WRITERS ROOM | Voices: Pasts, Presents, Futures

Voices of Our Pasts, Presents, and Futures Editor: Valerie Fox Photo Editor: Tyler Shine Copyeditor: Kelly Bergh Book designer: Arlene Ang All photographs used by permission. Archival family photographs and images of artifacts used in individual pieces, unless otherwise noted, are provided by the authors of those pieces.

Copyright of individual pieces remains with the authors. Š2018

Introduction ................................................................................. 5 South Carolina Summers, Philadelphia Springs

by Norman Cain ................................................................ 6 Family Feud by Brenda Bailey ..................................................... 9 Getting Clean by Roger Converse ............................................... 14 The House by Victoria Huggins Peurifoy .................................. 20 The Wedding That Shook My Core

by Rosalyn Cliett-Anderson ............................................. 21 Five Poems by Johngeline Ferguson ......................................... 25 I Would Sow These Seeds by Anonymous .................................. 26 My Legacy Poem (Because I Sat in Her Seat)

by Earl Hackett ................................................................ 27 The Music of Life by Jacob Eyer ................................................. 32 Artifacts: Its Beauty Does Not Care by Anonymous ................ 35 Introducing Robert Watts

by Carol Richardson McCullough .................................... 37 Dami Bolarin and Vidya Gollr: On Work, Friendship, and Green Haus by Kerianne Edwards ......................... 39 Grandmoms by Patricia Burton ................................................. 43 Dimitri Papadopoulos: Sowing the Seed of Education

by Indervir Singh ....................................................................... 48 Like Links in a Chain-Link Fence by Anonymous ..................... 57

Community Captured by Victoria Huggins Peurifoy ............... 59 A Schlitz, a Cigarette, and a Pigeon by Chanda Rice ................ 60 Of Conway, Of Philly by Jasmine James ................................... 64 Animated Photo Album by Angela Arrey-Wastavino ................. 73 Found Poem by Chanda Rice ..................................................... 88 Photo Gallery ............................................................................. 89

This book features voices from many generations. It includes family histories, memories of different times, journeys throughout North America (as well as from or to other continents and cities), musings on the present, and hopes and concerns for the future.

The contributors include both new and veteran Writers Room writers, among these several who are current Drexel University students.

Places in Philadelphia mentioned here are Belmont, Powelton, Fairmount Park, West Philly, North Philly, Italian Market, Temple, and Drexel, just to name a few. Places beyond the city that come up, often as points of origin but also as points of destination or pilgrimage, include Detroit, Lagos, the Ishak Pasha Palace in Turkey, Garysburg, North Carolina, Nashville, and an African Methodist Episcopal Church graveyard in South Carolina.

The commonality is that all of the contributors—the writers, speakers, listeners, and translators—are here now in Philadelphia.

Their words are a testament to the power of reflection and dialogue in both difficult and happy times. —Valerie Fox, Kelly McQuain, Tyler Shine, and Robert Watts

Norman Cain I am from parents who left rural South Carolina in 1939 for the mystical Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Promised Land, only to find hardship.

I am from the time of the war babies, from the time of the first generation of Second Great Migration children.

I am from 4236 Olive Street, strewn within the Belmont section of West Philadelphia.

I am from the era of “spare the rod and spoil the child.�

I am from the era of no televisions, refrigerator, centralized heating.

I am from red Kool-Aid, government cheese, hearty soul-style meals, Saturday night baths in tin tubs.

I am from hoagies, cheesesteaks, pretzels mustard, chestnuts hot.

I am from the falls, winters, springs of Philadelphia and South Carolina summers.

I am from rides on early summer segregated trains from Philadelphia to South Carolina, where I spent the summer on my maternal grandparents’ farm.

I am from toiling in fields, enmeshing within the confines of nature, communing with kin who introduced me to my ancestors.

I am from the African Methodist Episcopal Church, the denomination of my ancestors, where I watched my maternal grandfather’s casket lowered in into the grave in the family plot of the South Carolina church graveyard founded by my paternal grandfather.

I am from riding segregated early September trains from South Carolina to Philadelphia.

I am from chilly, nonchalant 1950 hep-cats, righteous bebop disciples, scatters of Ella Fitzgerald.

I am from Too Cool to Move dudes sho’nuff doo-wopping under midnight street lights.

I am from before consistent homicides among the youth, a time when the perturbed screamed “Give me a fair one”, which meant a fair fight, which meant jabbing, hooking, ducking, weaving, handshakes after the rumble.

I am from Saturday night gigs in dim red-lit cellars, losing myself in the Mashed Potatoes, Pony, Monkey, Slow Drag.

I am from stickball, rough touch football, yo-yos, marbles, homemade scooters, sleds, red wagons.

I am from the time when I was a baller amongst ballers, a time when I dribbled through my legs and behind my back before ascending to the pinnacles of my leap and releasing the peel at the right iota of a second, delighting in hearing the sweet swish of its successful completion.

I am from watching dice players scoop up their jug of wine and paper money before being chased through the alley, across the lot and down the street by out-of-breath police.

I am from vegetables and fruit being sold by singing hustler men riding astride horse-drawn wagons.

I am from nursery rhymes, folk jingles, stories from the souls of old men who had seen combat in France during the Second World War. I am from when sky meant hat, rides meant cars rags meant fine clothes, and wheels meant shoes cribs meant homes and gigs meant jobs.

I am from an area where I was happy to have been raised and from the time when I was happy to have been born.

Brenda Bailey

Call of the North Emma Buffaloe, my mother, was born in Garysburg, North Carolina on May 20, 1920. Her mother died when she was a little girl, around eight years old. The rearing of the children was on her older sister Louvenia. There were seven children in all: Grady (Bud), Louvenia, Robert Paul, Mary Elizabeth, Emma Lee, Tressie Ophelia, and Eva Mae. Emma was severely burned on her legs when she was about ten—her dress caught fire and water was used the put it out. She could not walk for quite awhile. Tears would come to her eyes when she told the story years later. My mother had Celestine and Barbara Jean out of wedlock. Louvenia was Jessie and Macarthur’s mother. The children played together and were raised by young parents.

The North called to Emma and she decided to leave her two children in North Carolina with her sister (she would send for them once she was settled). But the North began to call to Louvenia and they became a part of the Great Migration. Louvenia contacted her sister and asked her if she could leave her children with hers on the Winborn estate, better known as “The Farm”. The children lived and worked on the farm. For quite awhile, they called the Winborns Mama and Papa, and their mothers by their first names. Twelve years later I was born, and a feud between Jessie and Barbara was in full effect. I interviewed them to try and get to the bottom of it.

The Truth, According to Barbara Jean Barbara, how did you feel about Lou and Emma leaving you on the farm?

(Barbara) I had mixed feelings. Sometimes when I was working in the fields I felt sad, abandoned, overworked.

Other times I was just indifferent.

How old were you?

Six to seven years old.

How long did you stay on the farm?

I don’t remember how long we stayed on the farm.

Did you visit with your aunts and uncles?

They lived nearby and we saw them.

Did you go to school?

Yes, we walked/rode the bus to the Buffaloe school.

How old were you when you came to Philadelphia?

We were in elementary school. We went to Belmont.

What were your plans?

We wanted to leave the farm, get out of North Carolina.

Did Jessie come to Philadelphia with you?

Yes, but I felt Lou did not want to take care of us. But Emma was taking care of Jessie.

Tell me something good about the farm.

I liked making peanut brittle and playing with my cousins.

Were you, Jessie, and Celestine close as children?

Yes.

What was the fallout about between you and Jessie?

Something she was trying to get over with, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t care for the way she tried to use people.

Now Let’s Hear from Jessie P. Jessie, tell me about living on the farm after your mother left.

(Jessie) I was scared and excited to live in a house that big.

How old were you?

Six to seven years old.

How long did you stay on the farm?

For a few years. We moved with the Winborns to Seaboard, North Carolina. We lived over the store. I went to high school when I came to Philadelphia.

Did you visit your aunts and uncles?

Most of them were deceased.

Were you, Celestine, and Barbara close as children?

Yes, very. Well, me and Celest. Barbara was not the “giving” type.

What was the fallout about?

She felt I was trying to take her mother.

Did you have fun on the farm?

Yes. I was too young to pick tobacco or cotton. I began picking cotton after we moved to Seaboard. I was doing it to earn money for school clothes, but Mrs. Winborn kept the money to pay the help in the house. Me and my brother went to the farm first. Later Barbara and Celest came. We

picked vegetables for cooking and canning when we first went to the farm.

How did coming to Philadelphia affect you?

Aunt Emma was so nice to me—she would encourage me to go out with Jean and some of the girls we went to high school with. But Jean did not want me to go. I gave Aunt Emma things because she deserved them. I would come home from the party and talk about who was there and what happen; Jean would just go upstairs like she was mad.

She told Celest that I was trying to steal her mother, that I should go and live with Lou. Why did I have to live with Emma? The house on Ludwick street was too small for all of us. Barbara was not a very nice person—even as a child she had a mean streak. She loved to play with the Moodys, who lived next door. She says they are our cousins, but they are not. I think she did not care for me because I was dark.

My Two Cents The Buffaloes were part of the Great Migration to the North. They brought with them part of the culture that was not all good. My mother was dark compared to her sisters because her mother was very dark-skinned. Her father was a Native American from the Blackfoot tribe (so the story goes), and he was a light brown color and all his sisters were a brown or light brown color. My mother was teased, and nasty things were said to her because of her complexion. Celest and Barbara’s fathers were very light-skinned, but because of the culture in the area, their parents would not let their sons marry a dark-skinned woman. But the aunts were very pleased with Celest and Jean because they were the right color— they could pass the paper bag test, being lighter than the color of a paper bag. But Jesse had color like her father—she is very dark.

Jessie was said to be lazy because she would not pick her quota of cotton. She would put rocks in her sack to make up for the weight, but as soon as they dumped the cotton out, the rocks were discovered. She got her butt whipped. She says she was not made to pick cotton because she did not plant it. She received many

beatings for not picking her quota. Jessie was a dreamer looking in the sky at the birds flying over, admiring the clouds. She knew she was made for greater things than farming, and when she got her chance, she would leave North Carolina. She studied hard and received good grades. Her personality has taken her far, as she has an easy laugh and makes friends easily. I guess she had to make up for the color of her skin and show the world she was more than just a dark-skinned girl from the country. However, the lessons she learned on the farm stayed with her. She married a Jewish man and no, her children are not dark-skinned.

The one thing that they both agree on is that my oldest sister, Celest, was very loving and kind. She took care of them when they were small because she was the oldest, and she took care of me while my mother worked. She passed away in 2016 and she is missed. I would have loved to hear her side of story, but I can hear her saying that when she was on the farm, nobody came up to her and said, “Celestine can I take that crocus sack off your back and carry it to the barn for you?� She had been liberated as a woman all her life.

Now I know what the feud was about.

Roger Converse

In my youth I badly sought to have a cleaning. I wanted to know who God really was. I believed, like so many non-agnostics, but I did not know beyond a feeling that I was loved. It didn’t seem enough to believe without knowing something of what this Person was thinking. Various sacred books describe God as holy (clean or pure). My instincts also told me this. And it nagged me: What does this have to do with me?

Underneath the glass writing blotter on my desk in my Philadelphia home, there are two old photos. One is of a young man posing with his forearm propped on the shoulder of a middleaged man with his hands on his hips. Behind them much of the sky is filled with the white cap of Mount Ararat. The other photo is of an ancient Ottoman fortress, Ishak Pasha Palace, perched in the hills of eastern Turkey. In my closet there is a box with a stack of essay books that I used to make a journal to record my travels.

