Sidi Ibrahima smiles up from his 125th Street stand. (Photo by Sonal Shah)

Harlem’s 125th Street is a bazaar of cottage industry products: incense and earrings, knit hats and demo CDs. But the goods on one table near Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard are more colorful than the rest. Bright books with racy covers are spread over the stand. People, mostly women, stop to flip through “Homo Thug II”, “The Lesbian’s Wife,” “Mandingo,” or Sister Souljah’s latest title.

On any given morning, you can find Sidi Ibrahima at his bookstand, stacking paperbacks and recommending good reads to passing ladies. He hands “A Streetgirl Named Desire” to Deborah McKenzie, a self-described “bookhead” who goes through five titles a month. “If you don’t like I’ll take it back.” Besides this stall, Ibrahima distributes books on five other stands across New York, including the Bronx, Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan. Besides being Harlem’s main distributor and street fiction enthusiast, Ibrahima, who is from Ivory Coast, is a self-published author who made his foray into the industry with a book about a West African girl, Fatou.

Variously called hip-hop, street or urban lit, the pulp genre has been growing in popularity since the 1990s, when activist and author Sister Souljah first published her autobiography, “No Disrespect,” and then her debut novel, “The Coldest Winter Ever.” These books are widely credited with resuscitating the tradition of 1970s authors Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim, streetwise counterparts to Ralph Ellison.

Ibrahima owns one of Harlem’s few bookstores, the Harlem Book Center, a small outlet that also sells movies and cohabits with a lively hair-braiding salon. Harlem Book Center consists of two walls of shelves, a counter, a computer and another wall of shelves for movies. Ibrahima, tall and dark-skinned with a piercing gaze, spends his afternoons behind the counter at his crammed bookstore. Dressed casually in running pants and a jacket today, he sports a newsboy cap and round glasses that give him an earnest look. In between checking his email and conversing with the women who come in to get their hair braided, he describes the long road he’s travelled to get here.

Ibrahima, born in the capital Abidjan, read a lot when he was young, but was especially impressed with the works of African “Negritude” writers like Amadou Ba. Ibrahima immigrated to Germany in the ’90s to start an import/export business based in Nuremberg. In 2000, he moved to New York to pursue more opportunities.

“In Africa, on TV, they’re always talking about America. We think America is a paradise,” he says. “When you come here, you see the reality. You have to work. But for that you need a work permit. You have to start from scratch.”

It was this reality that Ibrahima, then driving a cab, decided to write about. He had just discovered urban lit, which he describes as targeted mostly to African-Americans and African-Caribbeans. Ibrahima learned the genre by reading books like Sister Souljah’s “Coldest Winter” and Terri Woods’ “True to the Game.”

A tubful of urban lit at Ibrahima's stand. (Photo by Sonal Shah)

His first book, “Fatou: An African Girl in Harlem,” might not be a “World’s #1 Bestseller” as it’s cover proclaims, but the author says he has sold 85,000 to 95,000 copies since publication in 2004. Accurate sales figures are hard to come by, since most of these books sell on the street. “Fatou” begins with a man raping his young daughter in an African hut before sending her off to Harlem to marry a much older man in exchange for a big dowry. She escapes into prostitution, drug dealing and gangs. Despite its incredibly graphic sexual and violent content, Ibrahima says his book is based on the true story of an immigrant he met on his first trip to the U.S. in 1994. When the woman who inspired “Fatou” told her story, he says, “I was in tears. I said, ‘I’ve got to let people know what happened to this brave and smart – not only book smart, but street-smart – girl.’”

Ibrahima approached several publishers, but says he lacked the connections to get his book printed. A few mainstream publishers have urban lit imprints, Random House’s One World and Simon and Schuster’s Atria/Strebor Books, for example. Most major urban lit publishers, however, started with one author on a shoestring self-publishing budget and grew. So Ibrahima decided to try and go the way of Terri Woods Publishing, Urban Books and Triple Crown Publications and published 500 copies of “Fatou” on his own.

He had saved money from his stall and from cab driving to publish “Fatou.” “It passed my expectation,” he says, recounting how the first run sold out in a week. He published another 1,000 copies, and says he was inundated by calls from Barnes & Nobles, Borders and distributors wanting more. Mary Davis, a spokesperson for Borders, said that although the stores do have dedicated African American and urban lit sections, they do not currently carry Ibrahima’s titles.

Despite the fact that “Fatou” appears nowhere on any of the national book review sites for urban lit like streetfiction.org and theurbanbooksource.com, local success is part of the genre’s vitality. The book’s popularity, particularly among New York’s African and Caribbean readers, led Ibrahima to his next project. While shopping at a 116th Street West African grocery, Ibrahima ran into a fan. She told him her own story, which eventually became “The Lesbian’s Wife.” “Fatou was a girl coming from Africa to America and ‘The Lesbian’s Wife’ had a woman going back to Africa,” he says, pointing at the cover of the latter book, which features a buxom woman in a power suit against a backdrop of palm trees. Ibrahima says the book has sold  about 15,000 copies. Under the moniker “Sidi,” Ibrahima has also written a sequel to “Fatou”; “Tamika”, about a Jamaican girl; and two books about a male prostitute, “Mandingo.”

Readers and writers of urban lit can’t seem to quite agree on why it’s so popular. McKenzie, the “bookhead” says that she likes stories with “drugs, killing and sex,” and reads them to escape from her life for a bit. Ibrahima, though, insists that his books reflect reality. “Most of it is about our day to day struggle,” he says. He extends his arm to reveal a bullet scar on his hand and describes how he was shot at while driving a “young thug” passenger who was dealing drugs.

Ibrahima insists that urban readers have already been exposed to sex and violence; to pretend these don’t exist would spell irrelevance for his books. “You know America – anything with sex sells. People really like violence,” he says. “Violence in our books, it doesn’t really mean that we’re trying to teach the violence. At the end of the story, there’s always a lesson to learn from the story. Because if you raised by the gun, you’re going to fail by the gun, and that’s what we’re trying to say.”

Marva Allen, who co-owns the more highbrow Hue-man Bookstore across the street, disagrees. When it comes to urban lit, “I’ve heard all the arguments for it, but I believe that what we’ll see is what we’ll be,” she says. “It’s an unfortunate life for people to emulate.” She’s read Ibrahima’s books and objects to more than their violent content. “I read it with a red pen,” she says. “You might as well put the book on Twitter.”

Ibrahima believes that getting African-Americans to read – anything – is a worthwhile endeavor, however. “If you want to hide something from black men, put it in a book,” he quips. He points out that he sells non-fiction as well, like Barack Obama’s memoirs and various biographies. He believes that urban fiction can open the door for readers who then get hooked on more serious literature.

But Allen believes that urban lit’s popularity will wane. “It’s like what happened to hip-hop,” she says. “It started as a solidarity movement and it’s become an urban commodity with nothing to do with liberation. Hip-hop lit is kind of passé right now. It’s like eating too much sweet and then feeling sick. I’m hoping that’s the trend.”

Ibrahima makes personal recommendations to potential customers. (Photo by Sonal Shah)

Ibrahima’s outlook on the genre remains positive though. He’s started publishing other authors, like Ashante Kahari (aka Aaron Fraser), who has spent time in jail for check fraud, run for City Council from Brooklyn and penned the “Homo Thug” series. Ibrahima dreams of fostering more authors and becoming a global distributor of urban fiction.

Eventually, Ibrahima would like to return to Cote d’Ivoire. Speaking over a piped CD of African drums he says, “I’m not rich, but I have a lot of experience and ideas and, God willing, I will go back soon. We cannot leave the responsibility of building our continent in the hands of Europeans or Americans,” he adds. Meanwhile, he’s working on an autobiography. “Self-made Millionaire,” he calls it.

Imam Shamsi Ali on a workday, clean shaven and wearing a suit. (Photo by Hani Yousuf)

Imam Shamsi Ali sits with his group of three students in the main prayer hall of the mosque at 96th Street and Third Avenue, officially the Islamic Cultural Center of New York. Recent converts to Islam, the students attend the imam’s Saturday lectures on subjects ranging from prayer rituals to looking beyond the Quranic text to its essential meaning. The class is informal: students get to ask questions during and after it, and Ali smiles a lot. He makes references to Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.

“What happened?” he calls across the hall when a student hurriedly walks out just after coming in. He has accidentally brought shoes into the prayer hall, not allowed in a mosque. Allah always forgives mistakes, Ali says with a smile.

