Frederick Douglass Boulevard: Beauty Draped in Unease

6/5/2025

Frederick Douglass Boulevard at Frederick Douglas Circle, New York

As picturesque as it may seem, Frederick Douglass Boulevard carries an unsettling edge, making it far from the safest street to stroll—let alone stop and take photos. Not far from the Africa Center, formerly known as the Museum of African Art, the boulevard sits atop a ridge overlooking Central Park. From here, one can glimpse the park’s rugged boulders, the rolling hills, and even stretches of Harlem Meer coming into view.

Yet, beneath this scenic backdrop, the street tells another story. Every bench seems occupied by someone lost in addiction—crack pipes and needles in hand, their habits openly displayed. No pretense, no effort to conceal their actions. Men and women of all backgrounds—Black, White, Arabic, Latino—sit in worn clothes, absorbed in the ritual.

As I passed, a woman flashed a wad of bills while counting, flanked by two men. One spoke into his phone, informing a client he was nearby. They glanced up at me as I walked past, their demeanor unmistakable. The dealers, I assumed. I kept moving, brushing past another bench where an Arabic man and a Black man shared a pipe, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Before entering Harlem Meer, I noticed an older White man—his resemblance to Santa Claus oddly striking—struggling to smoke from a broken pipe, yet somehow managing. A disheveled woman sat near him, surrounded by a cart overflowing with possessions.

On the final bench, a Black man with unkempt, wiry hair caught my eye. He tugged at his scalp, scratching furiously, his gaze locking onto mine when he noticed me staring. That was my cue—I moved on quickly.

And all of this? Just across the street from a Dunkin’ Donuts.

Crossing into Harlem Meer, I spotted two water fountains where a woman, dressed in peculiar attire, carefully filled a cup. Nearby, her companion lingered, appearing just as worn. A young White woman, seemingly an observer, loitered nearby, though something about her made me suspect she was part of the same world.

This corner of the Meer carried the same eerie feeling as San Francisco’s infamous Tenderloin district—perhaps because of its proximity to the public restrooms, where a small cluster of men lingered outside. I was thankful I was sober and had no reason to stop.

Frederick Douglass, an American abolitionist, women's suffragist, editor, orator, author, statesman, and reformer, was born into slavery to a Black mother and a white father. He eventually escaped to New York City in 1838.

"I believe in individuality, but individuals are to the mass, like waves to the ocean. The highest order of genius is as dependent as the lowest. It, like the loftiest waves of the sea, derives its power . . . from the grandeur and vastness of the ocean of which it forms a part. We differ as the waves, but are one as the sea.”--Frederick Douglass