A Hometown Girl Speaks Out

Philadelphia is, and always will be, a city of neighborhoods. There’s Manayunk, South Philly, North Philly, Olney, Mayfair, Rhawnhurst, Somerton, Bridesburg, Juniata, Fishtown, Rittenhouse Square and Fox Chase to rattle off a few. Many people live and purchase homes in the same neighborhood as they grew up. I am one of those people.

It is hard to explain the lure of the city if you have never felt her pulse in your veins. I still get goose bumps when I wander downtown. Every time. My best dates happened in the city itself, not on the outskirts. Walks along Kelly Drive, attending Eagles and Flyers games, holding hands on Penn’s Landing, going to the Art Museum: these moments I cherish.

Philadelphia intoxicates me. The mingling of the past with the present—Independence Hall a mere 12 blocks from Liberty One and Two (our well-known skyscrapers)—stirs me in a way that is hard to put into words. I cry during the Fourth of July fireworks because I think how blessed I am to have grown up in the place where such amazing ideas were tossed around over a glass of beer. The greatest minds that created the greatest government system did so in my hometown. I’m sorry New York and Los Angeles, you can’t say that. There’s no other place that I want to live, and that even includes the expensive suburbs that surround the city.

True native-born Philadelphians are an interesting breed. We’re not polished and there’s a definite edge to us. You can see it in our eyes. We’re told over and over that we’re not as cool as New Yorkers, that our city is unsafe, that it’d dirty, that we’re common—we’re blue collar. I laugh. And what’s so wrong with that? Working hard for what you have is a core American value. An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s worth of work is what my parents stressed. I know what it is like to learn to have dirt under my fingernails, and I can honestly say it’s made me a better person.

I often remind smug suburbanites if it wasn’t for Philadelphia there would be no suburbs—businesses wouldn’t cluster here if it wasn’t for Philadelphia’s prestige. However, I point to the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Rodin Museum, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art and say, “blue collar?” Yeah, OK. Show me museums of this caliber in the suburbs. I can name only one, the Barnes Museum, and that’s moving to Philadelphia to find a home on Museum Row. With all of your money and your class, I don’t see you spending it to build your own. You come and use ours, and then tell us the city sucks. I hear you at the bar dissing Philadelphia after hearing the Philadelphia Orchestra at the Kimmel Center. Show some respect, or don’t come at all. I have two rivers (Delaware and Schuylkill), stadiums, and the cradle of liberty in my backyard. You can keep your King of Prussia Mall and your gated communities--I don’t covet them.

Ben Franklin and I, see, well, we’re Philadelphians. I refuse to be ashamed or considered inferior. I have a Philadelphia accent, and it’s a bit more noticeable when agitated. I say “yo” for affect, and I will always say “wooder” for water. Always. I know better. I like the way it sounds. By the way, if you think I’m uneducated for pronouncing the word that way, well then, bring it on. And if you think I have no class, well, all I have to say is that I am one of the few people who send out thank you cards. A city girl with class, fancy that. A verbal thank you or an E-mail thank you do not count. I’m sorry, they just don’t. If I made an effort to give you something, then make an effort to thank me. See, I am thankful because things didn’t come easy for me. When everything you own is handed to you on a silver platter, it’s easy to feel that sense of entitlement and to be above common courtesy. Oh, but I forget, I’m the blue collar one who should be ashamed of who she is. Right…

I will always be a city girl, a daughter of a Philadelphia police officer. A Catholic school girl who attended La Salle University—a true product of the city. If you think that makes me inferior to you, you just go on thinking that.

The Eagles victory last night tasted sweet. I grew up watching the Eagles on Sunday afternoons. My Mom and brother napping on the couch, my Dad in his recliner, me lying on the floor with the Pekingese dog, Fugi (my Mom spelled Fuji that way) watching Bill Bergey and Ron Jaworski. There was an oven stuffer roaster in the oven filling the house with the smell of a home-cooked meal, one of the sweetest perfumes. We yelled, we clapped, and we hoped that this year would be our year. There’s a whole lot of hope in 24 years—and a whole lot of bitter disappointment. The Eagles weren’t always winners, but they were our team. So are the Flyers, but I’ve always loved the Eagles more. Maybe it’s because they play fewer games and they play on Sundays, which always was a special day in my week. It still is.

So when you see the tapes of the jubilation in the city, understand that it’s been 24 years since the Eagles went to the Super Bowl. The hungry, earnest, and passionate fans have been loyal through years of mediocrity and then recent years of “oh so close.”

I remember vividly the last Super Bowl in which the Eagles participated. I was my daughter’s age, eating green jello at my Aunt Mary’s house, my face riveted to the console TV in her remodeled recreation room. We lost. I cried. Last night I cried too. I cried for a team, for a city, and for myself. If you haven’t lived in the city and heard people trash your hometown, your teams, and your neighborhoods constantly, you probably don’t understand the tears. The suburbanites say they have no blight, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Abandoned homes, “hate houses,” gangs—they have it too. They tend to ignore it though. I always remind people that the affluent pretend they don’t shit, and that’s why they stink. They can’t keep it real. The ugliest part of the suburbs is invisible—it’s the attitudes and prejudice toward us Philadelphians.

Last night, we earned some respect. It felt damned good.

So when I see the “Victory cam” pan in on Champs at King of Prussia Mall with the three remaining female fans mildly cheering the Eagles to victory, I know that they’ve found a bandwagon. That’s cool. There’s plenty of room on the Jacksonville Express for all of us, but know that they’re my team ‘cause I’m a hometown girl. You’re just borrowing them; you’ll toss them away if they disappoint you. You’ll find the next cool thing to rally around so you can be trendy. As for me and the other native Philadelphians, we’ll still love them, win or lose, because they’re our Eagles.