Imam Shamsi Ali wears a suit and has no beard. He doesn’t conform to the stereotype of a Muslim cleric and doesn’t feel he needs to dress the part. Robes and a long beard are not necessary criteria for being a good Muslim, he says. He has a slight build and calm voice, speaking clearly and articulately despite the accent and grammar of one who is not a native English speaker.

Named one of the city’s “influentials” by New York Magazine in May 2006, he is best known for his efforts towards interfaith harmony. “He’s soft spoken but projects this moral force,” says Walter Ruby, Muslim-—Jewish program officer at the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding, who has worked with Ali on interfaith relations.

For two years, since his predecessor retired, Ali has led this mosque, overseeing everything from cleaning to settling religious issues. He has modernized the mosque’s communications by encouraging email use and has placed stricter rules around distributing zakat, a charity all Muslims are required to contribute to. He was also instrumental in planning an Islamic school, Manhattan’s first, scheduled to begin next fall.

Ali is an unconventional Muslim cleric. Unlike many other imams, he doesn’t consider music unIslamic. He doesn’t believe women need to cover their faces and thinks they should have roles equal to men, in religion and otherwise.

The imam dressed to lead prayer. (Photo by Hani Yousuf)

Ali believes that American Muslims should have an identity of their own rather than trying to adopt their parents’.

“I personally am in the view that we must create our own identity as a community,” says Ali. “ So, I want to see in the future American Muslims that identify themselves as Muslims and Americans; in other words they are not forced into certain identity as Pakistanis or Bangladeshis or Africans or Arabs.” He adds that he wants the Muslim community in New York to be very “advanced” socially, culturally, educationally and politically.

Born in Indonesia, Ali went to an Islamic boarding school there. It was unlike madrassahs elsewhere in the Muslim world, he emphasized; his school required biology and history along with Islam, he says. After graduating, he attended the International Islamic University in Islamabad, Pakistan, then located at Shah Faisal Mosque, considered the country’s most beautiful. He received bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Islamic education, then went to Saudi Arabia to teach. In 1996, he came to the US with the permanent mission to Indonesia for the UN and led a small mosque for Indonesian Muslims in Astoria, Queens.

“September 11 then gave me even more opportunities to reach out,” says Ali, speaking in his spartan office in the mosque. “I represented the Muslim community at the Yankee Stadium’s Prayer for America weeks after September 11.” One of two Muslims who received President George W. Bush at Ground Zero, Ali told the president the terrorists did not represent the Muslim faith, but their own “ego.”

And after that he was everywhere, Ali says, lecturing at universities, speaking to the FBI and police officials, appearing in synagogues and churches. He believes such efforts landed him the job of assistant imam at the Islamic Cultural Center of New York, where he has organized many seminars and talks with rabbis and priests.

Last year, Rabbi Michael Weisser invited Ali to be the guest speaker at the Free Synagogue of Flushing on Holocaust Memorial Day, which takes place each year after Passover. Since then, Weisser says, he has spoken at the mosque after Friday prayers and the two have participated in prayer together at both the mosque and the synagogue. “He’s a shining light on the world,” says Weisser. “He sees the truth and then speaks the truth.”

Weisser calls Ali an inspiration not only to Muslims, but to Jews and Christians as well. “I introduce him to people as my rabbi,” says Weisser laughing and adds that Ali introduces him as his imam.

Ruby, from the Foundation of Ethnic Understanding, says Ali is a “very impressive guy.” While many Muslims have denounced terrorism, says Ruby, Ali is especially outspoken — despite the criticism he’s encountered from within the Muslim community.

“We organized a two-day seminar on what the holy book says about the others,” says Ali. “The Quran is very critical of the Jews and Christians and how should Muslims understand those verses that talk about the Jews and Christians? And in the meantime, we must maintain our relationship with the Jewish community and the Christian community.”

Bishop Ebony Kirkland of the Church of the Living God Worldwide in Queens Village, Queens, has been involved with Ali, since he spoke at an interfaith dialogue at the church. During a debate about which religion was right, she was struck by the imam’s statement that, “ There is really no absolute, the only absolute is God.”

“He has a peace that passes all understanding,” she says, referring to his calm manner. “He teaches in such a spirited way,” Kirkland adds. “There is such an ease of learning from him.”

Ali has also recently received the Prince Naif award, given by a Saudi official for intereligious harmony.

To help Muslim immigrants in the U.S. better assimilate, Ali organizes Thanksgiving celebrations every year and has been very involved with the Muslim Day Parade, which he sees as an opportunity for integration. “Get from the city and give back to the city,” says Ali. The parade, which usually takes place in early fall, proceeds down Madison Avenue, from 42nd Street to 24th, followed by bazaars and cultural shows.

Though orthodox Muslims consider music unlawful, Ali has brought children from the Indonesian community school in Astoria, Queens to perform Islamic songs at the post-parade celebrations.

“Some imams talked,” says Ali. “But they didn’t talk directly to me. Probably they know that when they talk to me, I will make them understand.”

His own colleague at the 96th Street mosque, Assistant Imam Abdul Rehman, thinks music is unacceptable.

Ali leading prayer at the 96th Street mosque. (Photo by Hani Yousuf)

“For me music is a neutral thing,” Ali responds. “Depends on what kind of music you’re talking about. And for which purpose you are using it. And so, if music is used for Islamic song where you are reminded of God and Islam, then what is wrong to use the music?”

He adds, smiling, that he has watched disapproving imams’ faces during the singing and they seem to be enjoying it.

As for the practice of women covering their faces, Ali agrees with the controversial Egyptian scholars who deem it more cultural than religiously required. “I see it as sometimes kind of embarrassing when I see a woman walking on the street covering her face,” says Ali. “People tend to say, ‘This is the way Muslims treat their women, covered from head to toe. They cannot move.’ This is not what Islam is about.” Though the niqab veil is regarded as a sign of modesty, Ali sees it differently. A veiled woman walking in Time’s Square will get stared at, rather than avert attention, he says.

Further, women with covered faces can’t participate in the mosque and its affairs as much as he thinks they should. While he doesn’t think women should lead prayer, which hasn’t been done traditionally, he believes women can lead other mosque activities.

He does believe that women’s covering their heads is essential to modesty but also sees it as a choice which shouldn’t be imposed.

This has brought critics within the community, including a widespread rumor that he once tried to convince a woman to have an abortion, considered a sin by orthodox Muslims.

Ali says he doesn’t remember such an incident, but that Islam is flexible on that issue, given the circumstances. In the case of teenage pregnancies or when there is a threat to a pregnant woman’s life, the religious leader needs to be wise and flexible while advising someone, he says.

The Islamic Thinkers Society, an Islamic advocacy group, has posted Ali’s picture circled in red, with a caption that reads “FBI Mouthpiece.” The site denounces him as a hypocrite and criticizes him for bringing music into the Indonesian mosque he leads in Queens and for allowing the “free-mixing” of the sexes. Ali thinks the FBI accusation stems from Islam-awareness lectures he held for FBI employees.

The Islamic Thinkers Society, emailed for comment, did not respond.

“These individuals oppose me basically because I oppose their ideas, their hateful ideas, their narrow mindedness in understanding our religion and I really disagree with them and I oppose them strongly and I will never agree with them in their approach,” responds Ali.

Aggressive and best-selling denunciations of religion by critic Christopher Hitchens and scientist Richard Dawkins have given atheism a more controversial profile in recent years. But the Harlem monthly meetings, egalitarian by design, challenge the common perception of the atheist movement as antagonistic, says Charles Zorn, a psychology professor at Borough of Manhattan Community College in Harlem and a meeting regular. Organized by the Harlem branch of the Center for Inquiry, a national atheist organization, the gatherings are subdued affairs aimed at confronting divergent beliefs and brainstorming ways to create dialogue.

“We don’t ignore or negate the idea of culture,” Zorn says, referring to the extreme influence of religion in America. “The meetings are driven by pro-intellectualism and pro-thinking. Contention is on the fringes.”

Problems have arisen nonetheless. Harlem atheists sustained a blow in September when the group’s de facto leader died of a blood disease at 49. Herbert Crimes, who went by Sibanye, a Swahili name meaning “we as one,” was the Center for Inquiry’s Harlem coordinator.

