My Journey to Philly Begins

Getting There

Months ago, I decided that I would be in Philadelphia for the Democratic National Convention purely to be part of a ‘million voter march’ to make sure that Bernie would get the Democratic nomination. When Senator Sanders gave his endorsement to the anti-democrat, Hillary Clinton, I almost caved into my overwhelming depression and considered giving up the trip. A ‘vacation’ seemed to be a waste of money and effort – I was only going for the protests and what good would that be after he had already endorsed HRC?

And I’m not talking about my own money – I don’t have any (semi-retired). It was my children who offered to send me there to represent their voices as well – they are all berners. My oldest son and his wife gave me some (a lot!) of their frequent flyer miles for the plane. My youngest son paid for my Airbnb. My daughter gave me spending money. Would I be wasting their money and efforts?

I thought, “Am I being fair to my children? Is this just an obsession of mine for which they will pay the price?”

A determination somehow compelled me to go. Maybe the driving force was the jealousy I felt when I read of other people’s plans online; so many groups of protesters were making plans for Philly. Or, it could have been my perception that I (along with millions of others) was somehow invisible to a party that I had valued for most of my adult life – I wanted to remind myself that I am indeed real.

Somehow I felt a call towards the city itself -- the place where our country started – as though it had something to teach me about politics. I’m not referring to the schmoozing in the political arena where career party members would celebrate their questionable ‘win’; instead, I needed some context, some realism that went beyond my perceptions of the backstabbing, lying, and sometimes criminal Hillary Clinton campaign that made the whole process of voting seem futile. I wanted to hear the crowds of today’s political revolution mingle with the echoes of the battles of our first revolution and the loudness of the marches reverberating through those same streets.

So, I packed an ‘occupy kit’, complete with kerchiefs, eye wash, backpack, and comfortable shoes. I downloaded apps to my phone: ACLU, metro schedules, Lyft, Uber, Periscope, and Firechat. I scoured facebook and other sites to put important events into my google calendar. I felt semi-prepared as I headed for the City of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphia

Although I live in Arizona now, I was born near Pittsburgh. I had always looked at modern-day Philly as that ‘other’ city on the eastern edge that melded with New York, Delaware, and New Jersey. It was merely a different group of sports fans (and I hate sports) with a different accent and they were all terrible drivers (anyone not from Pittsburgh doesn't know how to drive). I knew that it had some touristy kinds of historical places; but, that had seemed to me to be just some kind of bait to get people to visit the crumbling, deteriorating city. I was oh so very, very wrong!

I didn’t notice any different ambience at the airport. It just seemed to be an ill-planned hodgepodge of buildings, ramps, and other structures stewed in a very hot and humid air – as if the city planners wanted to trap visitors into an impenetrable maze of unforgiving concrete. The cab ride made me feel as though I was back on the winding bridges and roads of the Steel City, but nothing notable. At the Airbnb, the cute row house was welcoming, homey, and again had that familiar moist eastern feel to it. The only thing notable that I did that Friday night was to eat a cheesesteak hoagie (yummy).

The Arch Street Meeting House

On Saturday morning, when I got to the meeting house for the People’s Convention, something began to change inside of me. I was annoyed that the street vendor couldn’t find my size for a Bernie shirt that I loved; but the annoyance seemed to be more from being delayed outside of the property – something was drawing me towards the gate and I felt impatient to continue beyond the roadside.

As I stepped through to the other side of the wall, it felt like coming home, as though familiar faces would begin to surround me. Although I didn't know any of these people, I nonetheless, perceived them to be my ‘friends’. The building had been erected by The Society of Friends in 1804 on land donated by William Penn who was also a Quaker.

I found myself kind of creeping through and around the property and the house. I was in awe of the history that was captured in the various displays situated throughout the interior. It was as though I wanted to ‘consume’ the totality of it while savoring each piece of it – and using it all for sustenance to continue the movement of our own political revolution.

