Even in darkness, Philadelphia, the city of Brotherly Love, is filled with life. The train that passes by, the community that the world turns a blind eye to, they all bring the city to life.
I realized this when I was sitting in Mass at the St. Francis Inn during my first year at college. Everyone’s eyes were closed as we listened to “Amazing Grace” by Judy Collins play in the background. All the noise of the lively city was occurring outside of the walls I was surrounded by. However, instead of feeling a sense of fear of the streets, I felt a sense of comfort.
At that time, I have never seen Philadelphia, but was eager to go with my school’s Ministry group when they said we could help the homeless at their local soup kitchen. At first, I was just excited to travel, but the more I thought about it, I realized that this trip was bringing me back to my roots of helping people. During that whole week, I met people in a community that I never thought I would connect with just by listening to their stories. When I grew up, I was told that homeless people were considered “beggars.” Now, as I learned in Philly, they are not homeless because they do not have a home, they are homeless because they feel a sense of displacement in a place they would call a home.
That definition has stuck with me to this day.
Even now, I go back to Philadelphia every spring semester because I love meeting the people of that community. Being able to sit, talk and listen to them and their stories has been one of my favorite memories of my college journey.
As I have talked about them before over a million times, the one person I never stopped thinking about was Ricky. Ricky was a man who was more than just a man, he was a survivor.
At his old age, he had survived being on the streets for some time now and when he was in need of help, I was there to help him. I got him a warm cup of coffee, I made sure he got fresh clothes and food. I did everything I could for him, and when he saw me from them on, he always remembered me, the girl who gave him a helping hand.
On my last day in Philly last year, the semester I met Ricky, he looked at me and what he said has stuck with me ever since:
“Please don’t forget about me.”
Every time I think of those words, I start to cry. Not from tears of sadness, but from the sheer joy that I know I was lucky enough to meet a man like Ricky so that I could never forget him, even when I’m 60 years old.
When I talk about my time at the St. Francis Inn, I simply call my time on the trip “The Philly Effect” because when you go once, it’s very hard for you to not come back. Even when I am walking down the path on campus towards Plassmann Hall for class, I still listen to “Amazing Grace” as that song reminds me of the lively city I fell in love with four years ago.
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