“Sibanye was the voice of atheism in Harlem, without a doubt,” says John Martey Young, Sibanye’s partner and a practicing Christian. Sibanye’s charismatic personality brought people together and he staked his reputation on first-rate discussions, Young says. More than 100 family and friends attended his memorial service at a midtown restaurant, eulogizing the man with an ironic blend of spirituality (Sibanye was raised in a religious St. Louis household) and non-theist ideology.

Three months later, the fractured community remains leaderless and none of those who regularly attended Sibanye’s meetings are willing to step forward. “They need some real help,” says Ken Bronstein, president of New York City Atheists.

In Harlem, a neighborhood with countless places of worship, there’s tremendous need for an atheist community, says Jane Everhart, of New York City Atheists. With an estimated 400 places of worship, according to Harlem Heritage Tours – “three churches on every street,” Everhart says – the neighborhood is a hotbed of religious life.

Because it’s also a center of black culture, the new atheist leader would, ideally, be black, says Zorn. He is white, and he sees that as a problem. “I feel comfortable participating, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable leading” the group, he says.

Atheism has a less-than-fervent following here – the monthly meeting regularly drew about 20 people. Atheism in Harlem is not only marginal – with no central gathering place – but stigmatized as well.

So, to identify oneself as a black atheist is to “lose your race card,” says Everhart, using Sibanye’s words. Everhart attributes the leadership void to fear of exclusion from the black community.

Although humanist thought played a defining role in the Harlem Renaissance, and therefore has a historic significance in Harlem’s intellectual legacy, “to be an atheist and an African American is a double bind,” says Anthony Pinn, a black humanism scholar at Rice University.

Christianity is normative in black communities, with churches the most prominent institution for social activism and personal progress. Black churches, however, can also be repressive, Pinn says. Human frailty and suffering are promoted as keys to a better life; subservience to God becomes more important than self-empowerment. These ideas – “no pain, no gain; no cross, no crown” – are detrimental to black communities, Pinn believes.

Sibanye had a similar perspective. In a taped conversation with Everhart last summer, he recalled a trip to South Africa and the negative impact he thought Christianity had on its black population.

“I would go into the homes of Africans,” Sibanye said. “They had dirt floors, tin roofs and tin walls and they had a blue-eyed Caucasian Jesus on every wall. It wore me out. I couldn’t say anything because I was the only Black atheist in the country at that time. I was strong in my atheism; I was unshakeable. Being witness to the oppression that those people had suffered, it made me want to cry.”

Reverend Booker T. Morgan, minister of evangelism at Convent Avenue Baptist Church, wasn’t aware a Harlem atheist group existed but maintains that atheists won’t necessarily face ostracism. Historically, the black community has found strength in God, he says, but “African Americans have been some of the most accommodating people in the world. If atheists are interested in dialogue, we’re open to that.”

While Sibanye’s belief that he was a one-man army now looks prescient, his death marks a new opportunity, says Michael De Dora, Jr., executive director of CFI-New York City. Sibanye’s death “gives us a chance to rethink how we’re treating the Harlem community,” De Dora says.

Given Harlem’s history as a home for black atheist thought, “atheist activists look at Harlem as a beacon on a hill,” De Dora says. “Harlem is a big piece of the puzzle.”

At the time of his death, Sibanye was working to extend CFI-Harlem’s education efforts beyond manning tables at local fairs and posting fliers. Aware that faith-based groups can apply for tax dollars to fund community projects, Sibanye wanted to seek public money for projects under the auspices of Harlem atheists, according to his partner Young.

“We’re going back to the drawing board, and that’s a good thing,” De Dora says. Zorn hopes to run more education and outreach programs and has discussed mounting a plaque and planting a memorial tree for Sibanye in Harlem.

Still, Young believes it’s unlikely that the Harlem atheists can enact a major culture shift. “Sibanye’s ideology will never catch on in an African American community,” he says. “The Church is too thoroughly entrenched.”

As job developer at Exodus Transitional Community in Harlem, her mission has been helping ex-cons find the work essential to their reentry into society.  Crucial to that function is her ability to build ties with employers.

In many ways, Ortiz’s biggest asset is herself – her warm, personable manner, her eloquent speech. Well put together and attractive with unlined, caramel skin and long straight hair, she is 44 but easily looks 10 years younger.

She also spent 22 years in prison.

Diana Ortiz offers closing comments at an East Harlem breakfast meeting given by Exodus Transitional Community. (Photo by Suzanne Weinstock)

Ortiz presents herself as evidence that people who have served time are not the thugs depicted on television.

Bright and early on a Thursday, Ortiz stood in front of a room full of community leaders at an East Harlem breakfast meeting and introduced speakers, including Exodus founder Julio Medina and City Councilwoman Melissa Mark-Viverito. Ortiz had brought them all together to explain the Exodus program and build cooperation between local organizations.

“That was so awkward for me,” Ortiz says afterwards. Her prison time has left her a self-described introvert who struggles for comfort in social situations. But standing in front of the audience in a charcoal gray suit and patent leather pumps, her confident demeanor gave no hint of unease.

Ortiz was arrested at 18 as an accomplice in an armed robbery turned deadly. A high school dropout under the influence of alcohol, marijuana, cocaine and heroin, she was dating a 36-year-old who planned the robbery with two other men. Ortiz stopped a man on the street in Coney Island, where she lived in the projects. After she stopped the target, her three accomplices approached and Ortiz left the scene.

“The robbery was supposed to have gone easily but the victim was killed,” Ortiz recounts. The shooter was sentenced to 25 years and the other three participants, including Ortiz, to 17 years.

“I went through all of the appeals and at 18 I was thinking, ‘This is it, my life is over,’” Ortiz says. She was angry. She was a young, first time offender, not carrying   a weapon, under the influence of a much older man. How could the court not take her circumstances into consideration? It took her nearly five years to mourn what happened and accept her lot.

“Once I went through that process and took responsibility for me, I was able to say, ‘Now what do I do with my life?’”

Ortiz threw herself into education, earning her GED, associate’s and bachelor’s degrees and finally a master’s in English literature. She did advocacy work helping female inmates reconnect with their children. Being educated and employable are the keys to success upon release, Ortiz says. “Even if we do think we’re facing life in prison, we have to make ourselves productive in prison, and that’s what we did.”

Around her 15th year behind bars, the possibility of going home started to become a reality. Ortiz hung back after a job readiness workshop to show the facilitator her resume. “I did the sell,” Ortiz said. “This was a once in a lifetime opportunity.” Impressed, the woman told Ortiz to contact her when she was released.

Ortiz was rejected for parole but stayed in touch until she was finally granted her freedom after more than 22 years’ imprisonment. That same facilitator gave Ortiz her first job. It initially paid only a $50 stipend per week, but a month later led to a case manager position in which she could continue the advocacy work she began in prison.

“I always took initiative, I always came up with ideas and I always extended myself, even for $50,” says Ortiz. Another agency soon hired her away to oversee programs for kids with parents in prison. Ortiz then joined Exodus several months ago.

“This is where the work is,” Ortiz says. “This is where I belong. Being formerly incarcerated, we can help each other and make sure the recidivism rate is lowered and that we don’t go back to prison.” In the last 10 years, Exodus has helped more than 5,000 men and women get back on their feet.

“It’s kind of hard for ex-offenders due to having a record. There’s a lot of places you go to find a job and they frown on that and the application doesn’t go anywhere,” says Exodus client Alex Pierre-Pierre, who served a year and a half for mail theft.

The statistics for people like Ortiz and Pierre-Pierre are grim. Among 272,111 prisoners released in 15 states in 1994, an estimated two-thirds were rearrested for a felony or serious misdemeanor within three years, according to a study by the US Bureau of Justice Statistics. Of those rearrested, nearly half were reconvicted and a quarter resentenced to prison for a new crime. Recidivism rates were particularly high – more than 70 percent – for those with robbery convictions, like Ortiz.

Programs like Exodus aim to keep people from landing back in the prison system through support services ranging from interview preparation to counseling. “Employment is a necessary but not sufficient condition for reducing recidivism,” says Christy Visher, a professor of sociology and criminal justice at the University of Delaware, coauthor of the Urban Institute study, “Employment after Prison: A Longitudinal Study of Releasees in Three States.”

Ortiz is lucky to have a strong support system she built within the prison system as well as family. She lives in Washington Heights with her long-haired Chihuahua,  named Beans, her Maltese, Mimi, and her 74-year-old mother, who is too ill to live alone. Her five sisters are scattered around the country.

