Rutgers development. Other streets since swallowed up by highway 78. Projects on what used to be High Street, now MLK Blvd. Hayes Homes. Brick Towers. And Baxter Terrace. My last Newark address was Chadwick Ave off Nye, where we moved when I was in 8th or 9th grade.

I was also in the founding class of North Star Academy, which how now grown into the Uncommon Schools network, founded by James Verrilli and Norman Atkins, who were like father figures to me at various points in life. I mean that. Still. (Congrats in celebrating our 20th year last night, to all my North Star alumni).

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I was recently jarred by the news that my sista’s art had been disposed of since its placement in what used to be the City Without Walls gallery, which apparently has been closed for 6 months or so.

A tremendous loss for the city, indeed.

I awoke to a post by Emma Wilcox, one of the founders of Gallery Aferro (big up to her, by the way) lamenting its closing, the shock of just finding out, and her disgust for the lack of proper attention to wonders of our city that support local artists. Following her post were comments by others, with one sticking out, basically implying that the natives of Newark do not appreciate what is here.

I share Emma’s anguish.

But it doesn’t stop there for me.

The notion of what is and is not appreciated or the perception thereof is very interesting here. And problematic.

When and where I enter what is now a flourishing downtown Newark arts and culture scene, has been interesting. My primary connection is with Black Power, Pan-African, grassroots community organizing. My friends and family in the city have always been POP, NBPP, NAVC and the like. Baba Zayid is near and dear to my heart. I do art but not really lol. I do struggle to focus and produce, as a creative, despite the fact that I have shared residency a Gallery Aferro and will likely someday re-enter the culture as a visual artist.

When and where I enter this conversation is as the little kid at the back of the 39, with my huge headphones and CD walkman, fully equipped with whatever deep house mixes I got from the cart vendors on Broad & Market, bumpin “There’s some ho’s in this house.”

Everybody’s version of Newark isn’t the same. There’s an old glory to this city that culturally, those of us born here, miss, and feel overlooked and pushed to the side in the name of “development,” or whatever else. Something worth looking into and worth finding out about, for transplants.

They may know Sugar Daddy’s, which was founded by Newarkers like me, but they have no clue about J’s, where my whole family might meet up for Sunday breakfast or brunch after church. They may know the people’s open mic (shout out to my sista Mia X) and Evoluculture (shoutout to the fam, Sean Battle and Kween) but they don’t know about Cafe Euphoria, Flowmentalz, and those days when poetry, spoken word and slam were such a part of the breath of youth culture that cyphers would go on for hours on each corner of Broad and Market EVERYDAY after school. Sometimes only ending if fights or shots rang out. They don’t know about DMS and the other street teams and youth parties. They don’t know the parties at Robert Treat and Terrace Ballroom. They weren’t here when Branch Brook skating rink opened (which Nana wouldn’t even let me go to most of the time). They never got popcorn or a hotdog at Woolworth. They just met Mr. CHECK IT OUT, posted up on the corner of Market and Halsey. They don’t know the festival every August on Bergen St. that I looked forward to every year, especially right before I headed back to Boston for undergrad.

You may know Gallery Aferro but I knew Kings Furniture, and the other furniture stores up and down that block. You may know the MBNA building but I knew the Burger King that Nana might treat me to a fish sandwich at, after choir practice. You may know the Ironbound, but we know Down Neck.

Let’s not play coy, here. Newark is being gentrified. As are many or most, at this point. The clashes thereof that we have seen nationwide are now serious points of concern in our community as Black and Brown folk. Our chocolate cities are turning into artisanal cocoa beans and the cops get called at the very appearance of a peanut chew. Because ya know. Nut allergies and gluten this and that.

So….

The question always is, and always will be, who is Newark for, and who is all this development for. I was always afraid previously to put that on paper for the world to see, but here it is.

Thutmose/Gary Campbell and I talked about this in the Coffee Cave on the day we met.

Behind the scenes, political battles are waged constantly with regard to urban planning, land use, housing and education, all because of these various pushes and shifts. I won’t say that none have experienced uplift, but quite often, we natives keep finding ourselves between rocks and hard places in the interim and aftermath, regardless.

I am proud of those of us who have done as my artist mentor and lifetime friend of my father, Jerry Gant, always urges, and made moves to position themselves and us in the conversation, and decisions. I appreciate those like my brotha Tehsaun aka Starski (lol).

I will not take away the value of transplants. I will not rob them either, of whatever value they have found in our city. My city is magnificent. Always has been. When Billie Holiday used to stop through, it was magnificent. When the brothas used to chase each other around my block with AKs and still go get bread from the corner store for my grandmother the next morning, it was still magnificent. At any moment, you can find a world within a world, here.

What I am saying though, is that their voices tend to be just a little louder than the rest when it comes to discussing WHAT is valuable about our city on a broader scale. I, as a native, take issue with that.

I WARN transplants, as Newark is not a city like any other. We stick to ourselves. We do not like outsiders. We are defensive as hell, because of our history of constantly being stepped on in the name of urban renewal and so-called renaissance. We fight. We rebel. I WARN you, against thinking, assuming and saying out loud in any way, any implication that what is valuable in the city of Newark is only what you have found value in.

I caution you against telling native Newarkers to open their eyes when your own are clearly wide shut. Galleries are nice and art spaces are wonderful but that is not the heart and soul of our city, I’m sorry to say. The heart and soul of the city is what keeps people living from day to day, and brings us joy in between, and those parts of our city have been under attack consistently for very long time. Galleries come and go.

Galleries are great. Galleries are needed. Support for creative outlets in our communities is important. We have an overwhelming amount of creativity among our people. But galleries have also become a harbinger of death in chocolate cities like mine.

When it comes to poor folks of African descent, a lot of people, including community organizers like myself, have a lot to say about what the people SHOULD value, all the while constantly disrespecting their right to agency. We need to all learn how to understand and appreciate what they value and the significance that that has, and honor it for what it is, as well.

I would love support for local artists and spaces that are open to them. But I would have really loved support for the caribbean food and soul food restaurants that used to be and are now no more.

This is not a diss.

Just a word of caution.

And maybe a starting place for a coming together that will inevitably need to occur.