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Edited on Mon Sep-26-05 09:47 AM by CrackpotAmerica
When I was younger, I went to Creative and Performing Arts High School in Philadelphia.
The school, although prestigious through its output of enormous talent (Boys to Men, Joey Defransisco, John Navin of “Vacation”, “Taps”, and “Jennifer Slept Here,”) was not what one would call a bastion of academic excellence to say the least. Rather, the only educational benefit outside of the school’s excellent art and music program was its vast diversity of students, each representing a different stratum of society and culture in the “big city.”
At the time, I represented the textbook poor white kid from a closed off section of the city. My values were indicative of the values of my four or five square blocks, outside of which, I was not permitted to leave nor enter based on the “rules” set by both those outside of my little world and those within. Thus, I began to believe and adhere to the message of my own little speck on the planet. This was in spite of the gracious opportunities I had enjoyed earlier in life and in a much different part of the city, which is another story for another time.
Outside of learning that a shot of whiskey with my tea in the morning would clear my voice and help it to project a more glorious tone, I have to say that I could have sat in the foyer of the building and learned as much about English, History, and Geometry as I would have with perfect attendance in the respective classes. That just wasn’t what that school was all about.
The most valid educational offerings of the school stemmed from its variety of people, for which I am eternally grateful.
Each day, I would leave my little row home and trek through the mean and bigoted streets of my neighborhood to at last hop on the EL, which cut through many more of the same. As I rode, I would watch the students of the various other schools hop on and off, each with their own strict values.
I would see the pseudo tough North Catholic kids, the “slutty” Hallihan girls, the nerdy Masbaumers and the phony rich St. Joes Preppers. Intermixed, I would see the mothers and fathers of these children, men with their papers and women clad with shiny white sneakers, dreading their requirement to put the heels on upon entering their various buildings. On the EL we sat together-all doing our best to ignore each other.
I would see the glue huffers, who “controlled” the EL stops, hands cupped and loaded with noxious rags.
I would see the third shifters, freshly drunk and waddling home from the 6:30 bars that cater to them.
I would see first timers, terrified of the people around them, and children on the first EL ride of their lives fascinated with the graffiti that plagued the tops of the townhouses along side the tracks.
I would see it all.
Next, I would take the long walk down 12th Street (I could never catch that damn trolley.) On the way, I would pass the various projects and their inhabitants- people who were poor like me, only poor in a different section of the city.
On my maiden voyage down 12th Street, I was absolutely terrified. After all, the knowledge of “those people” was fresh in my mind. However, I was never once accosted nor threatened, and often wondered if any of the bigoted kids in my neighborhood would have the mustard to walk one step of my every day journey.
The sidewalks were bustling with newsstands and food carts. It was often a ballet of cart owners fighting to return to the spot they had the day before. Between them were clothing and trinket stands, mostly owned by every type of immigrant imaginable. Many great and unrecognized craftsmen and artists, whose art and jewelry would put Tiffany to shame, waited in the cold streets for the next sale.
At last, I would reach the school, walk right by the entrance, and into Big Pete’s around the corner for a nice cup of tea (my flask in my inside pocket, of course.) This would almost always result in my cutting first period- English 101 as taught by the chair of the Creative Writing Department, ironically enough.
With tea in hand, I would wander upstairs to see if there were any other first period holdouts. Sure enough, there were always many. A capful of my dad’s Jameson’s went into my tea.
It was in this place that my education began. This is where the gamut of the city’s strata would assemble. The West Philly black kids, the South Philly Italians, the blossoming gay kids, the Mount Airy hippies, the Chestnut Hill and East Falls trend setters, and, of course, the po’ whities from Frankford.
We would all gather around the big table and lay our thoughts down. Surrounded by the ruins of a once great Mummers shrine, we would assess our kingdom.
In spite of tremendous differences, we sat and relished our childhood together. For, we had escaped the trappings of our own little worlds. We gently blew our pot smoke out the window to avoid a massive clear out by Big Pete, himself.
Eventually, I would have to actually go into the school. If I were caught cutting my second period Solfeggio class, I would be forced to leave the program and go to a different school.
The day would progress like anyone else’s, and I would look forward to my after school wanderings around town.
I tell you now; I am blessed to have been equipped with that kind of education.
As my teens went on, I had to leave that blessed place. Classified as a “trouble maker,” and “in need of psychological rescue,” I wound up trekking up to Vermont and upstate New York and attending their various and closed minded schools for a spell. Let’s just say that the mostly “rural Christian” people who took up most of my time knew nothing of my enlightenment and I was no better off for the experience.
And so, I returned to Philly. After drifting around at different schools and learning how to block kicks from five or six people while maintaining the fetal position, I wound up at Parkway in Mount Airy. It was in this school that my prior education truly came to fruition.
Equipped with my knowledge, I was totally at home in spite of being one of about ten or twelve white folks at the school. All of us welcomed and privileged to share in the fruits of an awe-inspiring culture.
Had I not been blessed to share my youth with so many wonderful black and Latino folks, I dare say that I would not have a single interesting story to tell. I dare say that I would have fallen victim to the foolishness of my neighborhood peers, who have not stepped one foot out of those dreadful four blocks since.
It is from my experience that I am blessed to be who I am. Although I have many earth shattering flaws of character, I am happy to say that I am not afflicted with the worst one possible.
On this day, many years later and looking out with my own perspective, these things I see in our nation-these things we all see together are astounding.
We see an administration that has institutionally abandoned these great and diverse people- these great and honorable citizens of our nation.
We witness a powerful stratum above us whispering its elitism and bigotry in our battered ears.
We accept a society led by those who have never wanted for a single luxury and have squandered every opportunity granted them, thus perpetuating a chasm of intellectual mediocrity that sustains itself by corruption and economic superiority.
They are seated at a much different table. This table is in a dark room. Upon it are letters and agendas that serve to preserve the continuum and nothing more.
No charitable trust is introduced. No diversity is witnessed, anticipated nor acknowledged.
Not a single thing more.
They have reached their destination without the burden of making their own journeys. Their cars are waiting for them outside to ensure that they need not walk a single yard of the polis they have recklessly ignored.
Their homes are large and gated on the outskirts of the city we must live in, their servants preparing a hearty meal for them at their own expense.
These people who have championed their own persona of dignity and compassion- these ghastly men and women- haven’t a speck of the knowledge required to save our ravaged nation. Rather, they have worked to ensure the opposite for their own sake.
Not a single thing more.
It is with my greatest hope that we can all be “educated” by this disgraceful revelation of American ignorance. We are all subject to the whims of a man who hasn’t the slightest idea what it is like to be “American,” and has chosen foolishly to twist the diversity that has given our nation its dignity to suit his own delusions.
Should we choose to let our collective outrage subside, we will be forced to take the long journey backwards to an unspeakable destination; one that serves nothing but the perpetuation of the “old ways,” with each of us at the mercy of corrupt and ignorant men and women.
Should we choose to extend any forgiveness or amnesty to this man and those seated at his table, we will be sealing our own fate and will be forced to devour the rotten scraps thrown from the table for lack of any other sustenance, and in the end, we will have halted our own journey toward righteousness. We will become the servants who prepare their feast upon their return home.
And not a single thing more.
On edit: Fixed a few grammatical errors... See what I mean about my "academic experience?"
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