“It’s not just having a job, it’s having a good job,” adds Visher. The better the job, the lower the recidivism. Her employment study showed that the probability of re-incarceration in the first year was eight percent for those earning more than $10 per hour, 12 percent for those making between $7 and $10, and 16 percent for those making less than $7. The probability jumps to 23 percent for the unemployed. Having health insurance and potential for advancement also lowered the chances of re-incarceration.

Exodus offers a one-year program, after which participants are expected to be self-sufficient, armed with a job and coping skills. “Part of the plan is, we put people to work – and if that doesn’t work, then the agency doesn’t work,” Ortiz says. The program maintains ties with others that supply everything from job training to legal advice, many of whose representatives attended the Exodus breakfast Ortiz convened. And each participant gets a week of training in interviewing, resume writing and accepting rejection.

“There was a lot of little things that they helped me with,“ says Pierre-Pierre. “My eye contact probably wasn’t too good.“ Ortiz showed him how to smile and speak more properly and helped him trim his resume to a single page. He ultimately put his new skills to work in an interview he got through a friend. Pierre-Pierre now works setting up cones for street work.

Ricardo Cisneros credits Exodus’s advice on sending thank you notes for helping him land two job offers. He had worked in such kitchens as the Park Avenue Country Club and the Tribeca Grand Hotel before being convicted of selling cocaine. He served 18 months, plus 90 days for violating curfew in transitional housing. But Cisneros then came to Exodus every day for two months until he accepted a job cooking at a new burger joint, Fresh-N-Fast.

“The job developer has a very difficult and interesting job as intermediary between the employee and the individual,” Visher says. Job developers need relationships and the credibility to vouch for the people they send. To achieve this, Ortiz uses her agency’s standing, the participants’ commitment and herself as selling points.

The recession compounds the difficulty of her task. “I’m sure it’s more difficult to place people in jobs,” Visher says although there is no supporting data yet.

Working to place her program participants, “We tell employers that they’re ready to work, they’re so ready, they’re so hungry for this. They will take minimum wage, they’ll work whatever hours you want them to work,” Ortiz says. “The people that are coming from us want second chances, so they’re going to do a better job than any one else that’s never been in prison because they want that job so bad, and that’s the truth.”

Ortiz still gets some no’s from employers but when she gets an opening she takes it and runs. If a company asks for one person to interview, she sends three. The employer gets an option or, as happened recently with a moving company, the employer hires them all. But after she does her job, it’s up to the Exodus participants to make things happen. “She’d tell me, ‘Rick, this is what I have for you. Go. It’s on you now. I’ll find the connections. You put in your own legwork,’” Cisneros says.

Services aside, the support of people like Ortiz who understand what they’re going through is essential. “Exodus is a good support base. They was ex-offenders also,” Pierre-Pierre says. “Diana is a very, very good person.”

Ortiz is now shifting from a job developer to a community liaison. During her time as job developer, employers responded well and continually expressed surprise that she had a prison record, so Ortiz is moving into a role where she can build an image of the formerly incarcerated that others can relate to.

Being the public face of Exodus is not easy for Ortiz, who missed out on 22 years of normal social interaction. “It’s still not that comfortable for me and I just hope it comes more naturally as time goes on,” Ortiz says of dealing with new people. “I feel like I’m always part of the system.”

But she tries to lead her life as an example to her program participants. “I can’t tell them to do it if I don’t push myself to do the same.”

Palacio Edelberto, a Cuban immigrant, collects cans for several hours a day. (Photo by Ashley Foxx)

Palacio Edelberto barrels down a residential block along 123rd Street between Lenox and Fifth Avenues, but stops his shopping cart, overflowing with cans, bottles, bags, smaller push carts and even coat hangers, to politely let two children and an older woman pass by.

“Buenas dias,” he says “Como estas?”

“Bien,” the woman replies, smiling, while maneuvering the children around a bulging plastic bag hanging from the edge of Edelberto’s shopping cart.

“See, not everybody speaks like that,” Edelberto says in his thick Cuban accent, watching them walk away. “You go to other countries — go to France, Germany, Cuba — and no matter where you come from, people say hello. Not here. People pass you like you’re garbage.”

But passers-by can’t help noticing his own garbage: mounds of empty Coke and Pepsi cans, Heineken bottles and orange juice jugs. Edelberto is one of hundreds of can collectors as local residents dub them: men and women, some homeless and others just strapped for cash, who rummage through the tons of garbage on city streets for bits of aluminum, glass or plastic.

Can collectors recycle hundreds of cans at smaller recycling machines, primarily found at grocery store chains and redemption centers. There are 12 redemption centers in Manhattan, six uptown, according to a report by the Council on the Environment of New York City. However, a spokeswoman for the council said there’s little data available on how the homeless and low-income residents boost can recycling efforts. So, often their contributions go unreported.

Edelberto, who immigrated to the United States in 1980, says he worked for more than 20 years all over the country — Chicago, Key West, Louisiana — as a welder, a Woolworth’s clerk, and even a guitar player. He claims to speak seven languages, and during conversation, flows easily from Spanish to French to English. He talks of traveling the world, spending time in South Africa and witnessing Nelson Mandela’s historic rise to the presidency. But now, he’s 66, living on little more than $320 in Social Security every month, and foraging for cans for three to four hours every day.

“I don’t want people to give me no money,” he says. He doesn’t mind “working hard for it,” even if that means looking through trash.

“Mira,” he says, peering over his delicate wire-rimmed glasses. His mass of salt-and-pepper hair is tucked in to a messy ponytail under his black and white baseball cap. “I do not care what people think when I’m trying to make a couple of bucks.”

Uptown resident, Edelberto, supplements his social security by can collecting. (Photo by Ashley Foxx)

On a Thursday, he has been searching since 9 a.m. It was now noon.

He stops systematically at every pile, poking around in all the bags and examining each can. He’s particular about opening and closing the bags and says he chooses not to leave them ripped open, like other collectors do, so residents and sanitation workers won’t complain about the litter caused by the slashed bags.

He holds up a Welch’s Fruit Punch can.

“See, this one is no good because it is missing its tab,” Edelberto explains and tosses it in back in the bag. “The machine won’t take it but I could take it to the scrap metal yard if I want to.”

At the Pathmark at 124th and Lexington Avenue, a few blocks from the shelter where he lives, Edelberto gets 5 cents per can, bottle or plastic container. But even the recycling center becomes a challenge for people just looking to earn some quick cash. He has to wait in a bustling line of people —a mix of the homeless and locals, with immigrant women chatting in Spanish and leaning on smaller push carts filled to the rim and twenty-somethings toting plastic bags full of cans slung over their shoulders.

But the line at this Pathmark is more orderly than other locations, like in Inwood and Washington Heights, according to Rich Stauffer, store manager at the 125th Street location.

“We’ve never really had too many problems,” Stauffer said. “Regular customers usually don’t complain. But if they do say something, we just ask the guys at the machine to let the others have their turn.”

But, in addition to long lines, some items, like out-of-state beer bottles, are not accepted. Sometimes carts and bags are stolen by others more desperate for change. And often, tempers flare if collectors jump ahead of others waiting in line.

Edelberto eyes a friend, William, who’s arguing with someone who has cut in line, and decides to wait his turn. After finally making it up to the blue machine marked “aluminum,” he deposits about a third of his cans — depositing his whole cart would take too long and annoy those still waiting their turn. He presses the button for his ticket and holds up the slip of paper; he just made 70 cents.

After depositing a third of his cans, Edelberto makes 70 cents. (Photo by Ashley Foxx)

Edelberto and William chat with the other locals huddled around the recycling machines and share stories, cigarettes and a bottle of liquor. William, like Edelberto and others on this East Harlem corner, is an expert at can collecting.

For the last several years, he’s split his time between the streets and the Kelly House, a local shelter for homeless New Yorkers with mental health disabilities, a couple of blocks away. He declines to give a last name but says he’s 58 and already suffered from bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia and cocaine and heroin addictions.

He’s ventured far from his childhood in Bloomfield, N.J., where he grew up with several siblings, including Benjamin F. Holman, a pioneering black news reporter who worked for the Chicago Daily News and CBS News. He boasts of his own college education: a degree in accounting and child psychology. He smiles as he talks about his past but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes.

