VoxPop

Personal essays about the trials and triumphs of everyday life

By Leslie Cottle» This weekend my girlfriends were approached by a 20-something man claiming that Philadelphia girls just weren't making the cut compared to the usual "Southern Belles" he was used to. He even defined Southern Belle for my friends. Southern Belle (noun)- A girl born and raised in the South. Southern cooking, Southern accent, and Southern "old money". The kind of girl everyone dreams to be or meet. Proper, educated, has etiquette, says, "Yes, sir" and "Yes, mam" and means it. Since I grew up in Virginia and moved to Philadelphia as a teen -- with my "Southern Belle" roots intact - I understand the guy's point of view. But, here is my question: Does he know what kind of men roam around Philadelphia? (Comments)

This Old House

By Rachel Levy Lesser» I grew up in a house built my grandparents. The new construction was complete in 1967, and it was distinctively theirs. The 6-foot bathtub and extra high counter tops were designed by and for my 6-foot-4 grandfather. The art studio complete with a science-like lab sink and oversized slots for canvases was what my grandmother, the budding artist, had always wanted. It wasn't their house for as long as they would have hoped. After my grandfather died suddenly, my grandmother wanted nothing more of their dream home in Yardley. She moved to New York City where she could be near the art and culture that she craved. This left my young parents in a precarious position. They had outgrown our small ranch (Comments)

The Reluctant Park Mom

By Kate Wright» I recently attended a birthday party for my son's two-year-old friend. I knew only a few of the people there -- namely, the hosts and their extended family -- but that afternoon I met other moms, dads, and kids who live in my neighborhood. I settled in, keeping watch over my son, who was not yet one, as he played with the big kids. The sun was out. I had a cold drink in my hand. It was a beautiful day. A woman approached. We introduced ourselves and she asked me where I lived. When she found out I was from the neighborhood, she seemed surprised and said: "Oh. Are you a park mom? I've never seen you at the park before." I stood there, staring at her, until our hostess explained: "She's a friend from before the park." "Yes," I said, suddenly feeling awkward. "I do go to the park from time to time, but we do other things as well." The truth is, I don't want to be a Park Mom. (Comments)

Harder Than I Thought

By Debra Bourdeau McLoughlin» It was harder than I thought. We had joked about it - "Promise you'll pull the plug," my mother would say. "Sure, no problem, " I'd answer. And we'd laugh. As time went by it was less joking and more promising. I promise I won't let you suffer. I promise no life support. I promise I won't let you lay there with tubes coming out of you. As I watched her sleep - at least I hoped she was sleeping - I looked at all the tubes. And I thought about broken promises, and the phone call. "You have power of attorney, will you consent to surgery? Without surgery, she will not survive the night." My brother, who was there with her, pleaded for her life. And so I consented, against the thousand promises, against my better judgment. It was harder than I thought. My siblings and I fought over feeding tubes and respirators and extra measures and what she wanted and what she didn't want, over medical care and nursing homes. Over life and death. Because one did not have the heart to stop treatment and another did not have (Comments)

Born to Boycott

By Janet Golden» Not so long ago I emailed a close friend an article that revealed her favorite line of yoga wear, Lululemon, came from a company that promoted the works of Ayn Rand. I expected her to be grateful for the news and, since she is a good left political activist, to thank me for alerting her so she'd never shop there again. Instead she asked: "Why did you have to tell me that?" I was shocked at her response. But then, I come from a boycotting family. Growing up in Southern California we boycotted all things John Birch Society. No Russell Stover candy ever passed my lips. As my mother taught me, Mrs. Stover gave money to the Birchers. (Comments)

Reading the City

By Samantha Kirk» My father, a Navy veteran and contented suburban Maryland home-dweller, has trouble understanding why I love the city. When I talk about the row house I'm moving into in North Philadelphia, with its bathroom window offering an unobstructed view of the neighbor's bedroom, its crumbling drywall, its nightly chorus of stray cats, he waxes poetic about the Jeffersonian virtues of the countryside and the joys of homesteading. He knows I love the wilderness and the country; so why, he asks, have I spent most of my adult life seeking out the experience of the city? It's true that I am quite the nature lover. I hike, I climb rocks, I garden; plant identification is one of my hobbies. Being able to read a forest or meadow by the leaf shapes hidden within it is a wonderful thing. Much, in fact, like walking down a city (Comments)

Guess Where I Am

Best of VoxPop» The other day when I was on the SEPTA R5 everyone was on the phone but me. The train car was filled with the cacophony of blather. All my fellow passengers were talking at once, each one-sided conversation more insipid than the last. Some typical remarks: "I'm on the train!" "The second apartment we saw was even smaller, but I loved the kitchen." "I'm on the train!" "You found the document? Great! Now make five copies and give them to Mark." "I just got on the train!" "The podiatrist was out of the office, but when the nurse saw my bunion, she..." "I'm on the train!" Okay. So you're on the train. Now, can you possibly shut up about it for two seconds? (Comments)