Forty years ago I sat in my room at the Ersal Hotel in the town of Doğubeyazıt, Turkey. Several days earlier I had boarded a ship in Istanbul headed north on the Bosporus Strait, which empties into the Black Sea. After three days cruising east, I disembarked at the port city of Samsun. Hitching from there, I was taken by a truck driver along the two-day route through mountains and plains to this mid-sized town near the eastern edge of the country.

There was a public teahouse below my hotel room. That afternoon I met a guy in his mid-twenties, whose name was Hamit, who worked there sometimes. Serving my tea, he asked if he could sit at my table to talk. He knew very little English and it was a great opportunity for me to practice the Turkish I had been studying for the past few months while traveling the country. After about an hour of conversation, Hamit invited me to go to the Turkish bath, or hammam, early the next morning. I thought that would be a

great way to start the day and then I would make my 14-kilometer hike to Ishak Pasha Palace. Ever since I had seen a photograph of this beautiful palace in an art gallery in Istanbul I had been determined to visit the place and stand where the photographer stood to capture that shot. This was the primary reason why I traveled that far, about 20 miles from the border of Iran, where 90 American hostages were presently imprisoned. Hamit said that he would take me to a little village outside of town after I got back from seeing the Palace. This was just what I wanted to do while I was out there—actually meet people who have lived in virtually the same culture for thousands of years.

I didn’t make it to the bath that following day. Early that morning I did leave with Hamit thinking that we were going to the hammam. But he decided to go straight to the village. I was so dirty then that I would have skipped the village, but he didn’t tell me he changed his mind until we had gotten off the horse and wagon out of town to further hitchhike for trucks on the highway headed east. Water was supplied to the town bath in Doğubeyazıt only in the early morning. That was when residents came to get their ritual scouring. The change of plan meant I’d miss the bath that day. I was angry that Hamit had changed the plans and not let me in on it. The hotel did not have bathing facilities, as most did not. I had last bathed in Istanbul about a week prior.

Hamit flagged down a truck headed for Iran and we rode about 20 miles from Doğubeyazıt to a mile-long dirt road with deep wagon wheel ruts, which led northward to the village. As we began walking north from the highway, I could see to the east the border patrol across the plain from the village. We went to visit a 60-yearold man who lived there that Hamit knew.

We came to his friend’s hut but only the daughter was there. The outer wall of the hut was 12-inch-thick dried mud. The inside was divided into three chambers separated by hanging fabric. The floor was dirt, covered with carpets. The walls had a couple of mosaic prints hanging on them that resembled tapestries. The young woman said her father was out on the plains cutting grass to bring in for the goats. She walked out about a half-mile with us until he was in view, swinging his scythe.

When we were close enough to call out, he stopped and waited for us to approach. We sat with him for awhile. Hamit gave him 10 packs of tobacco he had bought in town earlier. He rolled some cigarettes and we sat and smoked in the middle of the open plain of sparse, stubby grass. The two of them talked for about 15 minutes while I did my best to understand what they were saying.

At that time I gestured that I wanted to take a picture of them with Ağri Daği (Mount Ararat) in the background. Certain scriptures relate a huge ship that became grounded on the top of this mountain after a devastating flood where all the people of the earth drowned except for those on this arc. Scripture relates it as a necessary bathing or cleansing of humankind. A prefigure of Baptism.

Besides Hamit’s tea-serving job, there was another enterprise in which he was involved, which I was afraid to enter into my journal.

He was a drug smuggler. Poppies, from which heroin is derived, flourished in the country of Turkey, but apparently much more so across the border in Iran. Hamit said he had contacts in Iran and Germany and would transport heroin into Europe. This was a time when Turkey was experiencing much unrest, and one by one, parts of the country were falling under martial law. I felt I had to be careful about entering sensitive material in my log, fearing I might get in trouble if my bags were ever opened at a checkpoint.

We later went back to the man’s hut, where I met two of his other daughters and his Kurdish wife. His wife and three daughters were dressed in brilliantly colored fabric, which contrasted so much with the brown hues of the field and the few surrounding mud structures. His wife had some flatbread baking on a rock in the sun, which she served us with yogurt made with goat milk. I was grateful for the meal.

Hamit then gestured that we should leave. He had known I was annoyed I hadn’t had a bath before we went out for the day, so he had a consolation plan. About a mile away across the plane there was a small river. Perhaps it bordered the two countries. We both got down to our skivvies and went into the river to have a bath.

While we were standing waist deep in the water, there was a man who approached us at the other bank. I assumed he was Iranian. I

had this strange feeling of overexposure standing in my underwear with what some might consider the “enemy” approaching. Although I didn’t understand the words that were exchanged between him and Hamit, the casual tone of the conversation put me at ease.

We did not have any soap with us, and after I was dry I didn’t feel any cleaner than before I had my bath.

The holiness I sought I thought I could find in the aggregate of people of faith. I needed to shed my ignorance, like dirt with water.

Surely God would show me holiness. What did he want me to do?

It can’t be just intuition. It seemed like I had not gotten any closer, not yet.

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

I'm still discovering things in my house as I downsize from having rooms filled with those precious articles of stuff I love... Books, storage boxes photographs, music (45’s, 331/3’s, and even some 78s), clothing, knick knack paddy whack give a dog a bone... it's all so much.

The creativity of my mind makes me want to focus only on my writing, making jewelry, collecting old cameras, and wondering when I will have the time to deal with it all. Actually, I don't want to deal with it, look at it, or think about any of it. I want to sit by a quiet stream and completely contemplate life through writing about it. But I'm always reverted back to all of the paper, ink and fountain pens, decisions, decisions, decisions... I'm going to go to sleep. Maybe I'll have better attitude tomorrow.

Stuff, things, trash, decisions, Contemplation woes Can drive you crazy

Rosalyn Cliett-Anderson

Have you ever met someone and had an instant attraction that went pass how a person look, and even pass the things that turn your lust on? You know, things like “I like a tall man” or “I like them with muscles” etc, etc, etc. Well there was something more, something compelling about this person who you wanted to know more, be more connected with.

Well I met this man through my mother; they worked on the same job. And he would come and pick her up every morning for work. And I was asked to work on that job as a fill-in for about three weeks. His skin color was like charcoal, and when he’d open his mouth to smile with his beautiful, pearl-like teeth, or speak with his strong, rich West Indies accent, I was smitten. We started going out to movies, plays, parks, sometimes having breakfast, dinner, or lunch, and sex. We were two very passionate people, passionate in everything we did, and we became as one. We were so entangled; it was like we knew each other’s thoughts without even speaking. After the person I was filling in for returned to work, we continued to see each other, and things was nice.

I had more time on my hands, and a lot of things started happening in my life, and I needed some answers. So I called on Jesus for some help and the answers. He in return called me to Himself. That’s around the time I told my friend I had to change some things in my life because of my choice to follow Jesus. My friend wasn’t a religious man, nor a church-goer, but he had a real reverence for the Lord and bowed out gracefully. And I knew it was the Lord because it overrode both of our feelings. So we went our separate ways.

I became consumed with the Church, and the things of God. Learning, singing, ushering, studying, and praying. We would run into each other from time to tim, usually at the time he would be dropping my mother off. And when we’d see each other we would grin and smile and flirt. And then greet each other with a kiss.

Then go about our business.

A couple of years later, the Church I was in at the time had two to three services on Sunday. So I stopped by my mother’s house on the way to the Church so she could see how beautiful the dress was we made for the choir, and how nice it looked. Then she had informed me that Charley and the rest of the crew from the job were all going over to Anthony’s house, a reception celebration of his wedding. In my mind I said Wedding! So I hurried off to the Church with my mind made up that I wasn’t going to any other service but that one because I was going to make it my business to be there at the reception.

So as soon as the service was over, I jetted out the door in order to catch a ride with the other co-workers only to get home to find I had just missed them. So I said I’d catch a bus, but there wasn’t a bus that ran near his house. Meanwhile it was like I was driven and getting a little crazy, and while I was trying to call a cab, all I could think was, How dare he! And that I was going to go up there, make eye contact, turn around and leave, knowing he would come after me. I even tried to get a hack, but wasn’t able to get a ride nowhere. And I just broke down and cried, cried like a baby….

After getting myself together I went back to the Church.

What was so peculiar about the whole thing was that I didn’t have any claims on him. We wasn’t even seeing each other, for two years had passed. And how I lost it and then pulled it back together, and I didn’t give it any more thought.

Dear Family, The first Love in my life. We were such a close-knit family. Back then we lived within a block or two from each other. I grew up with all of my Aunts, Uncles and cousins. We did everything together—we would play together, get in trouble together, pray together, Picnics, camping, go to the Y... you name it, we did it.

Our Parents were close and they kept us close. There were seven in the Hatten clan (four boys and three girls), plus there were two sets of first cousins: the older set which I was a part of, and the younger set, totaling 22. One of my cousins, Floyd, who we called Ja bo’, would make his rounds coming from school.

He'd stop over my Aunt Irene's house first, eat a little something, then over to our house to see what my mom had cooked, eat. And he loved her fried chicken and potato salad. And then go around the corner where he lived and eat again.

We had a lot of family gatherings. One such was in Fairmount Park between the two lakes, where the trees covered us with shade and the water was God made. You never tasted anything like it—it was Crystal clear, Ice cold, and Refreshing. I'm so glad I had the experience and the memory, because to see it now would only break your heart. Some things in your memory are priceless, because there is no evidence to my claim unless you came to one of our picnics. We also had family gatherings at my house.

My parents had the largest house. After all, it was seven of us: My Mother, Father, my Grandmother and four siblings. And when or wherever we got together

there was always Plenty of Food involved. The adults would commandeer the living room, dining room, and kitchen areas where they would socialize with laughter, eating and drinking, and playing Pinochle.

We, on the other hand—that is, me and my cousins— would spend time playing outside, or sitting on the porch eating and talking, or sometimes we'd be in the basement listening to music and dancing. All I know is that we enjoyed each other and had a lot of fun.

Remember I told you we also got in trouble together.

I remember a time when I was over at my cousins’ having dinner, and at nine and ten we weren't that fond of string beans. And we knew the only way up from that table was to clean our plates. Food was a big part of our family tradition; you were welcome to eat as much as you please, accompanied by “Just Don't Waste Any”.

Because I knew the Golden Rule, I would have reluctantly eaten them, but my cousin Jackie had no tolerance for those beans. So she came up with this ingenious Ideal, so we thought, of how to get rid of the string beans. She thought if we would scrape them behind the stove there was no way her mom would know. So we did. But back then when they would clean, they didn't just surface clean, they would pull the stove out to clean behind it... BUSTED! Boy I tell you the lecture and the beating we got was so memorable. And that never happened again. As an adult I happen to Love string beans. Today my cousin still doesn't eat string beans.

I really miss the togetherness we once shared as a family. In this dispensation of time so many things has come to tear at the foundation of families. And like most families we only see each other at a Funeral, or Wedding….

But we are making a real effort to pull our Families back together.