The years of addiction wear on his face: his eyes have slightly yellowed, clashing against his brown skin.

He admits that many can collectors “do it for the alcohol and for the drugs” while “some do it to survive.” But, after knocking his own cocaine and heroin addiction, William says he still collects cans to satisfy one last, old habit.

“I’ll be honest. I do it for the alcohol and to survive,” he said. “I’m not happy but I’m content.”

So, he studies the machines. He knows which recycling centers, like the ones in Washington Heights that limit you to 12 dollars. He knows which scrap yards also accept aluminum and copper. He knows that broken bottles are still worth five cents.

“Once you figure out what they won’t take, you don’t even waste your time with that,” William said, leaning against his cart, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn, burgundy leather jacket. “If you cash in and don’t make enough, you get back out there. Time is valuable when you’re out here trying to make a dollar.”

He nods his head in the direction of the young woman beside him who just set aside a broken glass bottle.

“See, she hasn’t learned the game yet,” he says, knowingly. “You can still get credit for that bottle.”

“Hey, Miss! Miss!” he says, motioning for her attention. He shoves the glass bottle through and points at the 5 cent credit that pops on the screen.

“See, I told you,” he says but the woman continues depositing her cans with a look that implies either she didn’t want to be bothered or didn’t understand English.

William, a can collector, redeemed his ticket slips at a machine at the Pathmark on 125th Street. He made $4.25 that day. (Photo by Ashley Foxx)

William shrugs and grabs his last slip from the slot. Inside the Pathmark, he redeems four slips and makes a total of $4.25. He fans out the four bills and a quarter.

“See, so my beers cost about $1.25 each,” he says. “ I can get three beers. So, I’m good for the day.”

He tucks the cash in his pocket.

“You know, I’ve knocked cocaine,” he says, thoughtful. “I’ve knocked heroin. But I just can’t seem to knock alcohol.”

He shakes his head, pushing his empty cart out the supermarket’s door and back onto the street.

Harlem United CEO Patrick McGovern and Program Coordinator Jennifer Rodriguez (Photo by: Sam Petulla)

Mary sits calmly. Her jeans are clean and well-made, her hands compact — never fidgeting — and she’s telling anecdotes about all the men she’s dated. She has lots of advice for what to look for in a man, and she can tell you how to leave a man and confidently move on, independently, for yourself. The night before, she broke up with her boyfriend. She’s alert, can take a joke, and holds her ground, and she has lived with HIV for 16 years.

Mary, just by appearances, could be misperceived as uninfected. She goes shopping, meets friends for lunch — she’s even about to go to a recently opened “HIV Only” club downtown, where she can dance and meet other singles. “I haven’t experienced the things people experience,” she says. “I have never been to a hospital.”

She lives in Harlem, a neighborhood sometimes called the United States’ HIV/AIDS epicenter and bellwether. Local HIV/AIDS organizations constantly scramble to anticipate trends and statistics. In the ’90s, the focus was on needle-users and the MSM (men who have sex with men) community. Then there were the rumors. Sixteen years ago, when Mary became infected, she “thought that only gays could get it,” she said. Even today, some residents uptown believe HIV can be transmitted through doorknobs and house flies.

As HIV’s reputation has changed from an unknown virus to a treatable medical condition, Harlem United, Harlem’s leading HIV/AIDS organization, has radically revamped how it fights HIV. In the last two years, instead of targeting groups – even those experiencing startling rises in new infections — Harlem United has taken a more encompassing approach that could reach the whole community.

Harlem United maintains an extensive network. It runs two clinics and multiple housing facilities, and partners with smaller organizations focused more on local populations’ needs. It offers services from art therapy to health care for the homeless and runs the only entirely bilingual Spanish HIV/AIDS clinic in the United States.

In the last few years, HIV has spread in Harlem in various, often troubling, directions. In 2006, the average Harlem resident was six times more likely to receive a new HIV diagnosis than an average American, according to statistics released in 2008 by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Most new infections were among Harlem’s Latinos, who were more than 12 times as likely to receive new HIV diagnoses than other New York City Latinos. In fact, “over the past five years, new HIV infections, and concurrent HIV/AIDS diagnoses have fallen among all race categories, except for Hispanic women,” according to New York City Department of Health evaluation coordinator Chris Williams, commenting on the 2006 statistics.  Health professionals believe that trends like these will eventually spread countrywide.

Harlem United, carefully monitoring the CDC and the NYC health department statistics and compiling its own, decided to retain its existing Latino support and testing programs, rather than launch new ones.

Instead, its Blocks Project, begun in January 2008, sets a broader goal of testing everyone in the area — from women discouraged by a partner to the unsuspecting elderly. For the organization, it’s a new way of thinking about HIV/AIDS testing.

Soraya Elcock, Harlem United’s vice president for policy and public affairs, sits in her office, surrounded by mementos from 20 years in HIV/AIDS work and explains the shift.

Although organizations have changed, one thing hasn’t. People still contract HIV in the same ways: through risky sex, intravenous drug use, or long-term partners who become infected.

“It’s not about whether you’re at risk. What is needed is a neighborhood taking care of its basic health,” Elcock says. Unlike programs that target specific groups, she explains the blocks project treats HIV as a basic community health problem, along with hepatitis C, diabetes and hypertension. That means it’s a treated as a disease no more spectacular than any other and no more applicable to one group than another. Women in particular, “respond to something targeting to a larger community health awareness,” Elcock says.

“You have to create a hothouse effect — or you miss all the small groups,” she explains. Targeting a group — like Latinos or small African immigrant populations — tells a sub-community: There’s a problem among people like you. That breeds fear, Elcock says, which can discourage testing by making people clam up in denial or driving them to disregard the risk.

In taking this approach, the Blocks Project also targets an elusive but crucial body of people: infected people unaware they carry HIV.  Harlem United consider them the most hazardous group.  Last year the rate of HIV transmissions originating from people unaware of their infection was 54 to 70 percent, Elcock points out.

“A lot of them don’t believe they are at risk,” she says. As a result, merely encouraging people to be tested for HIV has had limited success. But Harlem United says the Blocks Project, with its enlarged approach, led to 75 percent more testing its first year.

Since kicking off the Blocks Project’s 2008, it has gone through continual revision based on what has worked and hasn’t.

Jennifer Rodriguez, a Harlem United community outreach coordinator, explained that at first, “Harlem United would have meetings with tenant association presidents. We ask them what would be the best way,” she says. Then Harlem United’s outreach staff would head out to the large buildings in teams. “We would have messages that we would put on every door,” Rodriguez says. “They might say Tuesday or Thursday come to this corner,” where testing vans would be available.

But, “the whole ‘come-to-my-van’ approach doesn’t work,” Rodriguez says.  So this year’s strategies were totally different. “In the last month or two we started getting a more intense outreach focus. We’ll have a five-minute conversation like, ‘Oh, why won’t you use a condom?’” she says. “Now it’s not so concerned with tenants. It’s more zones. It’s wider.”

As Mary sits and talks about her experiences with relationships, she suggests that even as more effective HIV treatments have become widely available, the old rumors and stigmas about HIV still pervade uptown.  Although she feels well, facing the disease’s stigma can be the hardest part. She describes an incident she had one night at a bingo game, when she overheard some players talking.

“The older ladies would gather and say, ‘I don’t want him to get HIV out there,’” she says, referring to married women whose husbands may be having affairs. “I used to go out there and say: This could happen to anybody. Because you don’t know what your husband does when he walks out that door.”

A menorah, a traditional Hanukkah candelabra, at the Old Broadway Synagogue. (Photo by Joshua Tapper)

By Joshua Tapper

In recent years, Harlem hasn’t been a magnet for Jewish New Yorkers. In addition to a Chabad chapter and an itinerant minyan group, Harlem has just one traditional synagogue. Yet, the Old Broadway Synagogue, tucked under the shadow of the elevated subway, just off 125th Street, remains a stalwart of the small Harlem Jewish community, as it has since 1923.

This Hanukkah, the synagogue opened its doors to the community, bringing Jews and non-Jews together to celebrate the Festival of Lights. On the fourth night of the eight-night holiday, the synagogue, in conjunction with Senator Bill Perkins’ office, hosted a candle-lighting ceremony and feast of latkes (potato pancakes) and sufganiyot (jelly doughnuts).

Paul Radensky, the synagogue’s gregarious president, began the festivities by welcoming the crowd of about 30 to the community-building affair. A series of speakers, including Sen. Perkins, spoke of the Jewish community’s importance to Harlem.

