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How Could This Be in the Land of the Free?

by Red Rebel

I’ve lived in the Southern suburbs of town of Phoenixville, a town located less than thirty miles North-West of Philadelphia, my entire life. As proud as I was to be from Phoenixville, I was not educated there. I went to a neighboring public school district for my pre-college education. My high school was full of wealthier suburban kids as opposed to the more urban atmosphere of Phoenixville.

The Iron Hill Brewery is a new restaurant in downtown Phoenixville that plays off of Phoenixville’s deceased steel industry. The media raves about the award winning cuisine and beer from the restaurant. I don’t make it into town often so during the last weekend in Spring Break, I decided I would try out the restaurant. I asked my best friend if he wanted to go to the restaurant. The plan was to meet up with him and several of my peers.

The Bridge

I arrived at the restaurant early, and there were only two of my peers there. They were a couple, and we were only acquaintances, so we did not talk much. While they were chatting between themselves, I figured I’d take the initiative and make a reservation for six people. The wait time was over an hour (not surprising for a popular restaurant at peek hours on a weekend). Over the course of the next thirty minutes the rest of my friends arrived. We had a little less than two dozen members in our party after the last of my friends arrived. I changed the number of people in our party at the desk; the wait was still going to be over an hour.

The waiting room was small. We were loud and took up most of the waiting room. I never was the social life in the party and I never talked unless I was spoken to. I just listened and observed. My best friend came over to me, and asked “whaz up, man?” I gave the standard and short reply indicating that I was doing alright. It was at that point I told him how long of a wait we still had to endure. He over emphasized how surprised he was with his expression on his face. He then informed the rest of our party of the news, which I already knew. Despite a couple brassy comments directed at me for not divulging the information sooner, my best friend suggested that we head into town and do something while someone waited at the restaurant for our table. It was then that my party entered into a debate about who should stay and who should wait, how it was not fair that we could not go everywhere as a group, where would we go in town, and so fourth. I had already been waiting for over a half and hour, so amidst the debate I said firmly, “not it” (in reference to who was going to wait for the seats), put my jacket on and walked out. No one followed me, but that was ok; I enjoyed being alone.

I walked down Bridge Street, the main street. It was interesting to see how Phoenixville was becoming a friendlier town. When I was a child, you would not want to walk downtown Phoenixville without carrying a 9. Now, Bridge Street was well lit with new street lamps and new consumer stores with bright shop lights flanking both sides of the street. Middle aged, middle class, white people were walking and enjoying the clear and cool evening. Instinctively I had my hands shoved inside my pockets and held my head high. I was always taught this by my mother (who grew up in the city) that it was a good idea when walking alone in a city. Even if I didn’t need to worry about being mugged, looking tough was cool. I was not going to buy anything at any of the stores. I just liked to walk and observe my setting. I walked several blocks and not much time elapsed. I decided I would cross a massive bridge that crossed French Creek, a tiny tributary to the Schuylkill River. In my entire eighteen years of existence I had never walked across that bridge. I had never been to North Phoenixville.

The bridge was enormous. French Creek was not a large river; it was because the other side of the bridge was on elevated ground. The bridge was made of old concrete; the walls on the side of the bridge were weathered, to say the least. Several sections of the bridge were closed, because they were not safe and multiple sections of the sidings that were held together by steel bars where the concrete had simply crumbled from time and neglect. When I got to the other side, it was like I was in a different country. The housing looked as if it had not changed in the past century. The decadent buildings were roughly a century old, more than likely built when Phoenixville was a major steel town. That industry died off and caused economic ruin for my town due to Reaganomics back in the 1980s. The street light was crooked and it looked as if it had seen better days. It would have been an easier walk if I had used the grass instead of the ruined sidewalk; however, the grass near French Creek was overgrown and a dumping ground for garbage. The old decommissioned railroad that ran parallel to French Creek was overgrown and trash was literally stacked on it. I walked down Vanderslice Street, which was also parallel to French Creek. I reached a park and sat down at one of the benches. The bench was not a flat surface; it was warped too such as degree that it looked as if it was melted. The mulch on the bottom needed to be replaced; it was starting to decay and weeds were growing through it. The playground itself was not impressive, even when it was new; it hardly consisted of anything that would occupy me as a child for more than a few minutes. Besides that, it was small. The plastic had a distinct old look to it and one could almost imagine a decayed smell that would go with it. I could not believe that this was still the same town that I grew up in.

I am not a virgin. I have been brought up with an open mind, a well traveled background, and a leftist way of thinking. At this point in my life I was already an established leftist. Class antagonism, class consciousness, economic differences, social division, wage slavery, and a host of other revolutionary terminology would normally fly around in my mind. Simply sitting there on that warped bench, my mind overloaded in what I could only call injustice. I already knew about the socio-economic problems in the United States, but it still left me dumbstruck when I found out it was in my home town. Several people gave me distrustful glares as they passed by me. They were all black and I was a white teenager who was wearing an expensive leather jacket. I am well traveled. I have been to thirteen countries, a multiple number of states, East coast cities, Pennsyltucky, the rural South, suburbia, tourist beaches, various mountain ranges and a number of other places.
Mural of Phoenixville's past

I have never felt so much like a foreigner than when I was sitting on that park bench in the town I grew up in. What was I doing? I was sitting on that park bench and gawking at the people that passed. They were poor; it was the most simple of observations. Marx wrote over one hundred and fifty years ago in his Theses on Feuerbach, “Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it.” I was only observing the world. What can I do to change it? What can we do? What can anyone do? I can only state what I have observed to work: organize, agitate, resist, and fight for the economic freedom of my community, my neighbors, and my friends.

I glanced at my watch and about forty-five minutes had pasted. It was time to make my way back to the restaurant. I re-crossed French Creek, walked by the brand new visitor center, and entered into the street lights of Bridge Street where all the lights on the shops shinned brightly. I walked into the Iron Hill Brewery where my friends where already seated. They called out my name in unison. I ate an excellent meal and enjoyed the company of my peers. After dinner I walked towards my car, and I gazed out to the North side of French Creek. It was darker than where I was standing on Bridge Street. It had not changed. The people of North Phoenixville could not go out to dinner and simply forget their economic position. They lived in it.