Johngeline Ferguson

Love

I know that feeling, too Up high floating like balloons and bubbles Love, I feel you

Garden Coming alive from the Earth Seeds, soil, water, sun, and human help Harvest, Garden to table

Hair Kinky coarse tightly curled 4C-type My natural hair, always hungry for moisture Love my nappy hair

Flowers Colorful assortment of Nature's decor Cheerful tears and smiles upon her face Flowers, bee's lovers, too

Her Mother Earth, Mother Nature too Richly, royally, and naturally pigmented, she's gorgeous Momma, I love you

Anonymous

I would sow these seeds…

sunflowers that touch the sky and soar so high

& yank these weeds…

the litter, the waste, the neglect leaving only a peaceful place to reflect

Some branches I’ll prune…

the branches for touching by tiny hands

& these are the words I’ll say into the soil…

Thank you. I can return to you always. Thank you.

So we can harvest…

the future.

Earl Hackett

I went back to “D” to see what I could see.

The “D” is for Detroit, the Motor City, the home of Motown.

I discovered that working on the assembly line was not for me.

I went back to the city, to visit and to see a little bit of history.

The Henry Ford Museum is full of cars.

But I got excited when I saw the BUS. I shouldn’t say—but I wanted you to know—before I go.

I won’t lie about all the books I’ve read.

And I’m still reading, cause I’m not dead.

It’s because of them that I’ve really grown.

And these are the words that they have sown.

I have finally reached a PARTICULAR age, And I’m about to reach a SPECTACULAR stage.

I’m not really looking for fortune and fame, Sometimes I’m just glad I remember my name.

Maybe an attitude of gratitude has kept me around.

I’ve got to do something before they put me in the ground.

These words have come from many places, From various times, and different spaces.

I just hope that I have listened to the right crowd.

Listening to Giants and Legends shouldn’t be wrong, In FACT, I know they made me strong.

When my time comes I have to go, I just wanted you to know, I’m GOING to leave something behind.

When all the thoughts have left my mind, It’s not about the money and the gold, I gotta leave something GOOD for your soul.

Writing and rhyming never gets old.

It helps to have fun, and it’s fun to be bold.

I’m having a ball, and that ain’t all.

I’m DEFINITELY, leaving something behind.

I sat in the seat that started it all They got rid of the rust and wiped it all down.

Rosa was her name, and now she wears a crown.

She left a legacy—now everyone knows her fame.

She took a stand by staying in her seat!

I sat in her actual seat.

And I thought, WOW, this was neat!

Hidden Figures seemed to reveal what’s real— Reading, writing, “higher math” IS a good deal.

If I don’t write my story, no one else will.

I’m writing to leave something behind.

Mom was about survival, I’m about arrival.

She left a legacy that will be hard to beat.

She survived it all and stayed on her feet.

Working until she was 85 was really bold.

She took the bus to work—even in the Detroit cold.

Dad was rough, and it made me tough, I could have gone left, but I stayed right.

And because of them both I continue the fight.

That’s why I GOT to leave something behind.

When I give you my card with my link, I give you part of my soul.

The business may have changed, but the logo never gets old.

The little scrappy kid from the DETROIT, east side of town, Finally grew up, and YES, I got around.

I’ve been to seven different countries on three separate continents.

Some of it was due to working for Uncle Sam; Air Force and Army were more than just a game.

It became a part of my name.

Then some of the travel was due To just who I am and WHAT I do.

Life is a big adventure, and I just had to get away.

I escaped the auto plant to discover the world.

How can I be the “Duke of Earl” without looking at the world?

Sure, some of it was for the “call of duty” And some was to just view THE BEAUTY. I’ve seen the desert land in Africa, and the snow peaks of Europe.

I missed the battle in the jungle, but I crossed the Atlantic more than twice.

When you go to the library, you see a lot of books.

When you visit my blog, you’ll see my various looks.

That was how I PLANNED to leave something behind.

But once it’s in the cloud, you got to have the link.

Lose the link, and you will never know HOW I think.

Writing a book is no easy task, But once written, the thoughts will last.

Standing in the Shadows, Listening to the Greats!!!

Will bear my name. And who knows? Maybe I’ll see some fame.

That’s how I will leave something behind, so stay tuned!

I plan to publish before this June.

Before I finally let you go, There’s one thing I got to know.

What are you doing to do with the time you have left?

“The greatest stories will never be told. They are buried in the graveyards, along with all the people who never told their story.” —Viola Davis (Oscar, Tony, and Emmy Award winner)

Jacob Eyer Danny Eyer, Musician It’s a Tuesday night, my father, Danny Eyer, and I sit at the Penrose Diner in Philadelphia, like we do nearly every Tuesday at 11 p.m. because his work always finishes late at night. This job isn’t even the latest he is let out. As a musician, times vary depending on the business and location. We sit at a booth and a waitress takes our drink order. My father looks a bit worn from tonight, but he is 55 years old, so who can blame him? However, he still has that same wonderful smile upon his face. I ask, “When was your first gig?”

Well it was at this place called Seashore Garden (in South Jersey).

It was actually an elderly home. They were used to, you know, all the oldies tunes. But the first song we played was “Double Vision”

by Foreigner. So we were blasting this loud tune, I was jammin’ and jumped off the drum stage riser. It was great, and their faces looked like this: He looked at me with a face that could best be described as an elderly person’s confusion or light surprise. I laughed for about a minute at his facial accuracy. The drinks came and we ordered our food. I asked afterwards if those at the elderly home enjoyed the playing.

Yes, they did, even though they probably didn’t know what was happening, they were very happy….Yeah it was simple gigs in my teens that started my thinking. I thought, “Hey, I’m pretty good at this, and I can get paid for it.” Playing music came naturally to me, especially guitar. My first instructor tried teaching me and then said that my fingers were too stubby and that I’d never be able to play.

The irony of this was that my father has played with many different bands, traveled around the world, and has performed with a few famous people, like Chuck Berry, the Drifters, mostly 50’s rock stars. I asked if he always wanted to do music, as a career, and if there was anything else he could do that was financially stable.

I always knew I wanted to do music, but my dad always wanted me to be an electrician like him. I was never interested in it, I didn’t want it or like it at all. He always reminded me of it. I kept playing music and at one point, I was really low on money. Then I decided to take an internship with your grandfather’s union. Yeah, he was in a union and they gave a lot of good opportunities. I started their four-year program and I was making money hand over fist. I was pretty good at it. I got A’s and B’s, but I didn’t find any interest in it, in anyway. Well, in my second year a friend of mine calls and says this band called “Danny and the Juniors” is taking auditions. They’re a touring band and they travel to a lot of different places. So I went and tried out, got in, and they wanted me to start traveling. I said yes and told my father that I was quitting the apprenticeship. He looked at me and said, “Son, you gotta do what you gotta do.” The union was pretty mad at me, but they never directly came for me, they always went to my dad. My dad took care of all the backlash of what I did…

I finished his sentence by saying, “so you could be happy?”

Yes, because music is what I loved. It’s just what I loved. I mean, I was really making money with electricity.

I inserted that it makes sense because electricians are always needed. He nodded in agreement. I asked if could go back and change his choice, would he?

No, I would’ve still chosen music. But my dad always told me I should stick out the four years and then I could do what I wanted to do. I couldn’t wait and so I left. If I could change anything I would’ve been patient. I guess I would’ve stuck out the four years just to have something to fall back on…but I would’ve still chose music over electricity.

But you know with Danny and the Juniors I was going places.

Sometimes they would fly us out to a really fancy hotel and we would play in tuxedos. Sometimes we would hop in vans and drive thirty-two ours to Texas to play. But you know I went to a lot of different places, like Tokyo and pretty much wherever we were booked.

What happened with Nashville, speaking of different places— Well, obviously when you were one years old your mom and I moved us to Nashville because we both wanted to do more music and focus on it. We got jobs at Gibson and you were mostly at daycare.

How may jobs did you get there in comparison to Jersey?

Not very many, I would say throughout the whole year I got, I say, twelve to twenty gigs. That was not a lot. In Jersey I had about 247 in an average year. Well, your mom and I were not getting a lot of time with you and your mom was homesick. So we moved back.

I had just gotten a text for my father from my mother asking if he would be picking up my sister from school tomorrow. He replied: I don’t know yet. I think so, but my gig was never confirmed for tomorrow so I’m not sure…but yeah, we moved back. There just wasn’t enough work for musicians out there, not enough demand.

But I don’t regret music as my career choice. I still love doing it… even your old dad still loves playing music.

We laughed and got the check.

Anonymous A flower grows even in the most unlikely places. Its beauty does not care of the grime that is near it. It grows and prevails.

Blooming. That’s what I see in this place: lots of beautiful flowers. Each has petals of different shades, unique to their experience. It gives a sensation that is humbling.

One of the bricks in front of my house the sidewalks on Powelton and a cherry tree flower.

saxophone music is very relevant here

Carol Richardson McCullough

Robert Watts is an associate teaching professor of English at Drexel University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. As a young student in the public schools of the District of Columbia, he had to devise crafty solutions to evade older schoolmates who would shake him down for money at lunchtime or after school. Though he lived in an enclave of lower middle-class families, his junior high catchment area included a population of public housing students. Watts describes his younger self as a driven, athletically talented smart kid who loved to learn but was preyed upon by tough guys as old as seventeen who were nonetheless still in the ninth grade. He’d try to act bad, putting up a façade for selfdefense. But the fellas saw through it and robbed Rob anyway, finding the money he’d carefully hidden within the secret compartment of his windbreaker jacket’s hood.

When his seventh-grade teachers began sending home notes on report cards saying, “Robert is behaving poorly,” his mother decided it was time to act. She sent him to a private Catholic school as an alternative to the downward pull of the public school. The change was immediate and pronounced: mostly white students, led by monks, a more rigorous curriculum. His new classmates were extremely bright and highly motivated—so much so it made his young mind wonder, “Were the Black kids just bad, or what?”

It was here that Robert received his first D in math. He had to learn to adjust and work smart to work through it.

In time he experienced an internal conflict, which arose from trying to hang with his old friends from the neighborhood while striving to get his studies done at proficiency in his newly strenuous academic environment. Robert at times felt himself switching back and forth between two persons, experiencing

situational discomfort and a slight racial confusion, feeling almost like he was two different people. W.E.B. Du Bois, the scholarly African American author, activist, and social critic, called this phenomenon the “double consciousness,” the sense of “twoness” talented Black folk feel in America as they struggle to maintain balance while walking the tightrope between two worlds, Black and white.

Some of his old friends from these younger days didn’t make it, fell off. When the now Professor Watts inquired about the people he knew way back when in those younger days, he found out that a close friend had died. Another friend was in jail, murdered someone. The Struggle is, was, and always will be, real, indeed.

Fortunately, Robert found a certain relief in his new school, where he was able to be his own self, nerdy and fun-loving, when he wanted to be, and serious and scholarly when he needed to be. The student body was smaller and not too clique-ish. He found his own rhythm there, his own stride, and he made it work. Worked it all the way through Harvard University….

But that’s another story.

Kerianne Edwards Dami, 18, is from Lagos, Nigeria and attends Drexel University.

He is currently a sophomore on his first co-op (5-year, 3 co-op sequence), working at a regional engineering firm. He is majoring in chemical engineering.

(Dami) There are many paths you can take within the field [of chemical engineering]. Most lead up to a pretty comfortable lifestyle. Research was also very big for me. I worked in the Palmese research lab during my freshman year as a polymer scientist. The sciences also appealed to me through certain coursework—math and chemistry are MY subjects. My greatest influence was my dad, though; he really showed me the beauty of curiosity and influencing the world around you with the knowledge within you.