The Hanukkah celebration, in its second year, “shows another side of Harlem and the diversity that exists,” said Cordell Cleare, Sen. Perkin’s chief of staff and the event’s main organizer. “We can learn what others are celebrating and it’s a way for us to come together.” Sen. Perkins’ office is organizing Christmas and Kwanzaa parties as well.

As guests filtered into the narrow sanctuary, taking their seats in wooden pews, a silver, menorah sat high on the bimah, an elevated platform at the front of the room.

Ronald Newsome, a 78-year-old Harlem resident, was attending his first Hanukkah party. He recalled the days when Harlem was home to a vibrant Jewish community. “We all occupy the same spaces,” Newsome said, stressing the importance of interfaith programs.

Old Broadway Synagogue has a congregation of 50 to 60, but draws 25 to 35 for regular Saturday morning services. While many of the congregants come from the Upper West Side, there are “more and more Jews living in Harlem now,” Radensky said. He jokingly calls the community “a ghetto in the ghetto.”

Paul Radensky, left, Sen. Bill Perkins, center, and Cordell Cleare, Sen. Perkins' chief of staff, discuss the night's festivities. (Photo by Sonal Shah)

The Hanukkah party attracted a diverse crowd. Bearded Orthodox Jews sat next to blacks, some Jewish, some not. Carla McIntosh, a black Jew and Harlem resident who’s attended the synagogue off-and-on for 10 years, said she’s never encountered religious prejudice. The party was important, McIntosh said, “because we’re a community, a small neighborhood, and we need to get along.”

Candace Queen Mother Abbess, also knows as Bishop Shirley Pitts, of the Ethiopian Orthodox Coptic Church of North and South America, is an example of religious synthesis in the area. She’s cared for “Jewish elders” for 40 years and has picked up some of the traditions. She pulled a prayer shawl from her purse. “I always carry a prayer shawl in case the Sabbath catches me somewhere,” she said.

Reporting by Sonal Shah

TALKING ABOUT KWANZAA

By Shareen Pathak

This holiday season, African-Americans will be placing candle-filled kinaras side-by-side with tinselly Christmas trees to celebrate Kwanzaa, which takes place from Dec. 26 to Jan. 1.

Created by Ron Karenga in 1966, the seven-day celebration is the first specifically African-American holiday.  The Uptowner spoke to Abdel Salaam, assistant director of Forces of Nature: A Kwanzaa Celebration, opening tonight at City College, about the holiday. (We have edited and condensed his responses.)

Q: What is the history of Kwanzaa? How is it particularly relevant to Harlem?

A: The holiday is non-heroic, non-religious and nonsectarian. It is based on the East African harvest called Kwanza, and finds a particularly relevant home in Harlem, which many celebrate as the black cultural capital of the modern world.

Many of the earliest devotees of Kwanzaa were from Harlem and Brooklyn and helped disseminate its cultural doctrine, the Nguzo Saba, or seven principles. They are:

• Umoja (unity)
• Kujichagulia (self-determination)
• Ujima (collective work and responsibility)
• Ujamaa (cooperative economics)
• Nia (purpose)
• Kumba (creativity)
• Imani (faith)

Q: How widely celebrated is Kwanzaa?

A: Kwanzaa probably has its greatest following in the cities of the United States, like New York, Chicago, Newark, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and Los Angeles, which was the home of Dr. Karenga.  While particularly relevant to African-Americans, Kwanzaa’s universal principles can be celebrated by anyone and currently have followers and practitioners in Africa, Europe, the Caribbean, and of course the Americas. Probably about 18 million people celebrate it today.

Q. What special products are sold for Kwanzaa in Harlem?

Kwanzaa cards, childrens’ games, Kwanzaa kits, Mishuma Saba (seven candles) and mkekas (straw mats) are very popular. We also get Kiikombe cha Umoja (unity cups) and vibunzi (Native American corn). Zawadi (hand-made gifts) are available nationwide in most African communities and some major chain stores. Walk along 125th Street and you’ll see what I mean. All the small shops are selling this stuff.

Harlem Stage presents Forces of Nature: A Kwanzaa Celebration, a dance, music and theater experience opening tonight at the Aaron Davis Hall at City College. For tickets and more information, call 212.281.9240 x 27.

EL MUSEO PARADES NEW PUPPETS FOR THREE KINGS DAY

By Shane Show
Note: This story was updated on Dec. 16, 2009.

El Museo's original Three Kings figures are being converted into a museum exhibit. Roughly six feet high, they rolled down Harlem's streets on wooden frames, but have been in various states of decay as years have passed. Photo by Shane Snow.

Having paraded down East Harlem’s streets each January for 32 years, El Museo del Barrio’s renowned, trundling Three Kings Day figurines will be retired this year, to be replaced by 12-foot high papier maché puppets representing the convergence of traditions, races and cultures in Latin America.

Local artist Polina Porras Sivolobova designed and is overseeing construction of the puppets, which will make their debut at this year’s parade on Jan. 6, said El Museo spokesman Ines Aslan. They’ll blend the traditional Christian style with some Caribbean flavor, Aslan said.

The puppets, an El Museo statement explained, are “inspired in the Taíno cosmological tradition, are made of papier maché, colorful fabrics, and a carefully-crafted structure that allows for graceful movement.” Taínos were pre-Columbian inhabitants of Puerto Rico and other nearby islands.

The local parade, which will step off from Park Avenue and 106th Street at 11 a.m. and circle its way to El Museo by 1 p.m., is renowned for its colorful floats, upbeat music and dancing. “The director of the museum started the parade,” Aslan said. “The museum staff and neighborhood artists created the puppets and decorations.”

Operators control the new puppets from the inside, bearing the weight with a backpack-like mechanism. The finished puppets will hold gifts in front of them and feature detailed painted heads rich in Taíno and Christian symbolism. Photo by Shane Snow.

Three Kings Day, the culmination of the traditional Twelve Days of Christmas, commemorates the trio of Biblical magi who brought gifts to the newborn Christ child. Though often overshadowed by its more commercial holiday counterpart on Dec. 25, Three Kings Day remains popular in many Latin countries, often celebrated with a banquet known as the Feast of the Epiphany.

“The synergy of the Christian and Taíno traditions, wonderfully embodied by our new puppets, perfectly synthesizes the unique cultural mix that characterizes our community, as well as El Museo del Barrio’s mission,” the museum statement said.

Greater Harlem Nursing Home, home to 200 residents, worries Medicaid and Medicare cuts will force it to lay off employees and scale back programming. (Photo by Sarah Butrymowicz)

“I said reach up,” Marshall Swiney sings out over a steady drumbeat. Ten of the 12 seated seniors facing him gamely raise their hands. As the group switches to reaching forward and pulling back, another wave of people – some in wheelchairs, some with walkers – enter assisted by staff members.

Morning Rhythms has gotten off to a slow start today, but by the time the 45-minute session draws to a close, more than 20 residents of the Greater Harlem Nursing Home and Rehabilitation Center are lifting their knees and leaning over to touch their toes, following Swiney’s stream of sung instructions. He walks around, all smiles, gently encouraging his charges to push themselves just a little further.

Swiney leads this workout every morning, Monday through Friday, as part of a state grant; it’s the only regular exercise program the facility offers. A strong proponent of exercising daily to keep healthy, he says he’s seen calisthenics be particularly helpful for dementia patients and stroke victims. “It’s good for your soul,” he tells everyone, repeatedly.

But with looming cuts in both state and federal funding, Swiney’s holistic medicine might have to be scaled back to just two or three days a week, said Zakelma Batson, the home’s recreation director. That would be just one of the tough calls Greater Harlem fears having to make.

The House of Representatives health care bill would reduce Medicare spending by over $400 billion. And, even though the Senate bill exempts nursing homes, it contains other causes for concern, like annual productivity cuts that would almost certainly cause nursing homes to lose money, experts say.

The problem is only heightened in New York where, in an effort to control ballooning health care costs, the state is poised to reduce its Medicaid budget by $471 million. The state currently contributes about $15 billion to a total annual Medicaid budget of around $45 billion.

The proposed legislation weighs heavily on Greater Harlem CEO Tim Foristall as he walks the halls of his facility. It looks institutional, as he freely admits, like a hospital, with its long tiled hallways and fluorescent lighting. Changing that is one of his many plans for the place – and with the help of a $25 million state grant, he may achieve at least that goal.

