Every Saturday at two in the morning, when the city skyline finally cleared and for once in your life you could see the stars, Sabrina and I made our way to Martha’s Jazz Club. The streets would be silent, basking in the soft amber glow from the streetlamps as the city finally paused to take a deep breath.  

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Nestled between a Tony’s Pizza that reeked of burnt pepperoni, and Alberto’s, a bar with a line that always wrapped around at least two blocks every day, Martha’s didn't have to beg for attention—it glowed. A harsh yellow light circled its faded LED sign, casting a dim golden light that made the red velvet curtains between the windows look like royalty.  

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To us, Martha’s wasn’t just a jazz club—it was a promise. A place we didn't have to explain ourselves. It was an unspoken rule but fully understood that this space was only for Black people. Until sunrise, we could just be.

 

We turned the corner, heels clicking against the beige concrete, and rushed to get out of this bitter cold that had been chasing us all night. As we inched closer to Martha’s, we could see the familiar harsh yellow and feel the familiar warmth waiting for us inside. However, tonight was different.  

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Two bodyguards with their arms crossed stood in front, their feet planted firmly. Both of their black-and-white suits were crisp, even more so than the sharp lines of their blank mouths. We slowed, exchanging a glance of confusion and cautiousness. Martha’s had never needed security. Ever. Something was off. 

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Sabrina and I reached the entrance of Martha’s. The heat of the bright lights hit my face like the sun of a July summer day. I could already feel the thump of the music on the other side of the door, but the two bodyguards weren't showing a single sign of budging.  

I smoothed my dress and straightened my back, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, flashing a smile. “Do you mind if my friend and I push past you to go inside?” They stared at me like it was just the wind talking. Not even a single twitch or blink.  

I scoffed. Well, I already asked nicely.  I was getting into Martha’s, even if it was by force. I backed up a few steps, eyeing the target. Before fully committing to the attack, I glanced over to Rina. She peeled off her black wool trench coat and tossed it on the sidewalk. She mirrored my stance—feet planted; knees bent. She gave me a subtle nod. She was ready.  

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“Go!” I shouted. 

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We charged with full force. I aimed for the shorter one—the Black dude with the shiny, bald head and Schwarzenegger shoulders. Rina aimed for the taller white guy—blonde, broad and built like his bodyguard companion. We rammed into them with everything we had and bounced right off.  

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They didn't even flinch—didn’t even lose footing. My shoulder is definitely bruised. I stumbled back a few steps, grabbing onto Rina to stop myself from falling. Rina nearly lost her footing too. We looked at each other, panting as disbelief washed across our faces. I really should’ve hit the gym more.  

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“It’s an exclusive night, ladies,” Schwarzenegger shoulders said.  

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The blonde one rolled his eyes so hard, you’d think they disappeared into his head. He ain’t got nothing better to do, so I don’t know why he’s acting like he got somewhere else to be.

 

“Move, bruh.” I continued to push against the bald one. I don’t know why I tried, ‘cause he wasn’t moving even a centimeter. “Martha ain’t never had exclusive nights.”  

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“I’m sorry,” the bald guy said softly. “But you’re not allowed in. Maybe another time.” 

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As if to finalize his words, a violent breeze tore through the street. It clawed at my black silk dress, peeling one of the thin straps from my shoulders and letting it loose against my arm. Before I could readjust it back on my shoulder, a ghostly touch traced against my skin—Sabrina. Her fingers, colder than the breeze, brushed over my shoulder as she adjusted my strap back into place. How could somebody do that so delicately and elegantly?  

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“It’s freezing out here,” Sabrina said through chattering teeth, rubbing her arms. “Let’s just go. There’s gotta be another bar open.”

 

“Nah, we can’t leave yet. Something’s up. I’m calling Martha.” I pulled out my phone, the light burning my eyes for a second, and dialed her number.  

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The bodyguards stood like statues with their arms crossed—a watchful eye flicking at us frequently to make sure I wasn’t going to try anything again. No line. Just us, standing in the middle of a ghost city at two in the damn morning. This night will not get ruined. This was our safe space, and they were going to let me inside.  

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I put the phone up to my ear and glanced at Rina. Her crimson-red velvet dress clung to her hips. The strapless cut highlighted the dainty gold cross necklace, and the deep red practically glowed against her rich brown skin. We didn’t come out looking this good just to go home. 

I flicked my gaze to the window, peeking inside. The first thing I clocked—white people, and a whole bunch of them at that. They clutched their wine glasses, heads tilted back with unrestricted laughter. Their bright smiles reflected the warm amber glow that pooled from the massive chandelier—a glistening universe above their heads, casting starlight across the room.  

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Plush red-velvet seats gathered in cozy pairs cafe-style with small golden lamps flickering on dark brown tables. The most important piece was the stage, curved like an amphitheater and hugged by the huge crescent-shaped red-velvet couch—a couch so plush you felt like you were drowning. A few Black folks were present, mostly near the bar, afraid to make a little bit of noise. Not nearly as many Black people as a usual night at Martha's. 

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I pressed my eyes against the glass. The soft, warm hum of Frank Sinatra’s voice swayed throughout the intercom, making my stomach twist. The live band was nowhere to be found. It made sense; they never played Sinatra. Martha always made it clear—real jazz only. Ella Fitzgerald. Nat King Cole. Louis Armstrong. The phone kept ringing as my eyes were glued inside.  

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Martha emerged from the back room like a ghost, her small, frail frame swathed in her extravagantly long black dress. The fabric swayed as she moved from each table, and her regal gray afro framed her elegant features. No matter how old she was, she remained untouched by the years. She met my eyes through the windows. Her expression stayed the same—a frown.  

