Essays
Mummers Parade—it’s pure Philadelphia
from The Philadelphia Inquirer
9 January 2007
There was the full moon and heat and wind rattling the leafless branches of the street trees and the chant of E-A-G-L-E-S. Today, with the street sweepers turning figure eights in the middle of Broad Street, I saw the soul of our city flapping with the high-floating trash and debris from the Symphony House construction. Freed from even the idea of winter, we jostled on sidewalks well beyond the Avenue of the Arts and danced with profligate daffodils at our feet.
But it was at Broad and Pine, where for four hours I stood with my daughter Lena and my son Isaak, with his intuitive sense of empathy sporting a gold-lamé and red plume gladiator helmet, that at first Philadelphia, with its infinite quilt of parochialisms, displayed itself so gladly. We high-fived, shook hands, shouted, “Happy New Year!” and danced right along with the men of the Comic brigades, who sodden-hoofed their way past us. Even we dry and overeducated stiffs, commenting as we were on the brilliant, glimmering vernacular before us and trying so desperately to interpret that which we weren’t quite sure of, shook and cried with glee.
The Mummers characterize Philadelphia even more than the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade characterizes New York. In New York, neck craning, 11 deep on Central Park West, you look to the sky for the gravity-defying show. You’re moved by the extent of human ambition. In Philadelphia, we stand on the filthy ground in each other’s faces, close enough to share the scents of Jack Daniels and PBR, dressed in satin bunting, shouting in heavy tones and questionable grammar, our chests rising together because we are satisfied, above all, to repeat the steps and notes and chants of our own ancestors. And we push or carry or kick along our children, decorated too in sequins, white-faced, strutting in gold-painted Timberlands. All the scents and tastes and beliefs of the world lie before us. It is an extraordinary thing to move among cultures and people, to cross the constraining boundaries of geography or genes.
In Philadelphia, when that becomes too much, too lonely, we retreat to our houses, blocks, neighborhoods, and allow the intimate, parochial city to protect us. This duality may be our town’s greatest strength. Hungry, weary now of the thickening crowd and the sun that made its turn west, my kids and I left Broad Street as the Fancies began their ascent from Washington Avenue. It wasn’t, as I had experienced in years past, like stepping out of a fire into the void of cold, empty, darkening streets. People were everywhere, including loose gangs of Comics still dressed as patriotic clowns, who taunted traffic and slurred come-ons and jammed the entrances of a few notable bars. On Eighth Street heading south, Lena and Isaak spotted a kid from the Riverfront brigade walking alone but still in the spirit, wishing everyone a Happy New Year. Now about 20 feet ahead, Isaak, 4, turned and ran at full speed to the Mummer, high-fived and hugged him, and the Mummer mumbled something about his girlfriend having to understand, and handed my son his purple umbrella. It was a divine gift for both receiver and giver, who shouted back to us: “That just made my day!”
A couple of hours later, after heading out alone to hunt through the stacks at Book Trader, I rounded Bainbridge at Second. A pair (or trio) of Comics, youngsters from the Froggy Carrs, again, came toward me. As I thought to say to them, “You boys tired yet?” one of them said something I don’t remember. The other interrupted: “Whatcha talking to him for? He’s a fag!”
Ahh, I thought, that’s more like it.
The tension followed me up Bainbridge. Sirens now drowned the chatter of the robins in the pear trees and the music that seeped through the freshly opened windows. On my block, a fight had broken out. One of our neighbors didn’t like having trash thrown out the window of a car onto his sidewalk. He threw it back inside. A culture war of multiple dimensions ensued (and a fist met a jaw) and chests and shoulders met and shouting that could have escalated to anything (my sources tell me that most murders happen as a result of an argument) pierced the sweet drifting air.
It’s just the way it is. There’s danger in leaving the neighborhood. And always a certain fierceness, sometimes punctured by a hug, or a fist.
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