I work at a materials manufacturer on the Main Line, the most anticlimactic, mundane, and routine engineering job ever to exist, but it pays great so it’s cool, I guess. I am an intermediate co-op chemical engineer. As for what I do, that depends on if it’s before or after I messed up multiple times in the lab and got pulled out.

In the former, I would work in the research and development lab to help produce algae-resistant shingles. It was mostly a lot of long-term experimentation and routine maintenance while capturing progress imagery to see how much algae had grown on a sample. I just kinda do whatever they tell me to do, which right now is sorting out inventory in the machine shop.

Full Time?

[He laughs.] It doesn’t get more full time than this. I wake up at 7 a.m. every day, walk 20 minutes in rain, shine, or snow to 30th

Street Station, get on a 50-minute train (which is almost always late), get off at my stop to stand outside for another 20 minutes in rain, shine, or snow for the shuttle, and then get to work 20 minutes after, just to be criticized for being late more often than not.

That sounds terrible.

Easy commute, if you ask me [He shrugs and smiles.]

Are you at least happy with your job?

I fucking hate it! Can’t wait to leave in March. Unfortunately, I chose this co-op because of the money. Seeing the luxurious lifestyles and setting when I had the interview kind of clouded my vision. I think more than anything I hate being cooped up in the same building 40 hours a week. I’m naturally an adventurous person; I need adrenaline in my life. Being in the same desk doing the same task every day for 6 months doesn’t help that. I’d like to move between facilities, trying to figure projects out with my boss and taking more initiative. So, something definitely a lot more interactive.

Well, what are the pros and cons of your job?

Well for pros, the company is really rich. Like, excessively rich.

Like, super headquarters, indoor food court, 3 monitors per employee, lake with geese, company gym, 30 sports cars and 40 SUVs rich. It’s my first real job and I get paid 18 dollars an hour, but there are people here that easily make 80, 90, and even 120 dollars an hour. The job isn’t strict with time cards so I can log in full hours even though I might come late (well, later than usual) once in a while. The food is great, it looks good on a resume, and I get to tell girls that I work at a Fortune 500 company but it’s NOT WORTH IT. The money is never enough. There are people here that make six figures and are low-key miserable. The thing is, big corporations use money as a trap. “Oh, yeah, this will cover your loans or mortgage and let you live comfortably,” but even after things pass, they increase your salary for more incentive. If you

ever find yourself asking if the money is worth it, then it probably isn’t worth it.

For cons, ummm, well, there’s the commute. Oh my God! Then there’s the whole situation with me not being able to work in the lab—several long stories short, these guys think I’m some teen genius because I have a great GPA but this is still my first real job, so I really didn’t know how things worked, so I broke stuff and hurt myself a little. I tried to keep working there but my confidence was destroyed and the constant xenophobic aura here didn’t help. Oh yeah, the xenophobia. Someone literally asked me what animals I was living around when I went home to Nigeria for Christmas. I’m part of the three percent of black people here. I’ve met with HR at least four times now because I’m always either complaining about something or someone’s complaining about me.

What has your co-op experience taught you? How did it influence your choice of career in the future?

You know… honestly, it’s the reason almost everyone chooses Drexel—for engineering, at least. The chance to work and see what you like, gain experience, earn money, and apply theoretical knowledge all before you graduate is amazing. I am genuinely grateful for this co-op. I figured out what kind of career I definitely did not want and realized that I was more inclined entrepreneurially because I kept searching for something fulfilling to fill the void. I learned the hard way how to manage my money and why it’s so critical. I learned how important it is to be active and take care of your health. In the future, I know I could never work in a corporate setting; I need a good amount of freedom to be truly productive. That’s why I have Green Haus. It’s a lounge for people to come and showcase their arts, from music to spoken words, to dance routines and developing an art gallery. As a member of the executive board, I hope to expand the organization with my business and entrepreneurial skills while networking with different people I don’t usually see at Drexel and with people that live in the community. Yo, you were there helping out too. [He smiles wider.] We got so many people to come out to our first

venue. Imagine when we have enough money to decorate and make Green Haus feel more like home. It’ll be great.

Vidya, 19, majors in entrepreneurship. She too attends Drexel and is the founder of Green Haus.

Oh my gosh, yes! Dami is great. [She smiles.]

I met him last year. We lived on the same floor in Myers and I met him through a friend. Surprisingly enough, we became great enough friends that we ended up producing Green Haus. I definitely couldn’t have done it without him, though. I met you and Alexis through him, and by the way, you guys are the fucking best for getting people to come in to perform and sell their artwork and stay with us that night to set up the house for our first venue.

Ultimately, Green Haus is a collaborative lounge and venue for showcasing all sorts of talent. Over time we want to conduct mini eco-friendly activities that almost anyone can participate in throughout the week and open up the space for clubs on campus to utilize. I really want there to be a home-y type of vibe, you know, chillin’. [She begins to sway and look up at the ceiling.] Sippin’ coffee and listening to some dope ass music... you know, stuff like that. A place to kickback.

[She stops swaying and looks at me.] Dami is, like, the biggest fan of Green Haus. [She laughs.] He does have the keys to enter as well, and I swear he comes down every day after work. One of the first things he usually says is, “I’m at my real job.” It’s hilarious.

Patricia Burton

Grand Mom Bea Grand Mom Bea, as she was affectionately known in the family, was a fun-loving, outgoing and jovial woman. Her deep laughter brightened every corner and resonated throughout the house.

Blue, pink and white flowers spread themselves joyfully across her ample bosom, and wide shoulders and hips of the faded house dress she seemed to wear almost every day like a uniform.

Balancing a cigarette precariously between smiling, pursed lips while cooking, cleaning and gambling, she would flash a matching set of dimples that could disarm even the most seasoned Pinochle or Tonk player for a split second. But that’s all it took in the gambling world. Cut throat was the name of the game. With her head held high and tilted just so, Beatrice Burton moved through life with a fierce confidence born of being comfortable in one’s own skin. She wasn’t privy to petty things like gossip, but she definitely wasn’t church material either.

Her house was the party house. There was always a rent party, a card party, and of course a speakeasy. Even when nothing special was going on, people just seemed to like being around her easy going way of being. Of course I always liked the parties cause that meant food, music, cousins… in that order.

Beatrice was my paternal grandmother and got married at 16 before my father was born, in 1926. Her family migrated from Columbia, S.C. during the late thirties during the Great Migration, a period from 1910-1960 when over 6 million Black people left the Southern states and travelled North. They were searching for opportunity, jobs, and reprieve from the oppressive Jim Crow South.

When families migrated they tried to relocate close to one another

and they socialized on weekends and holidays. Sometimes three 11

When families migrated, they tried to relocate close to one another and they socialized on weekends and holidays. Sometimes three generations lived in a house or apartment with plenty of aunts, uncles and cousins living on the same block. Families spent more time together back then, supporting and protecting each other.

Our opportunities were more limited then, but now the whole world is open. Families move away, life goes on. Hopefully folks remember and cherish family memories, traditions and stories.

It’s our stories that write us and bring to life our ancestors’ struggle to prepare the way for us.

Grand Mom Leila It saddens me that I don’t have any pictures of my Grand Mom Leila, my maternal grandmother. But I see her face every time I look in the mirror. Her fiery hazel brown eyes, high resolute cheek bones and adventurous spirit still feel familiar to me… like a comfortable pair of shoes tucked away in the back of the closet. At 5 years old I’d spend hours plaiting, twisting and styling her long silver gray hair, which she usually wore in two plaits wrapped around her head several times. She was a rather buxom woman not much prone to laughter, and there was a quiet reassurance about her that commanded attention and gained respect. When Leila spoke everyone listened. Even the children.

It was busy at both of my grandmothers’ houses, but each one was a different kind. Leila was the Wise One and was usually surrounded by at least half a dozen of her grandchildren at any given time. We learned structure, responsibility and of course, discipline.

It seems like all the activity centered around the kitchen, my favorite place. By age 4 years old I discovered the “fine art of volunteering.” I found out that helping out in the kitchen always meant free food. I loved to lick the cake pan after the batter was poured and set in the oven. One time I almost ate half a jar of Baby Gherkins pickles that were supposed to go into the potato salad.

The story goes that I unabashedly exchanged kisses with my

Godmother Latrelle in exchange for yet another pickle. I don’t care much for Gherkins today, but I really love potato salad.

I think Leila had the cure for everything and I particularly recall her spring cleaning regime. She would line all of us up chronologically and we would each be obliged to partake of her ghastly concoction… a drop of turpentine on a cube of sugar. I’m not sure what it was supposed to have done, but we never got sick or missed a day from school.

But the worst remedy of all was yet to come… Castor Oil. Once again she’d line us up age wise and begin to give each one of us a teaspoon of Castor Oil followed by ½ cup of orange juice. I was the youngest and always got mine first. It was torturous how slowly it moved… in the bottle… out the bottle… onto the spoon… into your mouth… Yuk! I would laugh at my older cousins who had to witness the agony and groans of all the younger ones. But we all belonged to Leila so there was no mercy. The same fate awaited all of us… big and small. Leila was tough, but she was fair. She taught us how to get along and look out for one another and we did that.

Then everyone grew up and moved away. Hopefully, they took a bit of Leila with them.

Indervir Singh

He is a man who looks to be in his thirties. He grew up in Philadelphia and did his undergraduate at Temple University.

His love for mathematics, art, music, and religion led him to do a double major in religious studies and mathematics. He got his master’s degree at Drexel University, and he later got his doctorate so that he could teach mathematics at Drexel.

Where did you see yourself in the future when you were my age?

When I was finishing up high school, I spent a lot of my time doing art and music outside of school, and partially inside of school. And I was pretty good at math, so I was always kind of torn between doing something technical using math or pursuing art and music and some combination of those things. At the same time, I worked with my uncle, who owns an art gallery and custom frame shop, so I did a lot of that work all through high school and through undergraduate. There was always kind of in the back of my mind that I could see myself doing this, too. So I definitely didn’t have a clear answer for myself or a clear trajectory coming out of high school and even into college. I went to Temple undeclared for the first year and a half and was taking as many math classes as I could, because that’s what I really liked studying. Then eventually I decided, like, I’m almost done so I should probably finish a math major because I have taken most of those classes already. But yeah, I didn’t really have a clear picture in mind.

I know that you also teach a Mathematics and Music course. What is that like?

Yeah, it’s been really fun, and this is the first time I’m teaching a class like that and it’s pretty cool to see the intersection actually happening in my professional work, as I’ve always played music on the side, but there was never like any real intersection between what I do professionally and what I do on the side.

I felt very comfortable talking to him at this point, and we ended up going off on a tangent about our musical hobbies and knowledge.

What inspired you to become a professor?

So, this was also kind of a circuitous path for me. I finished my undergrad at Temple, and I had double majored in math and religious studies because one of the core requirements was a class in international studies and then a class in race studies, and for both of them I ended up taking classes that focused on religion. I got super interested, especially in Eastern religion, and I got really passionate about that stuff, and part of me also consider going to grad school for it.

But then I went to Greece for a few months, and when I came back I worked with my uncle for a bit while I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do, and I was working with him full time for like a year and a half after undergrad. And then I decided to pursue math in grad school, so I came to Drexel, and the first experience I ever had teaching was when I came for grad student orientation, and they were like “Here’s a book… you’re teaching pre-calc on Monday,” but without any like real training or background or anything like that. But I discovered really quickly that I loved it; I really loved the teaching side of things. So I ended up finishing a master’s in math here, and then shortly after graduating I got contacted by the department here, and they hired me to teach fulltime in the math department. Then a couple of years into doing that I started my doctorate in education, which I then finished like

a year and a half ago. So for the last four years, I was teaching parttime but also working on my doctorate education.

