Philadelphia. The place that I call home. A place I truly love.
There are many reasons for this 30 year affair of mine. This city is proud of its position as the birthplace of this country’s freedom. Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell pavilion are hallowed ground. Two of this nation’s defining documents, The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, were penned here. This is a city of fighters. Whether it is the washed out Rocky Balboa battling the champion Apollo Creed or the gritty Broad Street Bullies slugging it out with the Rangers or Bruins, this town never backs down. Yes, there is a bit of a chip on the city’s shoulder. What other town would throw snow balls at Santa? That very attitude is woven into the fabric of Betsy Ross’ flag, stitched right here in Philadelphia. Yet this town can be amazingly refined. It may not be possible to find better food, museums, music, educational institutions and medical facilities anywhere else in the world.
They call it the City of Brotherly Love. For the most part, I believe that the label is true. With a racially diverse population separated by extreme economic disparity, the City coexists surprisingly well. Localized issues arise on occasion but there is no pervasive tension that is palpable. Although the city was founded by a Quaker on the principles of non-violence and religious freedom, I may be naive to think that Philadelphians are more enlightened than our other metropolitan neighbors. I am, however, optimistic those mature roots continue to feed the hearts and souls of its residents.
It is painful to watch the rioting that has taken place on the streets that I know so well. I remember bringing our two year old son home from the hospital after surgery. There was incredible relief knowing that he would be alright. However, I remember seeing the sutures and realizing that our son was no longer “perfect”. He would carry that scar with him for the rest of his life. That is how I felt last night as I watched the ugliness of the riots unfold on the television. My beloved city would be forever scarred.
I recognize that my vision of the city from the safe distance of the suburbs is distorted. There are growing tensions in the city. Even prior to the arrival of COVID-19, Philadelphia had the highest poverty rate of any major city. The opioid epidemic has killed more Philadelphia residents than the virus by a factor of three. If that is not enough bad news, Philadelphia’s murder rate ranks in the top 25. Clearly, the scars run much deeper than my perception, formed by frequent, yet brief, forays into the city, has conceived.
Our son is now thirty. He chose to go to college, work, and now reside in a gentrifying neighborhood of Philadelphia. He does not judge people by race, religion or size of paycheck. It is people like him who will help to heal these wounds. He understands that the City is not perfect. However, much like a loving parent, he is a dedicated custodian of its future.
