The most recommended books about Harlem

Jocelyn Nicole Johnson’s My Monticello is a title to be treasured. Through a series of masterfully woven stories, Johnson brings forth and highlights the deep-rooted racial inequalities in our country. Having my debut novel published later in life, I feel a special connection because Johnson’s recent release is about resilience and passion for the arts – and it proves that ageism has no place in the art world. This is another fiction title I would highly recommend. There’s a lesson to be learned from every character and every story penned in My Monticello.  

A lot of people don’t know that the movie Precious is based off of a novel. Sure... It doesn’t have any ghouls, monsters, descriptive sentences filled with gore and macabre, but if you were like me, and decided to read the book after watching the film…. This movie goes down as probably one of the scariest novels of all time…like V.C. Andrews Flowers in the Attic scary. It’s hard reading novels that involve the abuse of children, but this book literally had me speechless and horrified like the first time I watched an episode of, My 500 Pound Life.

This is a graphic novel. I don’t generally read graphic novels (although I’ve been a rabid X-men and New Mutants collector since 1981), and I do want to read Persepolis and Fun Home, but you try getting them from Library waitlists - it’s not easy! But I heard a lot of buzz about this series, which lives up to the hype.

What I enjoyed about this was the excellent inking and art, but most important is the way the author uses elements of horror, superhero, and speculation to find a new way to explain racism and prejudice as a disease that turns its victims into brainless monsters. 

The best books, from Twain to Morrison, to Faulkner, to Baldwin, not only entertain us but also educate us and show us pieces of ourselves we may have overlooked or taken for granted.

Bitter Root reminded me of my aunties and uncles… show more.

I loved Ayo, this book’s fourteen-year-old main character. She’s burnt out on activism, having been raised by a famous activist mom fighting for Black rights in America. All Ayo wants is to take a break and live a normal teen life. This makes so much sense to me—why do people who are at a disadvantage have to spend their time fighting for basic rights—what if they just want to spend their time making art or writing books like selfish white dudes are free to do?

But when something terrible happens at a big march, Ayo skipped, all the education and activist spirit her mom drilled into her no longer feels like a burden. I loved how she figured out she wanted to fight and really came into her own.

Here in Harlem pays homage to the people of Harlem in the first half of the 20th century. I loved how the rhythmic, musical verse brings the setting to life. It’s modeled on Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, but in a completely unique way that will really speak to YA readers.

The voices depicted in this poetry collection—especially Clara Brown’s recurring testimonies—make the book feel like a fully alive story rather than simple moments captured in time.

Although presented as a novel, this book is a memoir of Brown’s life growing up as a Black boy in Harlem in the 1940s and 50s amid poverty, violence, and addiction.

Marlene was in Paris in the summer of 1969 when a young white American man gave her a book to read. Brown’s story smacked me in the face. He lived in an America that was foreign to me—poverty, addiction, violence, incarceration. His experiences growing up on the streets of Harlem were so different from mine in suburban New Jersey.

What I remember most is my wonder at Brown’s description of “conking” his hair—straightening it with chemical relaxers that damaged his hair and burned his scalp. His description has stayed with me for all these years as a reminder of how little I knew and know about the lives of Blacks and their position in a white world.

Ahh, Tia Williams, how I love thee. Out of the two perfect New York-set romances she has written, this one is the one that has a somewhat unexpected magic realism twist. This Harlem-based beauty follows two timelines—the present day of our protagonist Ricki, an impulsive, artistic florist with a mission to revitalize Harlem with flowers, and the 1920s jazz-soaked Harlem Renaissance era of our romantic hero Ezra, a grumpy, mysterious jazz musician.

The perplexing nature of how their worlds intersect and the deep passion of their relationship gives this romance so much fire and drive. It’s also very much a love story to Harlem, with a fabulous sub-plot about Ricki’s community initiative and how her colorful friends get on board. I honestly couldn’t put this one down!

I felt so seen in this story. Elizabeth Acevedo paints a spectacular character (Xiomara) who is caught between worlds—the “old” world of her parents and their strict traditions and the “new” world where she can perform spoken word poetry on stage.

I laughed and cried as I read this book, which was told in verse, especially regarding Xiomara’s relationship with her mother. I could relate so much to Xiomara and the arguments she got into with her mother. I was reminded of my own adolescence and the many fights I had with my mom. It’s all good now, but wow. We used to really get into it during those rocky years.

I’m cheating a little here, since protagonist Ailey Benjamin Lane is not quite a teenager—he’s only eleven.

But I love how this book celebrates dance—Ailey is a tap dancer with big dreams whose grandfather had similar, though thwarted, talents and dreams. And I love the window into Black history in 1930s Harlem when, feeling discouraged, Ailey puts on what turn out to be a pair of magical shoes and is transported to the past, where he meets his twelve-year-old grandfather.

Ailey is faced with the classic time traveler dilemma of wanting to help his grandfather overcome his fears while avoiding changing the past so much that it will affect Ailey’s own future.

I learned from this book—and since I was writing about gymnastics, time travel, and the fraught history of adoption politics, I found this book a wonderful model for evoking a passion, a culture, and a history.

This next one hit me like a freight train. James Baldwin’s words are as powerful now as they were back then. I’ve read it twice, and every time, it hits me in a new way. His perspective on race, his life in Harlem, and that unforgettable moment when he talks about his chains falling off—I felt that in my soul.

Baldwin doesn’t just talk about race; he lives it, breathes it, and gives you the truth straight up. This book is everything we need to hear, now more than ever.