Amidst the chaos and mayhem, however, all sides swore at least nominal fealty to Councilperson Jemima Bon-noire, a voodoo priestess of uncertain ancestry who was agreed to be the legitimate authority in the Village, and to the Mayor, Shaka Zulu.
All that changed in the seventeenth century with the advent of the White Man, in the person of William Penn, a gentle Quaker, son of an Admiral, Oxford graduate and stone racist honky slave owner. In 1681 King Charles II of England granted him a piece of land twenty times the size of England. Penn is renowned for his peaceful relations with the Indians. Rather than exterminating them outright, he negotiated land purchases from them amicably, selling them bridges in New Amsterdam and life-long scholarships to Friends Select secondary schools in exchange for the huge tracts of land comprising what is now known as Pennsylvania. In many ways he was the forerunner of the modern Real Estate Agent.
The city of Brotherly Love, or “Philadelphia”, sprang up between the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers, and by the late 17th century was bursting at its seams. At the time, West Philadelphia was a no-man’s land , a haven for pirates who, after mugging wealthy burghers in the city, would escape across the Schuylkill to their dens of iniquity, casinos and bordellos among the swamps and mists.
All that changed in 1806 when the first bridge was thrown across the Schuylkill at the present day Market Street. Puzzled engineers then crossed the river in a barge, retrieved the bridge and put it in its present location. Overnight West Philadelphia was opened to settlement. Soon the city fathers had erected the Blockley Asylum, on the grounds of what is now the University of Pennsylvania, to which they consigned all the homeless rabble of the downtown area – the lunatics, the orphans, the lepers, the wandering minstrels, and the Presbyterians.
Dr. J. Chalmers Da Costa, head doctor and physician-in-chief at the time, described the Asylum thus: "Blockley is the microcosm of the city. Within these gray walls we find all sorts of physical and mental diseases, and also a multitude of those social maladies that degrade man-hood, undermine national strength and threaten civilization itself. Here is drunkenness; here is pauperism; here is illegitimacy; here is madness; here are the eternal priestesses of prostitution who sacrifice for the sins of man; here is crime in all its protean aspects, and here is vice in all its monstrous forms."
For many years the area was considered unfit for genteel human habitation, until a Puritan developer, William Warner, saw the potential of the region, drained the swamps, dammed the creeks and built condominiums.
Soon the land rush was on. The wealthy bourgeoisie of the cities vied with each other to build elegant summer homes and mint plantations in Blockley. Negro slaves from West Africa were imported to labor on the mint fields and low income housing was erected for them to the west of the big mansions that began to dot the hills among the fever-ridden swamps. Relations between the slaves and their owners were notably amicable, and of an evening the darkies would sit on the porches with the better half, plucking out tunes on their primitive banjoleles while the upper crust sipped their juleps.
Year rolled by after lazy year, until one day the lunatic population of Blockley Asylum burst at its seams and the University of Pennsylvania was relocated on the grounds. The lunatics, lepers and Presbyterians were shifted further west, to the confines of the stone-walled old Kirkbride plantation. With the advent of the University, culture reared its indescribably refined and sophisticated head, and the new “University City Village” became a world-renowned center of learning, artistry and tasteful debauchery. Churches were erected. Homosexuals were imported from Paris. Interior design and rococo architecture flourished, and the darkies were pushed from their dilapidated shacks to make room for laboratories and bed-and-breakfasts.
Coffee shops sprang up where once tawdry bordellos had stood. Cappucinos and lattes ran like water. Weary and hopeless neighbors were invigorated and went out to plant cumin, basil and tulips. Dog owners began to pick up after themselves. Property values soared. And soon historical preservationism reared its ugly head.
Nobody disputed the fact that University Village was quaint and tres historique. Nobody with the exception of a few crackpots worried about the effects of gentrification on the UC Village. Many slumlords and real estate agents were making money hand over fist, although donating large proportions of it to charity.
But the issue of historical preservation was more complex. Many exceedingly wealthy people with their hearts in the right places were genuinely concerned that the Victorian baubles and gewgaws which decorated the elegant and charming old facades of the better houses in Spruce Hill needed historical designation and protection, to keep the delightful old neighborhood from going the way of Detroit or Ocean City, New Jersey, with its tasteless cinderblock condominiums and aluminum decks. Other exceedingly wealthy neighbors, who were ready to cut out the hearts of rival neighbors, roast them over a spit, and eat them, were concerned about the poor people, the Black Man, and the starving chilluns of India. Still other well to do burghers in the hood didn’t give a rat’s ass one way or the other and wished the noisy partisans would just shut the fuck up so that they could get on with the business of renovating their houses and finding the right servile craftsman and domestic servants to improve their quality of life.
Panel members:
Mr. Natural, moderator
Mustafa Moussawi al-Badr al-Khazali, President, Spruce Hill Nuthatch Alliance
Adeline Dutoit, UC Village Fresh Princess
Al Frankenheimer, Landlord and Slot-Machine Proprietor
Eric von Hohenstaufen, Obergruppenfuhrer, University City District
ScumRay, Artiste and Hothead
Dexter the Anarchist
Lizzie Blabsalot, Real Estate Agent
Ross Bender, Secretary
MN: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and I do use those terms advisedly. We have about two hours this evening, so if you can put away your switchblades and turn off your cellphones, we can get started. Our topic this evening is Historical Designation ….
DtA: Fuck that shit, man!
AD: Such language! If this keeps up, I shall have to retire to my Jacuzzi in distress!