Riding Their Bikes

Best of VoxPop» There are two kinds of bicyclists in South Philadelphia. If you think I am over-generalizing, go to the corner of Ninth St. and Washington Ave. and try to find a third variety. You'll be standing there a long while. Let's call the first kind -- my kind --the South Philly Cyclists. Let's call the second kind the Passyunk Pedalers. These names aren't terribly descriptive, but what's the point to life if there's no alliteration? We South Philly Cyclists are new to the neighborhood. We are interlopers. We are the educated types, or the creative ones, or occasionally even both. We are young, or despite appearances we pretend to be. We are female as often as male, but uniformly white. By no means are we rich, but we care about reducing our carbon footprint, and a certain material comfort is required of those who care about their carbon footprint. (Comments)

My Declaration of Independence

Best of VoxPop» It is no coincidence that I now live only a few blocks from Independence Hall. When I was a toddler, I was determined to do everything by myself, so my grandfather dubbed me the Declaration of Independence. The name still suits me. To appreciate this, you need to know that I am legally blind. That means that I have minimal sight in one eye and none in the other, and no depth perception. While I can get around without the assistance of either a guide dog or a white cane, I can't read street signs or facial expressions, and I hold printed matter inches from my eyes to read it. You will be relieved to learn that the state of Pennsylvania, in its wisdom, will not grant me a driver's license. (Comments)

Public Is the New Private

Best of VovPop» Remember Steve Martin's line when people asked if he would mind them smoking? He smiled politely and replied: "Mind if I fart?" Today, though smoking is banned in most public places, no one would bother to ask permission to fart; they would just break wind. That's because private is the new public. Functions, which used to be performed in homes, beauty salons, doctor's offices and even bathrooms, have now become spectator sports. Nowhere is this more obvious than on public transportation where people are crammed together like galley slaves for the duration of their trip. When I lived in the Bronx and commuted to Manhattan on the subways, people were content to read their newspapers or books in relative silence. Occasionally, I encountered a groper, a loud talker or a nose picker or an annoying straphanger who hung too close to a seated commuter. These days, no matter what form of public transportation I take, someone sitting next to me is either eating something incredibly stinky from a (Comments)

Never Thrown a Punch

Best of VoxPop» When I say I have never thrown a punch, I mean I have never even been in a playground scuffle, not growing up in Salt Lake City, nor later when I moved around the country. I have lived my life avoid troubling situations and employing what I tell myself is wit and charm in situations where trouble seems unavoidable. Five years ago, after moving to Philadelphia from South Carolina, I decided this needed to change. Perhaps it was one too many runs up the Rocky steps, or the fact that I stand six foot one and 240 pounds, but the City of Brotherly Love got me wondering how I would hold up standing toe to toe with another man. I opened my journal and scribbled a goal in ink, "Have two official fights, judged by an official referee." I figured I needed one fight, (Comments)

Make 'Em Laugh, Make 'Em Laugh

Best of VoxPop» I am single. I spent five years in college with nothing more than a few awkward drinks and "hook-ups" that got me nowhere. I'm sure there are plenty of reasons (excuses) for my chronic single-ness. It could have been my lack of enthusiasm for the Drexel crowd. Light-wash denim shorts and tube socks combined with greasy pony tailed hair just didn't do it for me. Or it could be that God has spited me and placed a giant neon sign above my head that says "Run away! She'll chop your balls off!" only visible to those I find myself even mildly attracted to. There is, however, one answer that holds up. One of my best guy friends once told me at a party, "Guys don't date you because you're too funny." At the time it seemed ludicrous, but it buzzed around in my head, like a pesky fly caught between two windowpanes. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was true. (Comments)

You Believe It

Best of VoxPop» got off the train this morning and started walking towards my first class at Temple University, but something in one of the upper floors of a building caught my eye and my heart began racing. My mind plays tricks on me. Though I knew it to be completely absurd, my brain still said that there was a sniper up there, and that I should move to a safe place. I didn't, and that's an improvement. A year ago I may have run to a street corner and ducked down behind it. If a car backfires I am liable to do the same thing. It's frustrating for me. It's frustrating that something I worked so hard to be good at won't go away. I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was diagnosed with it in July, 2008, (Comments)

School Days: A Sub's First Day

Best of VoxPop» Anyone who has ever started a job has had the first day jitters. And why not? But eventually, that period passes: you fall in line, you get used to the way things work, and suddenly you can't remember why you ever felt so nervous. Unless you are me. I am a substitute teacher. For me, every day is my first day. In early January, on my very first day as a sub, I was assigned to a vocational high school in Philadelphia. I pulled up at 6:30 a.m., the sun still down, next to a sprawling one-story building. There were bars on the windows and chains on the door. The majority of entrances had signs with big red letters saying No Trespassing and Students Enter Side Door and Guests Enter Front So I entered the front. A woman at the front office greeted me and said, "You're here early." (Comments)

My Life as a Telemarketer

Best of VoxPop» It's your average grey January day in your average Philadelphia area neighborhood. Going about your daily business, you are interrupted by the phone ringing off the hook. Stumbling to answer it, your eye notices the I.D. displaying Philadelphia Direct. There is no holding back the bad feeling as you answer the call, "Hello?" "Yes, good evening Mrs. Smith. This is John calling from the Inquirer how are you?" answers the Telemarketer. You shout: "I've told you before, STOP Calling!" And you hang up. What is this company that seems to call a dozen times a day? It is Philadelphia Direct Call Solutions, a service of the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper. The purpose of the call, no matter how they disguise it, is to sell you a subscription to the paper. (Comments)

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