And I guess that the moment where I figured out that that’s what I wanted to do was when I started teaching and actually being in the classroom. I found myself more interested in thinking about how we learn math and how we teach math and how to find the intersections between those things to best teach math to students.

I found those questions more engaging than a lot of the researchlevel math that I was learning as a grad student.

Hearing this response was very surprising because up until this point, I had assumed professors cared more about their research than teaching. Dr. Papadopoulos’ answer changed my perspective on professors and how they feel about the classroom environment.

The cool thing about researching education is that you’re pretty much always doing research… like, once you get that training as a researcher in education, you’re always thinking in those terms when you’re teaching.

Why did you choose math?

So, I think from an early age I liked how universally applicable it was. It’s something that my grandfather used to tell me when I was little, and he had what was probably the equivalent of an eighthgrade education in Greece, but he always insisted that math is the thing that if you learn it, you can learn anything. I think that’s largely true… I mean, obviously in the sciences, math is really important, but then in music what I’m getting to explore is how music theory always felt really mathematical to me when I was studying it, but there are really clear and explicit ways you can draw parallels and connections between math and music. I always like how it keeps you connected to anything you want to learn. And as an undergrad, I discovered that even regarding writing, I started seeing the parallels between how to think about writing an essay and how to think about constructing a mathematical proof.

And when I started seeing those connections, writing made a lot

more sense. So even in terms of writing, the math-y side of my brain helped me develop the tools to be a better writer.

I remember reading a book containing the lectures of a famous physics professor, and in every chapter, it would boil down mathematics. Even the chapters about biology and psychology, where I thought math was not applied, math could still be connected to it.

Yeah, so if you’re good at math, then you can apply it to anything, because math is so purely abstract. It’s like the ultimate training ground for your mind because it doesn’t depend on reality in any way, so when you’re doing the math and you’re studying the math, there’s like no limit to how difficult and complex and deep it can get. You know what I mean? So, it’s like a training ground for your brain because it teaches you how to think methodically and systematically and to be clear in your exposition and that kind of stuff, translated to lots of other disciplines.

What do you enjoy the most about teaching and interacting with the students?

I mean, a big part of it is just that I enjoy communicating ideas and explaining ideas. But what I found over the years is that teaching is way more than just how well you explain things… that’s one of the issues I take with some educators, and I think sometimes the problem with educators is that they mistake lecturing and teaching as being the same thing. I was saying to a student earlier today about how next term we have lectures and recitations for MATH 200 instead of just lectures like we do now.

I was saying that I’m sort of worried about having to be in a class of 200 people at a time instead of 40, which is still a lot, but with 40 I can still more or less tell that the way I just said something doesn’t make sense. Even if it’s not an explicit dialogue, there is still some feedback, like some forlorn or confused look, which is enough for me to know that something’s not right. And I think you lose that when the classes get overwhelmingly large, you know?

But that’s because I’ve discovered that teaching is different from lecturing. Like, it’s one thing to be able to explain the concept well

enough to make it interesting and stuff, but the other side of it then is the engagement piece with students.

This explains why I enjoy his classes so much. Being a professor is so much more than telling students how something is done—it’s more of a personal experience where he can engage with students and find the best way to make sure they can learn the material and enjoy it. I mentioned an interview I read about various professors, and Sharon Bolman, a professor at the University of Advancing Technology, also states that “The best part of being a teacher is the interaction with the students… I really enjoy the mentorship aspect of teaching. It’s very rewarding at the college level.”

Professors enjoy helping others, and it is quite inspirational.

I enjoy communicating ideas in whatever form that it takes.

There’s the challenge of trying to convince somebody they can learn something they think they can’t, and math is one of those subjects people are like “I’m either a math person or not.” My philosophy has to be that it’s way overblown… yeah, maybe there’s some biological wiring in the brain that makes you slightly more adept at math than somebody else. But at the end of the day, we’re all basically born with the same sort of structure in the head, so it’s a matter of figuring out where the hang-ups are, how the gaps in knowledge result in this insecurity about the ability to learn math and how to get around those… so there’s that challenge component, and I really enjoy people. Getting to do something where it’s all about interacting with people is huge.

What do you dislike about being a professor?

So, my default answer is often that I hate grading… I mean, it’s not that I hate grading, it’s that I hate having a volume of grading a lot of times that makes it so that I can’t grade the way that I would like to. A lot of times there’s just too much grading to do that it’s not tenable to have something really substantive, like writing a paragraph, because then that makes a hundred and fifty-four

paragraphs that I have to read. There isn’t enough time to juggle all my other responsibilities. So, the only thing I don’t like is not having enough time and resources. Nothing about teaching part itself, because even the grading part is informative and that’s also research and insight into how students think and what difficulties they have and that’s an important part of the job. But there are a lot of students, and there are finite resources, so that part can be a bit frustrating.

I feel like I would understand the material more if you required us to be able to explain the math qualitatively, so I understand where your viewpoint is coming from.

Yeah, I mean that kind of reflective work is huge. Having to explain how you think about something has an impact on how you understand it. To go back to your previous question, I think another thing that I always liked about teaching is that it forces you to really learn something. Even the math I don’t talk about on a daily basis in the calc classes that I am teaching right now, I know it better because I’ve internalized that information better because I’m always worried about how to teach math. There’s reciprocity there, between teaching and learning. Yeah, so that sort of thing you were saying and then kinda coupled with that is what I would want Calc 1 to be. It’s not necessarily what the Calc 1 I teach is because you have majors like engineering wanting so many learning outcomes for their students coming out of our Calc 1 class, physics wanting something else, and math wanting something else. The politics of it can be frustrating, I guess.

To bounce off what you just said, what is the biggest challenge you face as a professor?

That’s part of it for me, like that juggling process… trying to do so kind of in line with my own teaching philosophy and within the constraints that the institution places. There’s the way you want to do something, which is usually constrained by the number of resources you have available. Once you have them available to you, the most challenging part for me is figuring out how to do this

as much the way that I want to while still satisfying all of the boundary conditions…. Yeah, so that’s the most challenging part.

Before this interview, I thought the most challenging part of teaching would be the students who refuse to learn, but it was really eye-opening to see the limitations of resources are what challenge Dr. Papadopoulos the most. It really displays how much he loves teaching and dislikes being unable to do it.

Could you explain this juggling of resources you have to do a bit more? I find it really interesting.

Yeah, so Drexel is an interesting place for me, because on the one hand, there are so many resources here that as faculty and students, if you have a vision in mind of something you want to do, you can make it happen, and the resources are here. For example, for this Math and Music class, they asked if I wanted to teach a class, and I said sure, and then they asked what I wanted to teach, and I said math and music, and they’re like “Okay.” They didn’t really ask for much else, but when it comes to the whole curriculum process for major-specific requirements, it’s a super lengthy process, and there’s like committee after committee all the stuff has to go through, and again, your department has to figure out how this class is connected to all these different majors so they all get some in the learning outcomes.

Would you always be a professor, even if your salary got cut in half? What would it take for you to stop teaching?

I don’t think I can imagine not teaching. Yeah, at certain points I thought about whether I would ever want to move into an administrative role in education. Mostly I hate meetings too much to even consider being an administrator, but yeah, even if I were to do that, the nice thing about working in an institution of higher education is you can still teach, and you don’t ever have to stop teaching. I mean, even if something else came up I don’t financially need the money from teaching. But I still can’t imagine not doing it. I mean, I try not to take this for granted, but I can’t

imagine having the same day-to-day as of all my family friends who aren’t in education (specifically, who aren’t in higher education). This [interview] is part of my day, whereas if I worked like a nine-to-five office job in the industry, this would not be a random interruption in my day.

So, on the one hand, you end up teaching a lot of the same stuff over and over again, but the students are always different, the classroom is always different, and with how you teach, it’s always different. The other thing that’s easy to take for granted being in college is that everybody around you is working towards something. So you have faculty who are doing research, you have administrators… I made good friends with a guy who was in enrollment analytics here, doing statistical modeling for recruitment for Drexel. He ended up taking one of my classes a few summers ago, and we ended up becoming buddies afterward.

And even someone like him in administration was building toward something. There’s, like, larger goals regarding the university as a whole, and its students are here to figure out what they want to do with their lives and get the tools to do that. You get past that, and you get into whatever your profession is, but I wouldn’t want that to go away… You know what I’m saying? I want to feel like I’m still growing and figuring out what I’m building up for myself and getting the tools to do what it is I care about in my day to day life.

At an institution of higher education, you’re just constantly surrounded by that, and it’s not to be taken for granted as a student or someone who works here. So yeah, I can’t imagine not doing this.

The idea that a professor can grow as much as the students do in the classroom is intriguing. I told him that I had read an interview with professors where Dr. MaryAnne Hyland stated “One of the most difficult aspects of my job is that there is always more that I can do. Whether it is improving the content and delivery of a course or conducting research myself, the job is never done.” This is important because I understand that being a professor is more about self-growth that can lead to the growth of others. If the professor is not

growing, then the students cannot reap the benefits of a grown teacher. In Dr. Papadopoulos’ class, I certainly feel I am learning a lot from a teacher is who constantly updating their teaching techniques and knowledge on education.

I never thought about university that way, and no other college professor has given off that vibe of growing regarding their profession. It is very interesting and inspiring.

I’m sure that there are lots of people who do think that way, and I think it’s easy in life to get stuck in ruts. Like, there certainly are days where I do not feel like going through a lesson again. But you power through that when it comes up, because in the grander scheme of things, there is always room and opportunity to grow, and I think a university is a place where there are just constant reminders of that all around you. The flip side of that, I guess, is that it’s easy sometimes to become overwhelmed with how much work there is to be done, knowing how much learning there is to do. Sometimes I’ll go to a talk and I’ll feel like I have not done enough, you know what I mean? And sometimes that feeling can weigh on you. But it is certainly worth the tradeoff.

Anonymous 1.

We couldn’t make it work out. Arms wrapped around one another but hearts going in opposite directions at the drop of a hat. We kept coming together, kept splitting apart, never knowing how long the ride would last. The tilt-a-whirl ended last year, now a sad, abandoned carnival ride.

2.

My friend Maureen and I didn’t talk for four years after college.

Then we had dinner, then she came to Iowa and approved of my fiance. Then she moved a few blocks from us. Then she was the godmother of my son.

3.

My relationship with the University of Pennsylvania. I graduated a couple of years ago, and sometimes I feel really disconnected from it. Other times I feel very much a part of it. I still live in West Philly, so now it’s sort of like I’m on the outside looking in while still benefiting from privileges provided by a Penn education.

4.

Stefan: he moved to my hometown in Bulgaria and we met in French class. An international relationship, we were quickly best friends. As we both aged through middle school, I didn’t like his friends.

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

With the stroke of a brush a community is captured. All of its Glory exposed for lasting visuals. From the old to the new, from the past to the Future, community is exhibited to teach The Young and the old.

From colonial days to Modern times, from log cabins to skyscrapers from horse and buggy to cars in flight, a community is captured. Demonstrations clearly visible the old styles and the new styles are shown in true form of the new day graffiti.