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I flashed a smile and pointed towards the door. “Open the door!” I mouthed. Martha’s eyes lowered to the floor as she shook her head. I was taken aback. Her refusal sent chills colder than the night itself. “What’s going on?” I mouthed. I pointed at her purse, urging her to pick up the phone.  

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She kept shaking her head, her eyes darting towards the front door. “It’s okay,” she mouthed with a weak smile, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as she was me. Something fishy was happening. I had to go inside. I turned toward the entrance and both security guards let out a heavy, annoyed sigh. I didn’t care. Martha had never thrown an exclusive event before in her life. Why now?  

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“Look, ladies, we can’t—”  

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“You have to let us in!” I yelled. My voice carried farther than I expected, maybe down the block. I shoved against the guards, desperate but determined. Again, I didn’t know why I tried. They didn’t budge at all. My shoulders began to become sore after shoving for so long.  

The door cracked open before I could push again, and a white woman slipped out. Her blonde bob didn’t move while she slipped through the cracks, her gold heels barely making a sound against the pavement.  

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“I’m going to get hypothermia if we stay outside any longer,” Sabrina hissed through chattering teeth, curling her arms and fur shawl tight around herself. 

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I turned to her and sighed. She was right. We’d come for a nice night out at Martha’s but this was exhausting. Whatever was happening inside Martha’s, I hated it. But standing here fighting against two titans wasn’t worth it either.  

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“Don’t think I’m done with y’all!” I pointed a nasty finger at them like they were misbehaved children.  

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“You better listen to your friend,” said the woman that slipped out. Her voice was raspy, probably because of the hella cigarettes she was smoking.  

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The blonde woman leaned against the concrete wall next to the jazz club. She reached into her purse, pulling out a Marlboro Red and slid cigarette slid between her lips. Yuck. 

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“Mind your damn business,” Sabrina and I snapped in unison. Except I screamed it, and she whispered it.  

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The woman tipped her head back and released a throaty laugh. 

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“What’s so funny?” I stepped toward her, jaw tight with irritation.  

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“Tori, come on, let’s just go,” Sabrina pleaded. Her hand was light on my shoulder yet had a grip solid enough to hold me back.  

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“It’s going to be okay,” I said, placing my hand over hers. I understood why she was worried. There was a real chance this could go horribly wrong, but I had to say something.  

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“You’re so funny.” Her voice had a hint of condescension. I hated condescending people. “If you can’t get in, then go home. You’re acting like this place is yours.”  

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“It is ours,” I snapped. The scent of burnt vanilla and cigarette smoke clung to her like a vintage trench coat from France. The unlit cigarette between her lips grew wet with saliva, aching for its lover—the lighter. “I’m the one who should be laughing here.” The heat was rising in my chest. “What’s funny is how y’all just happen to show up when this has always been a place for people like me.”  

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“Doesn’t look like that anymore,” she said with a scoff, looking around so she didn’t meet my eyes. She let out another indulgent laugh.  

My hands clenched into fists. Wrath began to simmer in my stomach from not being able to step inside Martha’s, of being locked out of something that was meant for us. And now, this woman with a stiff bob—this stranger—was mocking what Martha had built.  

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Martha had created a haven. A place where Black artists could let go, breathe, create—could exist in tranquility. She had fought tooth and nail to keep it that way. She knew the moment she let white people in, everything she worked for would fall. She knew that. So why?  

I mean mugged this white lady as she finally fished out her lighter from her purse. A cheap, blue BIC lighter you can grab at any 7-Eleven. She clicked her thumb against the wheel, trying to create the flame. Before the spark could produce, I swatted it out of her fingers.  

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“You’re not smoking tonight,” I said.  

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Her head snapped up; her eyes narrowed as she met mine. I could see it—the full belief that she could take up space and we were supposed to be okay with it. Her face twisted in disdain, her lips parting as if she was going to spit at me. I didn’t wait for a split second. 

My right backhand cracked across her face. Her lonely cigarette tumbled from her lips, finally making some friends with the pavement.  

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She didn’t hesitate.  

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Her hands clawed into my afro, yanking, twisting, trying to pull me down to drag her. I put my foot to the side of my body for more stability. I swung her to the ground instead and her body hit the pavement. She heaved, trying to catch her breath. Before she could fully gather, I was already above her. My palm collided with her face again. And again. She let out breathless winces, and her hands scrambled to shield herself or find my face.  

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“What’s your problem?” she gasped, her voice strained. “I thought all cultures were meant to be shared. We love Martha just as much as you do!”  

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I almost chuckled. 

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“That’s enough!” Sabrina yelped frantically. Maybe—just maybe this white woman was right.  

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But she wasn’t. We had tried. We had assimilated, opened our doors, embraced them as they were. And they just took. And took.  

In Martha’s right now, they were playing fake jazz with no roots—the facade of soul. That was how they masked it. Sharing was caring until it was just taking. They literally turned Martha’s into a downtown NYC Pinterest aesthetic. They never cared about us.  

Strong biceps were dragging me back. The security guards were prying me away from her. I thrashed against their strongholds, my skin burning with fury.  

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“If you come back again. I’ll fight you again! And again! And again!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as she scrambled to her feet, running as fast as she could. “Y’all never going to take Martha’s, I’ll make damn sure of that!”  

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Because Martha’s wasn’t just a jazz club.  

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Martha’s was a haven for people like me.  

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A place we could just be.