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The 'Gayborhood,' past and present
Dan Rottenberg
Good ghettoes make good neighbors
DAN ROTTENBERG
Our critic Lewis Whittington has a new lease on life these days, for a reason Lew recently explained in the May 2 Inquirer: After years of persecution and harassment, Lew’s people have been officially sanctified by an august municipal council. Specifically, they’ve been granted their own twelve-block turf. Within this “Gayborhood” bordered by Chestnut, Pine, 11th and Broad Streets, three-dozen rainbow street signs will “let everybody know they are welcome and this is a safe area,” according to Chief Police Inspector James Tiano.
I can understand Lew’s euphoria after all those years of second-class citizenship. In a democracy like ours, you need a blood aristocracy to offset the tyranny of the bigoted majority. And the closest thing we have to an aristocracy is our city council. If Frank Rizzo’s son and Wilson Goode’s son and (soon) Bill Green’s son and John Street’s son, not to mention Lucien Blackwell’s widow, all tell you you’re OK in their book, then you must be OK. Right?
As someone whose own people enjoyed a similar experience some time ago in Central Europe, I can assure Lew that, starting now, he and his people are in for exciting and stimulating times. Like Lew’s compatriots, my people were oppressed and despised for centuries. And as in Philadelphia, everyone in my people’s town relied on the city council for wise and mature judgment. “If only the city council would bless us with some gesture, like our own designated neighborhood,” my ancestors reasoned, “our troubles would be over.”
A place to safely crack pope jokes
And so it was. Within the safe confines of their “Jewborhood,” as hip locals dubbed it, my people felt free to let down their hair and do their own thing. They could crack pope jokes, count their gold coins out in the sunlight, eat meat on Fridays and play pinochle on Easter without feeling self-conscious. They could opt out of the mainstream society’s colorful traditions— Christmas carols, chamber music concerts, jousting tournaments, crusades, inquisitions, witch trials— without guilt. Meanwhile, the mainstream folks who lived beyond the Jewborhood were similarly liberated to celebrate their resurrections, holy ghosts and suffering saints without any skeptics rolling their eyes in the cheap seats.
Shielded from the disapproval of aliens, our people reinforced our culture and self-esteem, and the mainstream people across the wall reinforced theirs. It was a win-win situation! Or, as a wise king of those good old days (I forget which wise king— there were so many!) put it, “Good ghettoes make good neighbors.”
And now, the happy ending
To be sure, all good things must come to an end, and the Jewborhood was no exception. The place no longer exists— I think there was a fire or something— and its virtues have faded from memory with the passage of time. (When I ask my older relatives if they’ve ever gone back for a visit, they look at me strangely.)
But hey, it was fun while it lasted! And fortunately, about 60 years ago an even more august legislature granted my people an even bigger and better Jewborhood, where they have lived in peace and harmony with their surrounding mainstream neighbors ever since.
You see, that’s the great thing about specially designated communities: They don’t just protect minorities; they create a process through which majorities and minorities can develop mutual respect and understanding with each passing year. I mean, can you believe that there was once a time in the Middle East when Jews and Arabs didn't get along?
About that homeless panhandler...
Of course, Philadelphia’s new Gayborhood may encounter a few transitional headaches before reaching this blissful state. For example, it will have to deal with the demented homeless panhandler who has stood each day for years outside the Witherspoon Building on Walnut Street. The other day, when he hit me up for his customary quarter, I was prepared with a fresh response. “Are you gay or straight?” I demanded. Obviously, this fellow will have to be relocated if he won’t get with the program.
We at Broad Street Review (also located within the Gayborhood) have averted such a fate by cheerfully purchasing a stock of multi-colored T-shirts and buttons proclaiming, “I’m straight but not narrow.” Remember, we remind ourselves, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs!
To read responses, click here.
DAN ROTTENBERG
Our critic Lewis Whittington has a new lease on life these days, for a reason Lew recently explained in the May 2 Inquirer: After years of persecution and harassment, Lew’s people have been officially sanctified by an august municipal council. Specifically, they’ve been granted their own twelve-block turf. Within this “Gayborhood” bordered by Chestnut, Pine, 11th and Broad Streets, three-dozen rainbow street signs will “let everybody know they are welcome and this is a safe area,” according to Chief Police Inspector James Tiano.
I can understand Lew’s euphoria after all those years of second-class citizenship. In a democracy like ours, you need a blood aristocracy to offset the tyranny of the bigoted majority. And the closest thing we have to an aristocracy is our city council. If Frank Rizzo’s son and Wilson Goode’s son and (soon) Bill Green’s son and John Street’s son, not to mention Lucien Blackwell’s widow, all tell you you’re OK in their book, then you must be OK. Right?
As someone whose own people enjoyed a similar experience some time ago in Central Europe, I can assure Lew that, starting now, he and his people are in for exciting and stimulating times. Like Lew’s compatriots, my people were oppressed and despised for centuries. And as in Philadelphia, everyone in my people’s town relied on the city council for wise and mature judgment. “If only the city council would bless us with some gesture, like our own designated neighborhood,” my ancestors reasoned, “our troubles would be over.”
A place to safely crack pope jokes
And so it was. Within the safe confines of their “Jewborhood,” as hip locals dubbed it, my people felt free to let down their hair and do their own thing. They could crack pope jokes, count their gold coins out in the sunlight, eat meat on Fridays and play pinochle on Easter without feeling self-conscious. They could opt out of the mainstream society’s colorful traditions— Christmas carols, chamber music concerts, jousting tournaments, crusades, inquisitions, witch trials— without guilt. Meanwhile, the mainstream folks who lived beyond the Jewborhood were similarly liberated to celebrate their resurrections, holy ghosts and suffering saints without any skeptics rolling their eyes in the cheap seats.
Shielded from the disapproval of aliens, our people reinforced our culture and self-esteem, and the mainstream people across the wall reinforced theirs. It was a win-win situation! Or, as a wise king of those good old days (I forget which wise king— there were so many!) put it, “Good ghettoes make good neighbors.”
And now, the happy ending
To be sure, all good things must come to an end, and the Jewborhood was no exception. The place no longer exists— I think there was a fire or something— and its virtues have faded from memory with the passage of time. (When I ask my older relatives if they’ve ever gone back for a visit, they look at me strangely.)
But hey, it was fun while it lasted! And fortunately, about 60 years ago an even more august legislature granted my people an even bigger and better Jewborhood, where they have lived in peace and harmony with their surrounding mainstream neighbors ever since.
You see, that’s the great thing about specially designated communities: They don’t just protect minorities; they create a process through which majorities and minorities can develop mutual respect and understanding with each passing year. I mean, can you believe that there was once a time in the Middle East when Jews and Arabs didn't get along?
About that homeless panhandler...
Of course, Philadelphia’s new Gayborhood may encounter a few transitional headaches before reaching this blissful state. For example, it will have to deal with the demented homeless panhandler who has stood each day for years outside the Witherspoon Building on Walnut Street. The other day, when he hit me up for his customary quarter, I was prepared with a fresh response. “Are you gay or straight?” I demanded. Obviously, this fellow will have to be relocated if he won’t get with the program.
We at Broad Street Review (also located within the Gayborhood) have averted such a fate by cheerfully purchasing a stock of multi-colored T-shirts and buttons proclaiming, “I’m straight but not narrow.” Remember, we remind ourselves, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs!
To read responses, click here.
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