MMaBaK: As the only authentic African-American in this forum, I say that while I sympathize with the brother, before drawing any hasty conclusions everybody needs to check out my website. Can’t figure out why nobody has been checking out my website. If nobody starts checking out my website I may be forced to go into the backyard and eat worms.
MN: Order, good people, I prithee, order!
AF: I’ll have two giant mushroom and pepperoni pizzas, but only if we order from Fiesta.
LB: No way, man. Once I ordered pizzas from Fiesta for my whole Scout troop and not only did they arrive three days late, but among the mushrooms I found a dirty old used condom! Can you imagine?! I was chewing and chewing away, trying to wash the damn pizza down with large gulps of my grape 40, and the damn thing wouldn’t chew! I finally took it out of my mouth and it was a friggin used condom! Trojan rabbit-skin, I believe. Well so help me I went straight to Fiesta’s kitchen where all those illegal Pakistanis and dark-skinned Ethiopes work and don’t you know it I found the chef spitting in the hoagies! Insolence! I inquired “Who made this friggin pizza?” and when nobody answered I dragged the entire kitchen staff out to the sidewalk and whomped them up against the side of the head. Didn’t even get an apology. That’s why I say, “Historical Designation my ass!”
MN: Yes, well, point taken. But could we confine ourself to the point at issue, namely …
AD: WELL! I’m only going to say this once and then I’ll stop. I mean, nothing is worse than illiterate over-emotional slobs who keep going on and on and on about their irrelevant experiences and preventing the BETTER ELEMENT from getting in a word edgewise. Now, when I was a hedgehog living in the suburbs of Detroit in the late 70s, I would get up every morning, toke up on the crack pipe and go out and take my clients on a nice HISTORICAL TOUR. Don’t you think it’s true that every house tells a story? I’m sure I do. Wealthy and substantial clients aren’t INTERESTED in a lot of foolish online chatter, they want to hear about the UNIQUE and ELEGANT subtleties of the properties they are serious about buying. I always say, if it’s good enough for the WEALTHY CITIZENS of Rittenhouse Square, it’s good enough for University City Village. That’s why I bought a tasteful Benz inside of one of those lowlife Cadillacs that the Negroes drive around the neighborhood, not that there’s any parking space for them any. Also, some of my best friends are Negroes. My maidservant is a mulatto from Guatemala, and I buy all of my cocaine from a darky in Panama.
DA: Fuck that fuckin shit, man.
MN: Er, precisely. Now, perhaps before we continue we should take a straw poll to roughly gauge the sentiment in the room before we continue. Will all those in favor of Historical Designation raise their right hands? OK – that’s three. Opposed – um, I count thirteen.
MMaBaK: That’s because I voted twice.
AF: Me too. Since I own roughly 82% of the properties in the proposed historical district, I figure I should get a couple extra votes.
SR: that reminds me of a vision I once saw. it was down on south street in the early sixties, back in the day, when things were rough. the queen of England was driving by, about 3am in the morning, just got back from a party. she was beckonin with her hand and I pulled up as any other gentleman would have done. aren’t you ScumRay the artiste, she asked? i am, ma’am, I replied. now, do you think I’ve lived my life all wrong, she inquired wistfully and plaintively. depends on what your definition of life is, ma’am, i responded, having no desire to break her heart.
AD: Oh, shut up, you retard!
AF: Can it, asshole! It’s not like I’ve got all the time in the world, dawg. I got to clean out the receipts from my slots and still make it down to my synagogue in Atlantic City by sundown.
DA: Fuck that fuckingly fuckin shit, man!
MN: Ladies! Gentlemen! Order, please!
AD: I’ll have a nice cappuccino, with a side of whipped cream, not too frothy, and some nice plus-fours, but NOT from that African take-out place.
AF: I’ll have some gefilte fish.
EvH: Broiled Kartoffeln mit a side order of Bratwurst.
MN: Yes, yes, of course. Unfortunately, folks, we’re beginning to run out of time. Eric, we haven’t heard from you yet.
EvH: Achtung! Dis morning I rose and licked the boots of Cherry Ramsbottom. She spanked me hard and ordered me to bring some order on the corridor. Dis I vill do. Jawohl. As of today ve are tripling our bicycle patrols and arming zem mit elephant guns und der bazookas. Any disorderly elements vill be shot on sight and their disgusting carcasses shipped to Camp X-Ray. Und after that, ve vill haff a nice Praxis panel discussion.
DA: Fuck the fuckin Penn pigs, man! Up against the motherfuckin wall!
SR: orderly process my ass. how many tasteful and discerning neighbors will vote for me to be Cultural Commissar and artiste in residence?
AD: Oh shut up, you birdbrain! Will you just SHUT UP??
LB: Really, Adeline, can’t you keep your stupid mouth shut for two seconds? Going on and on about your stupid life experiences as if anybody really gave a rat’s ass? You are so disgusting you make me want to puke all over Baltimore Avenue. I mean, if I didn’t have early mass at St. Francis de Sales tomorrow morning I’d come over and toilet-paper your stupid mansion …
AD: Oh yeah? Well maybe I’ll just blow my chauffeur and send him down to tastefully spray some historical brown paint all over that pink and purple pigsty you call a ….
MN: Order! Order!
AF: Did you see my picture in the Atlantic City Gazette yesterday? I’m a player, man, I’m a stakeholder, and a Libertarian to boot, so eat my shorts …
(noise of fisticuffs, tables being overturned)
Ross Bender