Note: This Graffiti Art is located in the Germantown Section of Philadelphia. It is on the side wall of the Rite Aid store on Chelten Avenue. It captured the various stages of development in the community. It is called “History Commerce and Community. A Retrospective of Germantown� by Jared Bader

Chanda Rice

See, when I got here, I came with deformed legs. Both of them were turned inward, and I had to have them broken at the hips and ankles set in a cast with a bar in between which they said I wore for over two years.

At least they did do that for me!

If your child had any type of deformity when I was coming up, they would immediately send you to Pennhurst Hospital.

Pennhurst was a dark place like a black hole where all deformed children were sent to live and were abused and died. Now they hold seances and Halloween parties there.

Already God had intervened on my behalf and HE did not intend that for me. I could walk on my own. I could run!

I would not be confined to a wheelchair! I wanted so much to be accepted. As I grew, I grew into a fat little chubby girl with an ugly grin--you think maybe that “they” would have taken me to the dentist and got my teeth fixed?

But none of them cared about me. I was what “they” called a strange kid, maybe because they still saw me as deformed. Jackie would forever tell people that I suffered from what is now called Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Even today she still tells people this--and I am grown?

When I was coming up in the 60s, women were very demure. Momma and her girlfriends wore their long hair all brushed back in a chignon, and they never let their hair out in public: that was a sign of being classified as a “loose woman!”

They wore: white crisped shirt and a skirt, or a neat dress with an apron over it with kitten heels. “If you don’t iron your clothes, people will talk about you,” said momma.

Fuck, people will talk about you whether you iron your clothes or not! They did look like Real Women. Always poised in their attire and character. But they really didn’t care about children, they were very abusive. Children were meant to be seen, not heard!

She would say all kinds of things like, "Straighten dat foot out when you walk, turn dat’ foot in !” We looked like the basic children in old Easter pictures. Sometimes Momma would get me dressed first only to find me up a tree. Somehow I would tear the ruffled hem off jumping down.

“This damn girl won’t keep still if I tied her to a tree!” she'd say. I was a straight tomboy. Alfred and Jackie hated having me around.

I was a kid and wanted to play with whomever would let me. Sometimes Jackie would push me in the corner and beat me in my head with a tortoise shell brush for no reason just because she could and no one would have stopped her anyway.

When we move to Abbotsford I buried the brush in the yard! Most of the time I spent with my godmother Annie Ruth while Momma worked. She was a maid for a Jewish family named Savitz.

They had a small department store downtown. Otherwise, I’d be under Momma and her girlfriends listening to adult conversations which should never happen because delicate ears misinterpreted shit.

On Fridays, they would walk up to Columbia Avenue to get roasted pigeon and a Schlitz beer, and they would sit on the stoop and talk and smoke their cigarettes.

Momma: “Chile, don’t look now but here comes Essy!”

Essy: “How y'all doin’?”

They would all say together at one time: “FINE! Girl.”

Essy: Can I have one of your smokes?” (looking at momma).

Momma: “Now you know I don’t smoke and they belong to Mary’s husband Edgar and you know how he is about people reading his paper before him, so you KNOW you can’t get one of them!”

Essy: “Well, OK, I guess I see y’all later, bye den!”

“BYE!” they all said as she walked away.

Momma: “You know you a poor hoe when you been out all night wit a man and you come back wit a wet butt, no cigarettes and no money? Mary, hand me my damn cigarettes!”

And this is why children should not be in the company of adults when they talking grown talk.

To be continued.....

11

Jasmine James I sat down with my grandparents because I’ve always been interested in hearing more about their perception of the world. I feel as though my generation is so deeply entrenched in pseudopolitical pedagogy that we are losing sight of so many other elements of our modern culture. Or, adversely, some of us are struggling to look past all of the flashing headlines. I wanted to get a glimpse of their youth, hear more than just the tidbits my grandfather would inject our holiday conversations with, more than the anecdotes my grandmother would pull up like tourist attraction signs as we made our way to family reunions down South, in the past.

A seemingly simple yet complex life… this is a conversation: Where were you in the line of your siblings? Were you the oldest?

(Grandfather) I was the seventh. They called me puny.

You were the last boy? Or the second to last boy? You had a younger brother...

I had two younger brothers, Joseph and Carlton.

You get along with them?

Oh yeah. I got along with all my siblings, but I was only close to one. And that’s the one… I was close to him… next to him. And he died when he was only 47 years old.

How’d he die?

Aneurysm.

And that was…?

Carlton. And they said that it came from, back in those days, when we were carting a mule. The mule ran away and he fell out of the wagon and the doctors said it was a possibility that this caused it later in his life.

Back in the 70s, surgery on the brain wasn’t as popular as it is now. The doctor gave ya a chance to pick survival rate, and he chose not to do anything.

But I’ve been blessed, even with my health issues… high blood diabetes… heart. But none of that bothers me.

Still going strong.

Definitely, and I think about that, being 86 years old. Could be a lot worse.

What do you remember about your childhood? When you a little boy.

[He laughs.] I remember I was sick a lot and I couldn’t play like the rest of my siblings.

When did you stop getting so sick?

In my teens. I went in the military when I was 20, so naturally I was better between my early teens and when I was 19, 20 years old. When I was in the military, during my… my basic training, I contracted pneumonia and I was in the hospital for 22 days. Then I got a 30-day convalescent leave to come home before going back.

I was stationed in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. And then I was deployed to England. I was in England for two years….

What made you wanna join the army?

I didn’t…I had no choice.

Oh, you were drafted?

Yeah back, in those days you were.

I always thought you wanted to go.

Back in those days, you just had no choice. Once you became 18, that was it and they’d draft you. You would go whether you wanted to or not. But they don’t have the draft anymore….

So what did you think about politics back then, about the president back then?

What did I think? You know, it really wasn’t an issue back then.

You know, growing up in the South, we didn’t have too much to say about anything. We didn’t have any rights. Well, we had rights, but we wasn’t able to exercise our rights. That’s one of the reasons… I mean, I didn’t want to go in the military, but I was kind of glad when I got drafted because it gave me a chance to get away.

Yeah, I can’t imagine, because for me, I’ve always grown up talking about the president. When I was younger, it was Bush. Then Obama, and now Trump.

So you have something to talk about as far as the president is concerned….

Right, but we don’t have any Jim Crow, or major wars, so my generation is very privileged.

Right, and we was raised up where the Ku Klux Klan was active back in those days. And it was like they more or less did what they wanted to do with black people. So, I can… I can remember a lot of things that went on back then. I didn’t even envision what we have now.

Yeah, I was thinking about that, like it must be so weird to be able to go where you want, do what you want..…say what you want to people. Where when you was my age, you couldn’t do none of that.

Right… Well when I was your age, I was in the military.

Oh yeah I became 21 in the military. But before then… nothing… nothing that I can say I was happy about. Just didn’t happen. We lived in the country, we went to town on a wagon. And we didn’t go every

Saturday—it was like two or three of us go this Saturday, a different bunch the next. But see, it wasn’t bad to us because we didn’t know anything different. So when I went to the military and came back, it was a whole different world to me. Because when I thought that I was suffering just like the white people, the white boys, were, but yet came back home and saw signs… “Colored” here, “White” there... Because you wasn’t allowed to go in the drug stores, because then, drug stores had a fountain where you could sit, but you weren’t allowed to... you was fightin’ for a country that didn’t even love you.

[After some lunch]

Get someone that can do something for you, or you can be bad by yourself. In your situation, you have a better chance to be better off than your mother. See, every generation should be better, and I’m better… well better off than my parents. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. And I’m happy and so pleased to see you grow up.

And with the mindset that you have, you’re going to go places.

I’m trying to.

And you will! With the mindset that you have. Ever since you were a little child, you were smart. And now it’s matured, and I can see that you’re gonna go places in your life. I mean that.

I appreciate that! In high school I felt like everyone else had a plan. I had these skills but didn’t know what I wanted to do with them. I loved to write and use writing as a tool for self-expression and therapy, but other people just didn’t look at it the same way I did, so I was so discouraged.

That’s natural.

But I’ve found my place. I started thinking that at the end of the day, I don’t wanna be 80 and not have tried. I wanna try.

See, sometimes I think I should have pursued education more. But back in the day, with uneducated parents, they just didn’t push for it.

Right, I feel like they pushed the Bible more.

They pushed the Bible, they pushed… y’know, by them not doing anything, not knowing anything except farming… that’s what they pushed.

But y’know, I just don’t understand how they spent their entire life not knowing anything else.

I started working in a factory, that’s the first job I had, in Philadelphia, doing factory work. And then… but to me, everything was a stepping stone. I started working in a pipe ware cleanup, picking up dirty pipes. Then I got a job in another factory, manufacturing heating and air conditioning material. Then I was like a stock guy, teaching stock and keeping up on the stock with buyers who came from New York. And I knew I wasn’t gonna stay there. And then there was this milkman who would bring milk to the guys that worked there. He stopped me one time and said, “Hey, how are you doing? Y’know… you don’t fit here… you don’t belong here. I’m gonna put in a word for you if you would like this type of work.” And he did. He told me the guy to see and I ended up taking his route. From ’63 to 1966, I was a milkman. I had no knowledge of that at all, but I was pretty good in my head as far as counting and keeping books.

I remember my mom used to tell me she would get up real early and make breakfast for you.

Oh yeah, eggs, grits, biscuits, sausage… can’t eat too much of that now. [He laughs.]

A different time, huh grandpa?

Yeah… much different now.

I always felt like this house was a little haven on Huntingdon Street.

Oh yeah, I don’t bother with them out there; you know I’m a loner.

I stay pretty much to myself. I have friends, but I need my space for me as well.

I had a guy ask me when I was younger, “Phil, why you live up there? Ain’t you nervous?” But I always say, “I may live in North Philly, but I’m not of North Philly.”

Well what do you remember of your childhood, Grandma?

(Grandmother) Not a lot happened. [She laughs.]

What about your grandparents? I’ve heard you mention them once or twice….

Oh I can remember when they gathered tobacco, and they used to call it stringing tobacco, before they put it in the barn to cure it. My grandmother would have two of us on one side of her. Me and Margaret was here, and she would pick up because we were moving too slow.

Would you sell it right after?

Yeah How old were you?

Oh, probably six years old.

You were real close with your grandma, right?

Well, we lived close together until I was about eleven. Our life was on the farm. We would be hoeing the field… that’s what it’s called, Phil?

(Grandfather) What’s that?

Never mind. [She rolls her eyes and laughs.] But we harvested that, cotton, corn… all of that. And I can

remember also, we was probably about ten years old, we ain’t have no washing machine and we would wash clothes in a tub.

Did you like it?

No, I didn’t like it. In addition to washing our clothes, we also had to wash baby clothes, cloth diapers. It was just what I did. I didn’t like it… but…

Wasn’t no choice. That’s what I was telling her, Mabel... I knew in my mind I was not gonna be a farmer like my parents. I knew once I became an adult, I’m outta here!

Did you go to high school and all that?

Yeah, but I wasn’t a good student. I just barely passed.

Really? Did you like school?

I can’t say that I liked school… I… I can’t say that I did.

I didn’t like school, but after getting older, I wished I had gone to more.

I feel like I had a problem with learning.

Why you say that?

Because I didn’t retain things, and sometimes understand… if you a little bit shy, you don’t ask questions.

And understanding something… it didn’t come natural. I think the only thing I really liked was sewing. I like that… cuz… well now… I don’t know if they still have that in high school…

Not so much. They have maybe home ec classes at some schools, but they didn’t have it in my school.

They have more specialized classes.

Kind of like Dobbins up there…What kind of school is that again?