What was the most odd, is that while I had planned on diving into the discussions of the convention and meeting some of the speakers personally, I instead remained aloof. I felt more like an observer than a participant. It was not for a lack of welcome; everyone smiled and mingled. And, though I had intended to be involved in that richness of conversations inside, I found my attention drifting to the sounds of the floorboards creaking, the occasional bursts of air that came through the doors, and the smells of ancient wood mixed with human scents. It didn't seem important to understand every word that was said -- the importance was the fervor with which the words were delivered. It somehow seemed that this building not only expected this, but demanded and desired the energy of the people who were milling about throughout the interior.

I seemed to just absorb a lot of what was going on. Sometimes I even engaged in a few rigorous discussions when I would walk somewhere outdoors to have a cigarette. One such exchange was with a gentleman there to help out with the setup and teardown. As he was a union member, we talked about unions, Arizona being a right-to-work state, and how the Democratic party was dumping working, middle class people like we are garbage. But, even then, it felt as if our voices were repeating words that were already there, ringing in the garden -- as if we were reading aloud from a treasured book written long ago that we had found left under a hedge.

It was as though this place was on a loop that repeated our struggles and triumphs, and the recording of the total moments could be replayed in each moment. I couldn’t quite tell if it was the heat that was overwhelming, or the weight of the sacred meaning of it all. But, I kept going outside for breezes and cigarettes.

Benjamin Franklin

While I have always believed that Ben Franklin was a genius, a wise printer, and an enlightened founder, I never particularly felt anything more than a historical curiosity about him. That changed after I walked about 100 feet down Arch Street. I happened upon a cemetery and inquired at the gate as to who was buried there. When I was told Ben Franklin, I purchased entry just for a quick peek. I hadn’t anticipated that I would feel tearful when reading his epitaph (which he wrote himself).

The air was changed, the sounds of the street were fading, and a hushed moment wrapped itself around me. There was something profound that dwelt here -- some secret that I wished to find. I suddenly wanted to know just who this man was.

As I continued through the paths along the graves, the humbled feeling of inadequacy unexpectedly welled up inside of me. It was as though I now knew why I had felt so invisible lately. The greatness that was represented by the many graves there seemed to knock the breath from me-- I didn’t seem to deserve to breathe the air that had been exhaled from their lungs so long ago.

And, yet, I felt welcome; it was as if these men and women had stories to tell me and were anxious to get started. While I sauntered through pathways, felt the shade embrace me and the slight breezes touch my face, I thought, “If I could live in this city, I would come every day to this spot and read a different biography each time until I knew all of the people resting here.”

A sparrow followed me around and alit on some of the stones nearby; it seemed fitting.

When I was exiting through the gate, I struck up a casual conversation with someone standing at the souvenir stand. He mentioned that Ben Franklin attended church with his family at Christ Church, just a few blocks away. Since there was time before Nina Turner and Jill Stein would be speaking at the meeting house, I hurried to the church. Luckily, I got there moments before they closed it for a private wedding. I sat in the Franklins’ pew, soaked in as much of the scene as I could in the two minutes allowed to me, and left to go back to the People’s Convention.

Upon returning to the convention, I sat down in the shade of a tree. I guzzled a bottle of Gatorade and used my kerchief to wipe the sweat from my skin. Such a hot day! I looked around and thought, “Ben Franklin walked these grounds. Did he melt in the summers, too?” If the founding fathers could wear wool in this kind of heat, I suppose we should bear it as well. Maybe it is that kind of intensity that makes a political revolution boil to the surface. Would we be able to invent a better future the way they had?

Later, after Jill Stein would speak inside, the journalists would interview her outside in the shade -- right there on the very spot where I had conjured the image of Ben in my mind's eye. I felt again, the overlapping loops of one moment holding an eternity of moments.

When I get to Chapter 2, I will write more about Nina and Jill.

Previous Philadelphia
Intro to Journey