69th Street Terminal, making all stops

I am a fan of public transportation. I admit the only time I’ve ever ridden the Metro in Kansas City is as a shuttle in the Trolley Run. Never the less, when I travel I use public transit.

I went to Philly in April for the ACES conference (http://www.copydesk.org/). I arrived in Philly the afternoon before the conference with plenty of time to spare.

I planned to take SEPTA, Philly’s transit system, into Center City to get to my hotel. Seeing as how it’s been six years since my year-long stint in Philly, I forgot that the best method to get from the airport to Center City is the train.

I saw the bus stop before I saw any signs to direct me to a train terminal. With $2 worth of quarters in hand I boarded to bus to the 69th Street Terminal.

An hour later I arrived at the 69th Street Terminal, still 30 minutes from my desired destination. The hour long bus ride gave me the opportunity to remember how it feels to be the minority (I was the only white person on the bus until about six stops in and even then the white girl that boarded the bus looked sorely out of place). The scenic bus route also gave me a chance to see West Philly neighborhood by neighborhood.

When I planned my trip to Philly I scheduled time to visit with friends from Greater St. Matthew, the church I attended when I lived in West Philly. I was eager to see Pastor Johnson and all the ladies who became my surrogate grandmas during my year in the inner city.

I wanted to see my friends from my old neighborhood as well but I worried that I wouldn’t feel comfortable. When I lived in Philly in 2004, I proudly touted the label “light skinned” (the high school girls I worked with at West Philly High assured me that I wasn’t white) I now knew myself as a single white women, distant from the issues my West Philly neighbors dealt with on a daily basis.

I don’t hear gun shots in my midtown apartment in Kansas City, nor do I see drug dealers on the corner every time I come home from work. I don’t worry that my children, if I am ever blessed to have any, might get sucked into the lifestyle of the corner or bullied if they do well in school. I don’t worry about the houses next to me falling down or being looted for scrap medal. I don’t worry about these things that are constant issues in my former neighborhood on Yewdall. I don’t worry about these things because I no longer live there. And I felt like the distance I created might be too much for my former neighbors to welcome me back.

In a neighborhood where white people represent cops, social workers and teachers, I worried that I could no longer be considered a neighbor.

As I looked out the bus window at the West Philly neighborhoods filled with water ice shops, children playing in the streets and elderly women sitting on their porches, my desire to see my old friends surpassed my fear of being an outsider.

When the bus finally arrived at the 69th Street Terminal I hopped on the El and made my way to 13th Street. I smiled as I passed the 56th street stop. I hurried to my hotel, grabbed a cheese steak from Reading Terminal and then got on the subway to head back to West Philly.

I got off the 56th Street terminal with a confidence that said, “I belong here.” Logan assures me that despite my silver hoop earings I did not look like I belonged when I walked down the steps onto Market Street.

I walked down 56th Street to Vine and then headed to Yewdall. I looked down as I walked and noticed the litter. I’d liked to say that a smiling child’s face stood out among all the things I saw as I walked from 56th and Vine to my former street off Yewdall and Race. Honestly, I have to say the litter stood out the most. To be fair there didn’t seem to be many children playing outside at that time and I couldn’t walk an inch without stepping on some cheese curl package or empty artificial juice container. Where is the warm fuzzy moment I’ve been waiting for? I wondered.

When I stepped onto Yewdall I found my warm fuzzy. Her name is Miss Mary.
I saw Miss Mary as I rounded the corner in her usual spot on her porch.
During my year in Philly, everyday when I walked home from West Philly High I would stop and talk to Miss Mary. We talked about my day at work, the neighborhood gossip and Oprah. I really enjoy the older crowd, as in senior citizens, and Miss Mary ranks among my favorite.

I wonder if she’ll remember me, I thought as I started to cross the street toward her house.

“Is that my girl?” Miss Mary stood up and yelled across the street in her signature scratchy voice.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said, with a smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

I jogged over to Miss Mary’s and she gave me a giant hug as if I was her prodigal daughter.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.

I stood on the porch as we caught up. She told me who still lived on the street, who recently had children and how our community garden was doing.

I promised Miss Mary that I would write her when I got back to Kansas City. I left Miss Mary’s and went on to Greater Saint Matthew where I met up with one of my all time favorite spiritual mentors, Pastor Gregory Johnson.

There are so many things in life that compartmentalize us and separate us from others. Black and white. Liberal and conservative. Believer and skeptic. Sacred and secular.

In that small block on Yewdall in West Philly those labels seem to melt away. When I ran to Miss Mary’s porch I didn’t feel like a white, social just do-gooder from the MidWest. I felt like Arley. I felt human. I felt like I belonged.

This is the Kingdom of God. Or at least it’s what I envision as the Kingdom of God- when our love for others breaks down our fears and misconceptions.

Pastor Johnson teaches this unifying faith. And describes God’s love in a way that’s both overpowering and real.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a bus to heaven (figuratively, not theologically). I mean, on the highway heaven I doubt we’ll be sporting our separate SUVs. A bus makes more sense. If there is a bus to heaven I hope that I’m fortunate enough to sit by someone with as much love as Pastor Johnson and Miss Mary.