Something to write home about

People are always asking me how a girl from Philadelphia wound up going to school in Indiana.

Sometimes I say it is for the excellence of the Ernie Pyle journalism program and other remarkable facets IU has to offer. Other times, I have no idea why, and I reply simply with “Well, I just can’t remember.” 

Whatever the reason for my drastic change in address causing a “fish out of water” scenario, I know I made the right decision. As much as I relish attending school in the Midwest, however, I’ll always be an East Coast girl at heart.

With only one state separating Indiana from Pennsylvania, you would think they possess similar cultural features. I discovered this theory to be pretty much completely incorrect.

My vernacular, for one thing, is something that never fails to turn heads or ignite a firestorm of confused questioning. The consensus among my friends in Indiana is that I either make up or continuously mispronounce 70 percent of my vocabulary. 

Water becomes “wooder,” and those rainbow things you put on your ice cream are not sprinkles, but “jimmies.”

That long sandwich with gratuitous amounts of meat, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes is not a sub, nor a grinder, nor a hero; in Philadelphia, the only name that will reward you with a sandwich instead of a strange look, is a “hoagie.”

I’m not even going to try to explain what the word “jawn” means.

I was not raised directly in the city, but I have lived right on the outskirts of it my whole life. A quick trip on the R5 train, 10 steps from my front door, lands me right in center of Philadelphia.

When exiting the suburban train station, you are immediately positioned in front of city hall, a gorgeous stone building etched in the skyline, atop which a statue of William Penn watches over his city.

The famous “Love Park” is directly across the street, and a straight shot behind the park’s fountain down the Avenue of the Americas you can see the pristine Art Museum, where Rocky Balboa made his famous climb up its marble steps.

One of my favorite places to hang out in the city is South Street. It became a hub of the punk movement during the late ’70s and the place for a younger, more vigorous crowd to gather. Although the famed Zipperheads punk clothing and accessories boutique has closed, it is still a fascinating place to shop, grab a cheese steak from Jim’s and people-watch.

Another part of town I adore is the theater district, home to the renowned Walnut Street Theatre. Cheaper and easier to access than any show in New York, most big titles role through the city with just as much talent as any Broadway show.

Philadelphia is known for being a city teeming with history, currently glorified thanks to the movie “National Treasure.”

Old city and the historic district are all well and good, but the only ways to get a Philadelphia native to see the Liberty Bell or Betsy Ross’s house are on a fourth-grade field trip or when out-of-town relatives beg you to take them.

It is just one of those common-knowledge things that all Philly people understand, similarly to knowing what “Boathouse Row” is and that you have to be out of your mind to drive through the city when “the Birds” are playing.

As much as I love residing in Indiana, Philadelphia will always be my home.
I am forever devoted to its filthy streets, one-of-a-kind cuisine and interesting (to say the least) inhabitants.

It is the kind of hometown that no matter how far I travel, a part of me will always be attached to the City of Brotherly Love.