But being able to keep his current staff and programming? That’s looking much less likely.

The picture for nursing homes in New York is already grim. In the last 32 months, they’ve lost over $1 billion through a series of six state budget cuts, said Scott Amrhein, president of the Continuing Care Leadership Coalition (CCLC). Nursing homes historically operate on thin margins, reporting total losses of about 2 or 3 percent annually. But this year, CCLC is projecting average losses of 11 percent. “We’re seeing a real weakening in the bottom lines,” Amrhein said.

If the proposed federal and state legislation were enacted, about 25 percent of the nursing homes in New York State would declare bankruptcy, estimated Foristall. He’s been working late nights, crunching the numbers and looking for ways to keep his own establishment open. State Medicaid cuts alone would cost the facility $1.5 to $2 million.

The Greater Harlem Nursing home was built in the 1970s. The city was bankrupt and the community had to raise all the money. It was the city’s first black-owned nursing facility, Foristall said, and the majority of its residents still come from the community. “To allow a facility like this to close would be devastating,” he said. “Where are these people going to go?”

Greater Harlem is the only nursing home in Central Harlem. There are a couple semi-nearby to the south and a handful a subway’s ride away in the Bronx, but visiting relatives at other facilities would be more difficult for local residents.

Like most non-profit nursing homes, Greater Harlem receives most of its money from Medicaid, which pays the tab for almost all its 200 residents. But Medicare reimbursements, which are higher, are even more critical – the only way it stands a chance of turning a profit, or at least breaking even.

Medicaid is mainly used by the Greater Harlem’s permanent residents– about 175 people, Foristall said. Medicare, however, mostly covers short-term rehab patients.

Each program uses a complicated formula, based on the medical problems and needs of each resident, to determine how much reimbursement the nursing home gets. The sicker the patients or the more help they need doing daily activities, the more money the facility receives. So competition runs high to get the patient with the most acute problems, said Carlotta Brown, admissions director at Greater Harlem.

She receives stacks of patient reviews from hospitals every day and scans them to find the patients that need the most care. But she knows every other nursing home in Manhattan is doing the same.

“It’s a rat race,” Brown said. Looking for the worst patients is a “terrible” way to operate a health care system, she says – but if cuts go through, such patients will only become more desirable.

New York’s Medicaid program has underpaid nursing homes to a greater extent than any other state for years running, with reimbursements ranging from $16 to $26 a day less than it costs to provide care, Amrhein said.

So, while Greater Harlem receives $225 a day per resident, it spends $240 to $250, Foristall said.

With the facility losing money on Medicaid patients each day, admitting Medicare patients, although they make up a small portion of the population, becomes absolutely critical. Their reimbursements provide the cushion to cover what Medicaid misses. If the state cuts Medicaid further, Greater Harlem simply can’t afford to let its Medicare reimbursements dwindle as well.

And while the exact fate of the relationship between Medicare and nursing homes is unknown, experts in the industry see disturbing signs.

Although the Senate bill would exempt nursing homes from reductions to the total Medicare program, it may introduce new annual decreases. The bill operates on an assumption that nursing homes become more productive each year and thus will provide 1.3 percent less money annually.

The figure is based on “general industry” in the United States. Applying the standard to nursing homes unfair, Amrhein said. “It’s over-cutting nursing homes. Productivity just doesn’t occur at that rate.”

Medicare rates have also, in the past, increased each year by about 3 percent based on a market basket index, which essentially keeps the rates in line with inflation. At the federal level, “they want to freeze the market basket for the next couple years,” said Patrick Cucinelli, senior financial policy analyst at the New York Association of Homes and Services for the Aging. “It would have a significant impact.”

Some provisions in the bill are more ambiguous in their effects, but worrisome nonetheless. “One thing that they have looming out there is an independent Medicare advisory panel that will be charged with finding savings from the nursing home sector,” Amrhein said, calling it a “cause for concern.”

Some legislators, as well as the Obama Administration, argue that any cuts will be offset by changes in the Medicare program to make it more efficient, ultimately improving the performance of health care providers. But Michael Sparer, professor of Health Policy and Management at Columbia University’s Mailman School of Public Health contended that the reductions are simply one way to offset the cost of covering currently uninsured Americans.

“They don’t want that additional coverage to add a dime to the federal deficit,” he said. Whether hospitals and other care providers become more efficient as a result is secondary.

At Greater Harlem, getting slammed by state Medicaid cuts and fearing the federal government will pay less for Medicare patients, some things will have to change. They’re going to have to change at most nursing homes.

Since 75 percent of the facility’s expenses are labor related, trimming the staff is the easiest way to reduce the budget, Foristall said, estimating he might have to get rid of 20 to 25 people.

The home has 225 full-time employees, over 100 of them in the nursing department. The bulk of layoffs would come from there. Food service, the second largest department, would also be hit and a few clerical positions would be eliminated, he said.

But take away employees and the quality of care will suffer, he predicts. “Part of healing and getting better and staying better is human interaction,” he said. Layoffs wouldn’t mean that residents wouldn’t get their medicine on time. But it would mean that they would get less one-on-one interaction with staff and fewer recreational programs.

Greater Harlem offers a steady stream of activities throughout the day, from Morning Rhythms to movie matinees, manicures to violin performances. Many in-house programs would be able to survive, but outside entertainment would be the first to go, said Batson, the recreation director. “If the cuts do go through, my department is going to get hit the worst,” she said.

The actual effect of staff cuts will never be easy to quantify, but Foristall is certain it will have a distinct negative influence. With fewer programs and less interaction, “will people decline quicker?” he asked. “You bet they will.”

Wells Chicken and Waffles hopes to take its sweet and salty Harlem delicacy nationwide but faces challenges. (Photo by Ashley Foxx)

Ann Wells, owner of Wells Chicken and Waffles, announced plans this fall to bring a Harlem tradition to hungry eaters across America with a string of franchise restaurants.

But those plans have stalled after the latest version of Wells’ restaurant, a small takeout that opened last year just ten blocks from the restaurant’s original Harlem location, shut its doors for more than a week. Wells was hospitalized for pneumonia and asthma, an ongoing battle. Now, the business is under new management, although Wells will retain ownership and continue to be involved.

Amadou Diop, who has more than 15 years of experience in the restaurant business managing Manhattan eateries like The Smoke Joint, said he has signed a 90-day management contract with Wells with the option to renew.

However, for many fans of this soul food institution who anxiously awaited word of her return, Wells wouldn’t have been the same without “Mama Wells,” as locals affectionately call her.

And after just a few minutes in her small storefront, it’s clear why. Her neat, silver gray bob is tucked behind a headband and her hazel eyes are full of both warmth and worry. She hovers like a protective mother, greeting customers at the door, overseeing each order and checking on the few diners who’ve opted to eat in.

“You’re not eating your chicken. Is it okay?” she asks one regular, Carl Holley, a local pastor having a plate of fried chicken and potato salad.

“It’s a little salty but it’s good, Miss Wells,” he replies.

But even the slightest criticism concerns Wells. She wipes her hands on her apron and sits down at the booth to discuss how her new chef should tweak the seasoning.

Wells, who’s in her 70s but demurely declines to specify an exact age, hoped to “complete the dream of the late Joseph T. Wells,” her husband and the restaurant’s founder, by taking his secret waffle-batter and chicken recipe nationwide, with Diop’s help.

However, Diop said 90 days may be insufficient to see the type of results Wells is expecting.

“When you’re running a restaurant, you sometimes don’t see profit or loss until 120 days,” said Diop, who’s also the head chef. “ But my vision right now is just to get back to serving the customers. Customers appreciate the food. I haven’t heard any complaints.”

Since 1938, Wells—as regulars call the place– has dished out home cooking, including the sweet and salty Harlem delicacy, chicken and waffles, that made it famous. During the Harlem Renaissance, late night crowds and post-gig performers frequented the hot spot for this unique dish that struck a balance between breakfast and dinner. Wells has been a part of the business for 48 of the 70 years it has served Harlem.

But the restaurant shut down after an early 1980’s recession.  After several attempts to reopen at its original location on 133rd and Seventh Avenue, Wells “decided last year to return with a new concept,” a casual takeout, with “anticipation of franchising.”

