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A little bit about Harlem: Sunday gospels

On Sunday morning Harlem is filled with galloping sounds pianos and hysterical cries of the priests. They lead people into the raptus state under the arches of churches, schools and small rooms in ordinary houses. They celebrate God and Jesus in their own peculiar manner.

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And perhaps the black residents of Harlem are looking forward to this Sunday mornings when all the problems, grievances and injustice can be left somewhere in the outside world. Once they were curing themselves with jazz, now through cries pouring out of the priest’s mouth at least for this little moment they can really believe that God loves them as they are. And this small sip of faith that is infused into their hearts through a song will be enough to get through another week.

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Because all those 6 days they wander around the city trying to fight with the whole world. Sadness and depression of the past years is still gleaming through their dark eyes. They shout about it in a faceless crowd sitting on concrete slabs of Street and Avenue; they complain to each other crushing cigarettes in their old fingers; they look at you with reproach or hide their eyes preferring to surrender to the darkness and the sound of music in the headphones.

Together they are like a men still suffering from a serious mental injury and rehabilitation occurs to be long and sometimes painful. This nation is still trying to grind its hurt in the mills of their oppressed souls. And their wounds are still not healed. They are still trying to prove something and it seems that even more to themselves rather than to others. So every Sunday they call up filled with joy and prosperity and for this brief moment being able to feel inner peace.

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