Charter? Or… oh, it’s vocational? A vocational school.

Right. When your mother went there, they had cooking and sewing, auto-mechanics….

Some high schools do still have classes like that.

You have to learn to take care of yourself, because if you live 20 or 25 miles from a store or something, you got to grow your own vegetables, sew your own clothing…. I remember my mother used to make our slips and panties. She made quilts, and she would use food sacks to make pillows.

Basically, that was my childhood. And I never learned to milk a cow [She laughs.]

You ain’t never learn to milk a cow?

No! My father used to show us how, but I just couldn’t get it. But it was me and Margaret’s job to tend to the cows and we would to them out to this green pasture area and let the cows graze.

[After some tea]

Well what do you think about today’s world, Grandma? Are you not “of North Philly”, like Grandpa feels?

Not really. I mean, we’ve lived here, we raised our kids here.

But it’s definitely different nowadays. It’s a different world.

You have pepper spray?

Yes, but… well, it’s at home. [I laugh nervously.]

[She chuckles.] What good is that gonna do you sweetheart?

None at all, grandma.

It’s rough out there. You have people just standing on the corner all day. More drugs, more streetwalkers…

Streetwalkers?

Y’know… night-workers… prostitutes, honey.

Oh! [I laugh.]

Yeah, it’s a mess out there.

I remember the block parties we used to have.

I ain’t really like you playing with them kids.

I know. But they weren’t too bad. Most families were okay.

Yeah, the families were fine; it was the culture. It is the culture that… that you just get sucked into sometimes.

I stay in the house.

Alright, Phil. But yes, it’s a new world.

My grandparents helped raise me and have always given me the room to voice my fears, my doubts… they answered with Bible passages and understanding. They don’t judge me and only judge the world to protect their own. Seeing what I’ve seen, which is not even comparable to what they’re experienced, I often feel like I’m not “of Philly” either. I don’t know where my true spirit lies, but I plan to have my future intertwined with this city. I want to make a world worth living for people that may get overlooked. I want to give a voice to other who feel that may not quite be “of Philly”.

Text and images by Angela Arrey-Wastavino

Driving for hours makes you feel tired. Despite the landscape, going over the mountains, crossing villages, a small idyllic pond showing the reflections of a summer blue sky and country architecture, a main component was still missing.

The voice of my GPS was guiding me—right or wrong, for better or worse, I’m at the mercy of technology. But that was not what was leading me ahead. My impetus was long frigid winters from the country, where the snow is not measured by the inch, but by the foot. That explains why it is called the Rust Belt. All metals succumb to the temperatures; no paint is strong enough to protect cars. Two winters are enough to show signs of corrosion. Brown rims around windshields, fenders, small scratches grow brownish, hurt by the gelid season.

Winters, no more!

It's difficult to visit family and friends in New York City during the “white season”, as I tend to call it. When snow is not blocking

them, too many icy roads endanger the pleasure of gatherings.

Constant shoveling provokes backaches and frostbite appears on your skin, no matter how insulated your clothes are. Cloudy days depress people, cabin fever takes over their souls, and their facial expressions reflect the seasonal darkness. I confess, I dearly miss the sunny days in the desert, or rather the semi-desert climate of Albuquerque where my alma mater is located.

I had selected three cities to explore. One was about to become my new residence. Because I am urban, I need the constant cosmopolitan noise: the police, ambulances, and fire engines' sirens, the subway crowds agitating morning and night, skyscrapers and skylines at dawn, the lights in the dark, and the darkness of inner-city days. Bucolic landscapes scare me; I feel lonely. Small towns oppress me, and, like it or not, you become public coming across people you know, every minute. There is no privacy. Your anonymity is torn to pieces. You can count every corner, every bus stop, every art gallery, every school. Inevitably, you say hello every two steps, independent from where you are.

The news comes to your door, and there are no elements of surprise, no mystery. All of the sudden, boredom appears to stay, clinging to your skin. The topics of conversation begin repeating, predictably.

As my concern was the weather, I carefully examined the meteorological data of the last 10 years of the places of my choice.

I wanted to be somewhere to the south (but not too south), and closer to my family (but not too close). Roughly, more than an hour’s drive from them was perfectly adequate to relocate.

I have moved so many times, from town to town, from state to state, from country to country. Not necessarily to places of my choice. Family circumstances and work have taken me to places others see as exotic. I have almost settled down, yet still there is the other home across the ocean, where the language, culture and law are different, if not opposite, to where I am now, boasting their solid architecture and constructions created to remain for centuries. My experience has made me think of the present and future rather than of the past. Some have the ability to live in the past, stagnating, fearing change. I am quite the opposite. I need to

discover, to conquer places and people. As an artist, I’m feeling suffocated having exhibited in the same galleries over and over again, showing new work to the same audience. The art gets wounded claiming new spaces, growing, expanding. I must leave.

New locations offer effervescent artistic opportunities and exciting bohemian nights. I had to see any new potential residences on my own, as the Internet enhances everything. What if all pictures were manipulated as bait to attract newcomers? At times descriptions seem too good to be true. Call me a skeptic, but I have visited places with descriptions unable to even approximate to reality.

I took a full week off work to explore the first place on my list to visit: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. There I was, departing with an open mind. (It is not my style to preconceive ideas—experience has taught me otherwise.) Besides, who likes to be disappointed?

My visit agenda included non-profit organizations, educational institutions and galleries. I wanted to be fair. My plan was to repeat the strategy at each of the three places I might move, ensuring I was making a proper decision. I need to be comfortable to develop the sense of belonging. I've never been an outsider. I want to be an integral part of society, independent of the geographical location. That was what my maternal grandmother taught me. She was a perfect activist in all those places where we were living. She wasn’t shy about knocking at neighbors’ doors to collect clothing for the poor and later taking them to churches or synagogues for their distribution. I accompanied her so many times when I was a child, holding hands in her pilgrimage to help others.

If you want to be miserable, it's very easy: lament your circumstances, go to a corner and deprive yourself of the wonders you otherwise could be discovering while you are crying. There are too many unhappy people in this world. You have a lot to offer, give, but do not expect anything in return. By improving your environment, you are constructing your own happiness and that of those who are around you.

Her words sound in my ears as though she were talking to me yesterday. It’s hard to believe it's been decades since she was advising me. She was indeed an eternal optimist. I admit I inherited that characteristic.

I knew I was going to move before the temperature required me to wear heavy clothing, before the white stuff fell on the streets, before the rain could touch my belongings. Strangely, that did not develop a sense of urgency in me. Other than starting to discard unnecessary items at home and packing, nothing changed in my daily life. My social life was a plethora of events: parties, receptions, cocktails, you name it.

The arrival into the new city was slow, very slow. The highway was congested, the traffic barely moving. From its elevation, I could see the city, tall buildings and the river. I stayed at a boutique hotel. Nothing sophisticated—I didn't need it. I expected just to come back to sleep. Every day I returned late.

Philadelphia is well recognized by its murals. I was impressed by the number of enormous designs covering entire buildings. They made it difficult to drive, as I would become distracted. I stopped several times just to admire the quality of the designs. Many of them represent historic times, while others are colorful compositions adorning the cityscape. Some are traditional, while others are more experimental showing attractive tridimensionality, sculptural neon lights or reflections on their mirror mosaics.

Coincidentally, I had followed the tourism route through the city.

Tour buses full of outsiders just like me walked to return to their transportation, stopping for further explanations delivered by their tour guides. Philadelphia is a city where contemporary forms meet historical architecture. The Avenue of the Arts represents a wide range of interests. Theaters, art galleries and art education institutions mingle with fancy restaurants, small boutiques, and the international fashion corporate business. Downtown has reached the level of New York, with expensive parking structures and the same congestion as an impediment for emergency vehicles to advance. Philly has its own Chinatown, somewhat smaller than

the Big Apple’s, but with a characteristic smell in the air, predominated by eateries (restaurants, pastry bakeries, noodle shops) and countless stores offering typical cheap souvenirs.

Each city is unique. Despite the similarities with NYC, Philly has trolleys not like those in San Francisco with converted rubber tires and cables, but with steel wheels and electric overhead power wires.

The trolley rails reflected the sun. At times, it was somewhat uncomfortable to drive, even wearing sunglasses. They were polished, as if they were new. Trolleys share the roads with the other public transportation: buses, regular traffic and bike lanes.

They give the city an atmospheric representation, an aroma from the past. The motor doesn't go chung, chung, or the bell ding, ding, as Judy Garland sang, yet there is certain melancholy bringing to the present a time that won't return. The first ones I visualized were modern, white, clean, obviously new.

Nevertheless, my nostalgia for my European upbringing showed up when I saw the old green ones, covered with the touch of pollution, round corners, moving with certain difficulty, as elders do. I pulled off, merely to observe the vehicle advancing‌

No, I'm not a tourist; I don't want to be one of them. I came to analyze the environment, to investigate if I fit or if it fits me. No place is one-fits-all. The US, this mega country, has 49 more

states, I remind myself, yet I should discount those where I have already lived. It is not fair to make comparisons; it is more important to identify the uniqueness of each place. You have a periscopic, 360-degree vision at the beginning, from the invisibility of an outsider, until you emerge to observe the concrete site. From a mechanical perspective to a human one. Occasionally an unattractive view, but a reality nonetheless. There is poverty everywhere, not always of the same type. It may be economic, the most easily identifiable. That is not the one that concerns me. It is the inner poverty that does—the lack of interest, the lethargy of the mind. For the latter, money does not solve the problem.

To my left there was a park, which shouldn't have surprised me, given the name of the state: Penn's Forest. From a distance I could see the solid structure of what obviously was a museum. I couldn't resist. I made sure I was parked properly, paid at the automatic meter, wrote down on a piece of paper the name of the streets’ intersection, and waited for the next trolley. I boarded the trolley.

I didn't know the route; I didn't need it. I wanted to savor riding the machine the way I have done so many times in Switzerland and Germany. Other people came to the stop—seven or eight of them, of different ages and conditions. I planned to go along the entire circuit to explore other corners with no distraction.

I deliberately sought a seat by a window. The many churches (mostly stone constructions), were of a wide spread of denominations. Some clearly indicated the group of their attendees. “First Black....” Looking around, the absence of multiethnicity confirmed its intention. Certain areas were old, the front porches revealing their era as well as the deterioration of their structures. Others, though old, were well-maintained. Many corners were occupied by mini parks. They were one block, or even less. Municipalities had thought about the need for families to have places for recreation. Nowadays, it could have been interpreted as an ecological sign or perhaps as a more selfcontained neighborhood of a political point of view. I had already encountered many similarities between this place and the Big Apple, the small green areas among them.

Few curves were included in the trolley’s route, mostly taking

people away from the main artery where commerce was located, distancing us from the immediacy of downtown. A particular place calling my attention was the one with attached housing—five or six steps and very narrow facades, exactly the type of architecture found in Netherlands, Ireland or London, the places where the original property taxes were charged according to the width of the frontage. It didn't matter how long they were, or how tall. That architecture was so familiar to me.

Crossing the city means crossing the river. As the trolley stopped at a red light, I stared at the calm water. A couple of boats were floating. It was not unusual that communities developed their civilizations along the river banks. However, it's not the rivers I like—it's the bridges.

My fascination started at a tender age, when I spent hours and hours building them with construction toy sets. Indeed, it was before the LEGO was introduced to the market.

I counted: one, two, three, four, five. It was the many bridges that captivated me. All of the sudden, I realized how many pictures of my past were vividly projected in front of me as an animated photo album.

