![]() Along the route we traveled, there were none. That afternoon, we drove to Center City on an errand, and to check out the festivities there. After we left, I heard, the black cowboys rode in, and folks popped champagne to share with strangers. Black men driving sanitation trucks honked in celebration. We passed a dreadlocked man in a biblical-style flowing garment who was waving something that looked like a palm frond and screaming, “THANK YOU, JESUS!” The park featured dueling bands and a second-line situation. ![]() The streets were crowded with people banging pots with spoons. It wasn’t the first time he’d said that in our year of quarantine and of young boys actually washing their hands, but finally, history meant something entertaining. “We are literally living in history!” my son cried as we headed down Baltimore Avenue. ![]() ![]() I took my eight-year-old and his best friend down to the park to get into the mix. On Saturday, November 7th, in the annus horribilis of 2020, I stood in Clark Park and declared West Philadelphia the best place in this terrible world.Įarlier that morning, I was in my bedroom, opening windows to take in the unseasonably warm day, and as the neighborhood erupted in hooting, I got a text telling me that the election had been called. A man gestures to the camera while crossing the street near the 52nd Street El station. ![]()
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