Why oral history projects matter

So I got an email from Blue Sky Arts in Philly today, titled, 'The Big Tease'.

"Can you spin a good yarn?," it began. "If you have a story that relates to a specific Philadelphia location, we want to hear it. It can be about the street you grew up on; the empty lot where you played ball; the street vendor outside your office- anything that is evocative, authentic Philly. We are collecting these stories for an exciting new audio project that's still very hush-hush, so we can't reveal more just yet, but the stories of Philadelphia are the essential ingredient! Email mdalley@blueskyarts.org with your anecdote and stay tuned to find out exactly what we're cooking up."

I can't wait to see what they're cooking up, and I couldn't resist sharing my recollections of arriving with a toddler in arms into the "urban pioneering" chapter of our lives...the one that put our ideals in conflict with charges of gentrification, but that has led to 28 years in residence in a fascinating urban melting pot neighborhood. Here's what I sent them:

"It was a barrio when we got here -- half young idealists who wanted to come into the city, half poor families packed into public housing. The housing had its own long stories...Once, what realtors named the Art Museum Area as it started to surge back, had just been the northern edge of the city...the Fair Mount. The place city folks came into the woods for breezes on the hill. The place the reservoir perched (before the Art Museum was built) on a hill at the northwest section of downtown. By the time we arrived in the early 70's the neighborhood had its own story to tell.

"Elegant Victorian townhouses had been divided and subdivided to house returning servicemen after WWII ...into single room occupancy stacked housing. Then the servicemen moved on...marrying...moving to the 'burbs...leaving behind tiny apartment best suited to the poor. Immigrants filled spaces that no one who could afford better would consider. By the early 70's, Puerto Rican families had filled the neighbhorhood and its nearly 100 year old homes were squalid. Many were boarded up, empty. White flight had taken the prosperous. Those who came behind rented, and the houses decayed.

"Right about then, young hippies and idealists, searching not just for cheap real estate but also for integrated neighborhoods, started eyeing this quick-walk-into-center-city zone.

"Our house was a gutted shell when we first laid eyes on it. Said 'Jesus love you" in Spanish in spray paint on the front. Had no back wall (it had caved in), and kids jumping from the 2nd floor rafters into discarded mattresses piled high in its back yard on the South side). Termite-eaten beams connecting the party walls of the house on the right to the party wall of the house on the left. Had a front wall with a belly in the brickwork and 3 cast iron stars holding it all together.

"Perfect!" I said to my husband as we gazed upon it with our baby in our arms. Walking distance to downtown. "Full south light. We can build a fireplace."

"You're NUTS," he replied with confidence.

"What? You've gone mad!" our suburban parents responded. But our hearts were stolen. The fishmonger in the truck came every Monday early hawking baskets of live crabs. The scissors grinder. A slice of 18th Century life in 1972 on Mt. Vernon Street. No, not pain-free. Yes, a robbery early on...But with a twist. BRINNNG went the doorbell on day 2 after the break-in. Answer the door and there was the stereo that had been taken. BRRINNG on day 3 and there was the record that had been on the turntable. BRRRRing on day 4 and back came the amp. Ah, word had gotten out. That was the "wrong house" to invade. The word was out that those were the guys who fed neighborhood kids cookies and, and that was the house where the doc who patched up scraped knees lived. Ever single stolen item came back.

"That was a sense of neighborhood we'll never have again in our now largely gentrified neighborhood. Yes, we still have Section 8 housing and a nice ethnic and economic mix, at least on a block or two of the now lush neighborhood. But it's all so sterile now. No salsa music at midnight at full volume. (Who ever thought I'd miss it?) No block party with a whole roast pig on a spit all night in preparation. No more immigrants pantomiming to new Yuppies about how it's expected that you wash your front steps ("the stoop") every Saturday so that every Sunday everyone can party out front.

"Yes, nice property values, no fear, no more language barriers among neighbors. But geez...what we've lost, too. Twas very very special."


A walk down memory lane for just a moment. Really amazing how a random email can regenerate the sights, smells, experiences of three decades ago.

Thanks Blue Sky.