I had mixed feelings, liking the vision though it brought to mind nostalgic experiences from childhood and my entire life, making me sad. Is this the way aging manifests itself?

There they were: private images accumulated for so many years, all framed together by the trolley window. Click. The river. Click.

The housing. Click. The museums. Click, click, click, click, click...

The Italian Market is located in the south quadrant of the city, an old section. It's not large. I was told that many Italians abandoned the place once they reached their goals. Raising their children and becoming professionals compelled them to look for better locations, leaving behind the elderly or those who felt attached to their roots. There was an entire generation of Italians who became politicians. Unfortunately, history has them cataloged under the “corrupt” category—meaning they were related to the Mafia. Yet another similarity to NYC! Those who stayed keep the traditions, and for my own benefit, now many can enjoy the delicacies characteristic of Italy. I came across my favorite cheeses, pasta, olives, and the like at one place.

I got slices of this and that cheese, and a bit of the olives, as well, that I could munch as I strolled the streets. Meat, on the other hand, is yet another legacy. Mutton, rabbit, goose, and other delicatessen are found lined next to each other in the neighborhood’s meat stores. Most picturesque for most people, though, is the open street market attracting locals as well as outsiders, who frantically buy fruits and veggies at superbly reasonable prices.

Click. Another picture.

I like arterials. They are ample in Philadelphia, permitting expeditiously and crossing the city in contrast with narrow roads mostly in the older neighborhoods. At a glance, they look as unrealistic as the old-fashioned postcards that current generations know very little of.

My interest does not center in the corporate iconic images found in every single city of the country, but rather in the small details that make each place unique. Gastronomy is indeed part of it.

Pizza places are frequently found, with their prime consumers being starving young people—particularly students in the areas where higher education institutions are located. Ethnic familyowned restaurants offer a decent selection of world cuisine.

Having Italian and Lebanese lunches, Vietnamese and Jamaican dinners satisfied my biological appetite while staying in the city.

Back in my hotel, I searched historical instances of Philly culinary history. To my surprise, it was snapping turtles that made the place unique. Yes, the ferocious long neck turtles with whom I had had encounters in Connecticut. Turtle soup was a local tradition from diner-refined delicatessen menus to grandmothers' kitchens in the city. It’s very hard to find that now. Turtles have become pets, like many other creatures depicted in cartoons as cute, making Americans difficult to imagine them cooked or served on a plate. What a waste!

New smells came to my nostrils. They whetted my curiosity. What are hoagies? I could read the word on food advertising.

Best hoagies in town! Philly hoagies! September 14: Hoagie Day New vocabulary. I was avid to learn. So, I entered a sandwich place to inquire. I looked around as people were handed their lunches.

At the small tables, there were blue-collar workers and families filling their mouths with melted cheese dripping and running along their hands and arms. On the price list there were pictures

of each item. I searched: hoagie, hoagie... Ah, there it is! $6.90.

And I heard: “Two traditional hoagies!”

I noticed a couple of women giving me the look. (“Hey, look at that, she just came cutting in line!”)

“I'm just looking, don't worry.” I excused myself, preventing a potential confrontation. They smiled back.

“I'm visiting from New York. I'm curious about what hoagies are,” I said to confirm my sincerity not to take their place in the line.

They looked at each other and laughed. I felt safe. After all, I'm at the place of brotherly love, or, in this case, sistah love.

I was somewhat disappointed; the sandwiches were very similar to those offered at the main national chain as “healthy choice”.

Anyway, I had already a new portion of knowledge for the day. Not being a sandwich person, I bought one. I got a cup of coffee and ate my own hoagie. As I was leaving, one of the women from the line sitting at a table asked me, “Hey did you like it?”

“Yes, yes, sure did,” I answered with a smile. “Have a great day!”

“Come back to Philly!” the other said, waving her hand. I waved, reciprocating.

Three days going north to south, east to west, and back to my headquarters offered evocative imagery of my personal life. A polysyllabic poetic composition of color, shapes, rhythm and texture captivated my senses. I feel I am here and everywhere at the same time. At night, the luminosity of contemporary buildings that conform the city skylines captivated me. The reflection of the buildings big and small on the river made me feel at home.

At the hotel, I checked job opportunities. Surprisingly, I could fit many positions locally advertised. I applied to three I perfectly fit.

It seems that three is a lucky number. No, I'm not a superstitious person at all, I laughed. That night, I slept placidly.

That Friday was about to be a lazy day. I got up at 9am. I planned

to walk the downtown area in the morning and visit an ecological center in the afternoon. The coffee and bagel were okay to energize me a bit until lunch time. I really could eat anywhere, no restrictions. Along my walk, I spotted a bistro that seemed to be a pleasant place to get a bite later on. A window display had a summer sale. I stopped to observe colorful dresses on mannequins making them eye-catching. My cell rang. An unregistered number.

I answered anyway.

“Hello? May I talk to Dr. Arra… Array... Wa… Wass…”

I knew it was for me. Very few can pronounce my last name. It might be official.

“Yes, this is she. Who's this?”

“Doctor, you sent an application for the position yesterday. How do you pronounce your name? I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing...”

“No, no, never mind. It is pronounced...” I slowly pronounced it correctly twice.

“Oh, that's not that difficult, now.” We laughed.

The woman spoke with an accent. She introduced herself as the executive director of the company.

“I was wondering if you would like to come for an interview. Your resume is very impressive. You are our best candidate. I know it's a very short notice... Would you be available today?”

That was a short notice, indeed!

“Well... It would be a pleasure. I'm free today, given that I'm visiting Philly...”

“How wonderful! Would lunch be OK to talk further about the position?”

I was astonished.

“I'm in the downtown area now. I apologize, I'm not really familiar with the city yet, but I'm driving so it's not difficult for me to go where it might be convenient for you.”

“Where are you now?”

I gave her the street intersection.

“Let's see. Mmmm... there is a place that's not far from where you are. Is 12:30 okay for you, or a little later, perhaps?”

“It seems perfect,” I replied.

“Excellent, I'll make a reservation. I'll call you as soon as I arrive there. Thank you so much for your disposition.”

“Thank you for the opportunity. See you there.” Click. This deserves a picture. I smiled.

I could not believe I was going for an interview in less than 24 hours. It must have been a prediction to confirm this is my place to be. I walked along the streets in no hurry. I got an ice-cream cone, mostly to balance my excitement. I deserved it. Triple chocolate, YUM! The restaurant was spiffy—fusion, as they are called now. My phone rang.

“Hello, it's me again. I just arrived.” I could guess a smile on the woman's face.

I was on the block. I didn't want to look anxious. I didn't need to.

“Yes, I'm a few steps away,” I responded.

“I'm wearing a bright green top. We have a table by the window.

See you then.”

“Great, thanks.”

She was a full-bodied woman, wearing gold jewelry—not excessively, but somewhat for the time of the day. We introduced ourselves to one other. She was very polite and formal. At no point did she try to hide her excitement about my last minute application. The position had been advertised awhile (two months), but no serious candidates had applied. Or, rather, with the qualifications she expected. She was the owner and CEO of a company she had developed on her own and at that time was expanding. She was an immigrant herself highly educated and with vast international experience. No wonder why she had high expectations. She asked the typical interview questions then transitioned into the more specific ones. Nothing new to me; I had interviewed potential employees so many times in my profession.

The dialog was very fluent; we had experiences in common that truly facilitated the interaction. Our lunch was pleasant, as she made me feel very comfortable. I needed current clearances that could take some time, she explained. I clarified that I had those clearances before, that it was not going to be an impediment to being hired. She expressed her satisfaction.

“How would you like to be approached? I know ‘Doctor’ is typical,” she said.

“I'm glad you asked,” I replied. “In fact, as I'm going to work with children and their parents, I prefer to be called Ms. Angela. Firstly, because the title is confusing for many people who interpret that degree as a physician. On the other hand, it is also intimidating.

And, last but not least, my last name is somewhat complicated to pronounce,” I said with a smile. “If I want to have a good rapport with everybody, Ms. Angela would work much better.”

“That is a very good explanation, Ms. Angela,” she responded with an ample smile.

What followed was expected.

“Let's see, when do you think you can do the paperwork?”

“Well... given that I'm already here, I can start it immediately. I can do the fingerprinting today.”

“The position is yours; we can negotiate your first day.

Congratulations. I'm so excited to work with you, with somebody who understands my vision. We will manage the business wonderfully.” She extended her hand and we shook. The deal was closed.

“Please, take your time. I understand that moving is not easy. I have waited a while to fill this position properly, so it is no problem to wait a bit longer,” she reaffirmed.

“I deeply appreciate your flexibility regarding my situation. I should add that this lunch was delicious. Thanks.”

A few more details regarding protocols followed to conclude.

Quick! To my phone, searching for the Internet, where to go for fingerprinting. Lucky day! The map showed six blocks from my positioning. I love Google. Click, click.

A couple of hours had settled my destination. All of the sudden, I discovered I was curious about this city that seemed even brighter than three hours ago, about the changes a better climate could offer me. I started feeling comfortable in a completely unknown place. I wanted to live its four seasons. Two more days to find where to live. The decision was made; I started savoring the moment of being Philadelphian.

It wasn't difficult to find places to rent. College students were about to complete their academic year, getting ready to leave and return to their homes, opening numerous options for me. A rapid search on low crime zones determined the quadrant where I was about to reside. Click, click!

Extending my stay extra days was easy to determine. While having dinner, I made a concise timeline to move in.

That Saturday, I went to another side of the city, visited a museum

and a Japanese garden. I also enjoyed the river vistas and the pleasant breeze on my face.

No, I'm not a newcomer. I've been here all my life.

My last stop. Will there be a next one?

Kelly Mcquain

Tyler Shine, Chanda Rice

Nimra Sohail, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Rosalyn Cliett-Anderson

Robert Watts, Jordan McCullough, Valerie Fox, Danielle Jernigan, Carol Richardson McCullough

Writers Room is a College of Arts and Sciences initiative at the Dornsife Center for Neighborhood Partnerships, Drexel’s urban extension center at 35th and Spring Garden in West Philadelphia. Here, members of the Mantua, Powelton, and Drexel communities explore writing as a tool for learning and a mode of creative expression. Together, we are creating a shared story. For more on Writers Room visit www.writersroom.online.

This work is supported in part by the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, a state agency funded by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the National Endowment for the Arts, a federal agency.

We wish to thank the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts for helping to support the “Voices” workshops and this book.

Gratitude to Tyler Shine, Kelly McQuain, and Robert Watts, whose creative and thoughtful guidance enabled us to share our voices in new styles and inflections. We also appreciate the help of Lauren Lowe, Nimra Sohail, and Danielle Jernigan in helping to facilitate the weekend workshops. The anonymous poems and stories in this collection were written in Writers Room workshops with Kirsten Kaschock. Photograph of Rosalyn Cliett-Anderson in “The Wedding That Shook My Core” by Sarah Bloom.

Photographs of the workshops by Victoria Huggins Peurifoy and Valerie Fox. Finally, special thanks to so many at Drexel University, especially the team at Dornsife Center for Community Partnerships.

Heartfelt appreciation to Writers Room founding director Rachel Wenrick, assistant director Kirsten Kaschock, and community advisory committee chair Carol Richardson McCullough. We thank the Department of English and Philosophy, and the College of Arts and Sciences, for helping Writers Room to grow and thrive.

Found Poem by Chanda Rice