She’s looking for investors who can take Harlem’s signature dish, and the family recipe, across the country to cities like Chicago, Atlanta, Los Angeles and her hometown, New Orleans. However, Increasing competition and her occasional health troubles, may have placed some stumbling blocks in her path.

Local customers like Nicole Banks, who’s lived in Harlem for 34 years, admits that versions of chicken and waffles can now be found on every corner, at Amy Ruth’s on 116th Street, Melba’s on Frederick Douglass Boulevard and Harlem Wing & Waffle, also on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. But Wells is “home” and “where Miss Wells goes, the neighborhood goes” Banks said.

“When you expect home cooking, you want to go home,” Banks said. “Well, this is it. Ms. Wells is like Harlem’s mother.”

Walter Edwards, who fought in the Vietnam War, at a Veterans Day ceremony in downtown Manhattan. Edwards was a onetime resident at a transitional housing center for veterans in Harlem before recently moving to Staten Island. Anival Barrett, recreational coordinator and chairman for the Veterans Action Group, is pictured to the immediate left. Photo: Andrew Keshner

Eddie Hickey had just found a studio in an East Harlem building this past summer that was perfect for him. He went downstairs to the building’s offices, only to learn that the building had a credit check requirement.  That scrapped any moving plans for the 64-year-old Vietnam veteran who has bad credit because of debts totaling between $2,000 and $2,500.

“It would be silly of me to give them $75 since I knew the result, so I just turned around and withdrew my application,” said Hickey, who now lives in transitional housing for homeless veterans on 119th Street in Central Harlem, just south of Marcus Garvey Park.

Hickey ran into the same problem when looking for apartments in Washington Heights. The landlord of those properties refused to deal with Hickey because it had kicked him out of an apartment it owned in Queens. Hickey has not been apartment hunting since.

“It’s a general standard for an employed person making $40,000, $50,000 a year,” Hickey said of credit checks with his raspy smokers’ voice, noting he only has to cover 30 percent of the rent with his Section 8 voucher. “It’s holding me to a standard that I don’t think I should be held to.”

Hickey’s difficulties in finding permanent housing are not uncommon among veterans — nor are they going away as a fresh round of veterans are returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Veterans account for one-third of the homeless individuals nationwide, according to Department of Veterans Administration data.

Of the 380,000 veterans living in New York City and Long Island, just over 5,500 are homeless, according to a 2008 report from Community Homelessness Assessment, Local Education and Networking Groups, a VA program working with community agencies to coordinate services for homeless veterans. U.S. Sen. Charles Schumer  (D-N.Y.) cited the report in a recent press release about the introduction of several veterans-related measures. There are more than 600 homeless veterans within the approximately 44,000 Manhattan veterans, according to Schumer’s release.

Meanwhile, soldiers coming back from current conflicts give a new urgency to the matter. The latest crop of homeless veterans are winding up that way after around 18 months, compared with many homeless Vietnam vets after trying to readjust to civilian life after five to 10 years, Pete Dougherty, director of homeless veterans programs at the Department of Veterans Affairs, said in a 2007 Boston Globe article. The Veterans Administration and community providers have called permanent housing one of the top two unmet needs for the past three years, according to a report on veterans housing. A spokesperson for the Veterans Administration declined to comment, and a spokesperson for the New York City Mayor’s Office of Veterans’ Affairs did not return calls.

Just a quick look around the block from the 174-unit SRO, standing for “single room occupancy,” offers a snapshot on the barriers veterans face in finding housing uptown. Across the street stands an approximately 20-story residential building of exposed brick and brushed metal that’s nearing completion. A banner boasts “160 superbly designed” apartments and amenities, like a lap pool and valet parking. A sales representative for Fifth on Park, one of the two companies managing the building, said the building was not accepting Section 8 vouchers, noting that a one-bedroom rental would be more than $2,000 while a three-bedroom would cost $4,000. The representative would not identify himself, saying he didn’t want his name tied to a story on the lack of veterans housing.

Just around the corner on Fifth Avenue, a smaller-scale building is under construction. A sign in the window announces an October lottery for 43 affordable rental housing units in the site. Residents living within the borders of Community Boards 10 and 11 are given a preference for half of the units, but a city spokesman said that without knowing the address of the center, he could not determine if the veterans at the center were eligible. Management is still reviewing the almost 2,500 applications and renters are expected to start moving in this month, he said.

The "SRO," or "single room occupancy," for veterans on 119th Street. Photo: Andrew Keshner

But some at the veterans residence do move on. Walter Edwards, 63, is in the process of moving out to live with his 84-year-old mother in her Staten Island split-level home. He’s lived in the SRO for five years and has been clean for the past 15 months after a more than 30-year drug addiction. He became addicted to painkillers in the late ’70s and the habit escalated to cocaine and heroin. When he retired he could no longer pay rent for his Brooklyn apartment and buy drugs, and ended up losing everything.

On Veterans Day, Edwards and  several other veterans from the residence visited  the Vietnam War memorial on Water Street in downtown Manhattan. The day’s event was a far cry from the official parade in midtown, with its uniformed color guards marching in lockstep and its snare drum rimshots and bass drum thuds from New Jersey and Virginia high school marching bands echoing up Fifth Avenue. Instead, the assembled veterans spoke with a microphone attached to a karaoke machine. After the ceremonies, including the National Anthem and “Taps,” the machine crooned velvety ’60s and ’70s soul classics like Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”

Edwards, who served as an airman from 1964 to 1968, wore a black leather jacket that day with a large POW-MIA patch covering the back; it’s the only day of the year when he wears the jacket. Edwards helped lay the metal foundation for the same monument back in the early ’80s. Being there on Veterans Day, on the verge of leaving the SRO, was a powerful experience, he said.  Some veterans settle for a life in the SRO, he said, comfortable with their drugs. Not him. “It feels great. Now I’m straight, I can’t wait,” Edwards said of moving out. Looking to stay busy, he’s now training to work as a security guard through the American Association of Retired Persons and is preparing for an upcoming job interview.

Edwards and Hickey both attend a weekly meeting in the residence’s main lounge for Veterans Action Group, a support group aiming to get homeless veterans back on their feet. Anival Barrett, chairman of the group and recreational coordinator at the center, leads the meetings. “If you’re under the thought this is a place to come and die, it’s not,” he said during one recent meeting. Meetings are part  pep talk,  part information session as Barrett keeps members up on benefits open to them or upcoming events with his booming and dynamic delivery.

Surrounded by badges, pictures and gym equipment in his office upstairs, Barrett — who served in the military from 1962 to 1973 and fought in Vietnam from 1965 to 1966 — explains that many homeless veterans are badly hobbled by bad discharges or lack of information regarding the benefits open to them. A dishonorable discharge shuts down access to certain housing loans, vendors licenses, small business loans, medical benefits and vocational training, he said, adding: “A bad discharge is a form of stigmata. It shouldn’t but it does affect a lot of the hiring.”

Residents at the 119th Street center, run by a social services organization called Black Veterans for Social Justice Inc., have already worked their way through the shelter system, starting out at Bellevue Hospital and passing through places like Borden Avenue Veterans Residence in Queens. The uptown housing — a single room with a shared bathroom, kitchen and lounge with three other residents — is intended as a last step toward permanent housing. But some get comfortable, said Barrett, having their rooms decked out with computers and flat-screen televisions. “I always tell them, ‘Try to live as spartan as you can because you don’t want to set up like you’re here for life,’ ” he said. “Don’t get too damn comfortable. Nobody’s going to kick you out, but you deserve more than that damn room.”

Looking back, Hickey has both fond and gruesome memories as a former private first class. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” he said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else,” he said. Back in civilian life, Hickey once planned on becoming a teacher but got into bartending and singing Frank Sinatra tunes while waiting to take his teaching exam and made a career of it. He overcame a drug problem in the ’80s but still copes with post-traumatic stress disorder and sleep problems. He’s now in the process of appealing to the Veterans Administration for larger benefits while selling pants at Macy’s.

Just before explaining his housing search, Hickey attended a memorial service for Zackary Foster Marchmon, a 47-year-old former lance corporal with the Marines who had been living at the center since 2005. Marchmon died in November. “A lot of people go out of here feet first,” said Hickey, adding that he’s seen three or four such memorials in the past six months. He’s resolved not to stay long enough to see many more and it’s only a matter of time before he finds an apartment, he says. Hickey plans to resume his search soon, saying: “I want an apartment. I want out.”