Philly's New York Complex

I think that most native Philadelphians have a raging, senseless hatred for New York City and all of its inhabitants.

It’s strange, but I keep noticing evidence of it. I’ll watch a Philadelphian meet a New Yorker and immediately either write him off as a douche bag, or begin to act like he has something to prove. Philadelphia Magazine, in its “Best of Philly” issue this month, described one particularly delicious restaurant as “the place to bring your snobby friend from New York.” I’ve found that even I am guilty of this bias: I saw someone reading the New York Times on the trolley the other day, and I immediately found myself thinking, “What a tool.” If our newspapers aren’t good enough for you, buddy, then just go back where you came from.

Try saying that anything in New York is better than anything in Philly (while in Philly, of course), and watch the swiftness with which you are shot down. Yes, we only have two subway lines, but New York’s massive subway system is too confusing and inefficient. Yes, so many TV shows are set in New York, but we’ve got It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Sure, they’re one of the most populated cities in the world, but do you know how crowded things are there? Philly’s population is much smaller and more pleasant.

But what I believe to be the most overt sign of Philly’s hatred for New York is captured in the way Phillies fans feel about the Yankees. I mean, the 2009 World Series certainly didn’t help things, but even before that, Phillies fans seemed to have this burning hatred for all things Yankees.

I can’t seem to find any logical reason why: the Yankees aren’t even in the same league as the Phillies, let alone the same division. They’re almost never required to play each other. Despite popular belief, most Yankees aren’t using, and in fact have never used, any sort of performance-enhancing drugs. They don’t “buy up” their players any more than we do. Most Yankees players are actually very respectable people, on and off the field: during a recent charity weekend where the Yankees spent time with various groups of unfortunate youth, closing pitcher Mariano Rivera gave one kid his cell phone number after hanging out with him all day, because, he said, the two of them really connected. Yankees outfielder Nick Swisher just released an album of children’s songs, even though he’s not really a performer; he did it because the proceeds of the album go to charity. I’m not saying the Yankees are better than the Phillies are (because they aren’t); I’m just saying that a little research will prove that the Yankees aren’t exactly the monsters that Phillies fans think they are.

But, to get back to my point, ask a Phillies fan why he hates the Yankees, and, after citing the above untruths and being proven wrong, he’ll say, “I mean, they’re the Yankees.”

And that really is the reason why: Phillies fans hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees. They hate them because they’re the most famous baseball team; they’re the flashiest, the ones who appear the most in popular culture. They hate them because they have 27 World Champion titles, and we have two. Because they’ve produced most of the most famous baseball players in history, and we haven’t. Phillies fans hate the Yankees because, throughout history, they’ve been wildly more successful than the Phillies have been, and they continue to be the most popular team in baseball, even when they’re not necessarily the best team in baseball.

But really, it’s not the Yankees’ success that Philadelphians hate. Everything that Philadelphians despise about the Yankees is symbolic of why we despise New York as a whole—its success, its popularity, its flashiness—and this is what gives us our inferiority complex when it comes to all things New York. We don’t hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees. We hate the Yankees because they’re the New York Yankees.

It makes sense, when you think about it. Philadelphians are fiercely proud of their city. It’s a defining characteristic of all Philadelphia citizens, and it’s what causes us to do things like beat up somebody who’s wearing another team’s jersey at a football game. We have this other East Coast city that’s only an hour or so up the road, though, that’s bigger, more famous, and more popular, and that makes us feel like we’re losing something to that bigger city. It’s like if New York didn’t exist, we’d be the most popular city on the East Coast (because, come on, Boston’s a little too foofy to hold its own against Philly, and no one wants to go to Baltimore because you’ll probably get shot).

And, no matter how much any given Philadelphian will complain about the state of virtually everything in this city (roads, crime, public transit, city council, other Philadelphians), we’ll all defend it to the death as the greatest city in the country. The problem is, we realize, that we’re the only ones who know how great it is, because everyone else is too busy being captivated by how shiny New York is that they don’t even notice Philly in the shadows. This fact gets under our pride-soaked skin and sets up camp, until it’s seeped into every pore of our beings and even the words “New York” make us scoff, smirk, and grimace.

This is what makes us do the things we need to do to show our pride- things like beat the other team’s fans up at football games. We’re like the little bird that puffs up its feathers next to the larger bird to make itself look more intimidating. We take it to ridiculous measures, though. Desperate to seem like the best in any way possible, we hold onto the defining characteristics of Philly that are actually terrible qualities in a city, but we make it sound like they’re good things. You’re from New York, huh? Well, fuck you, because I’m from one of the fattest cities in the country, and I’m proud of it. I’m from the city that beats the shit out of you if you wear a Mets shirt, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m from the city where kids get together in violent mobs in the safest parts of town and break windows and step on people. I’m from Philly, bitch, and I could kick your fancy, cultured, New-York-Times-reading ass any day of the week.

Just let me get my breath first, because I just walked up a couple of stairs and I’ve never exercised in my life. And let me just eat this Butterscotch Krimpet first, because I’m hungry and I haven’t had anything fatty to eat since an hour ago when I sucked down that cheesesteak with the bun so soggy with grease that it was falling apart.

God, I love Philly.

The Septa Chronicles, Part II: Saving Souls

One weekend morning when I still lived in North Philly, I was traveling south on the Broad Street subway to meet my mother for brunch in Center City. The train was mostly empty, and I was definitely the only white girl in my car (the only other white people who get on the subway north of, say, Race-Vine are Temple students, and it was still too early on a Sunday morning for most of them to get their hungover asses out of bed).

I sat alone, minding my own business and quietly listening to my headphones, for the first few stops. Then, suddenly, a large woman sat down in the seat next to me.

Now, this is the first rule of Septa etiquette I’d like to address. If you have the option to leave an empty seat between you and another passenger, you do it. We in Philly really like our personal space, and we tend to have wider radii for that space than most. I’ve even seen people who know each other sit in two separate rows when the vehicle is empty enough. Sitting right next to someone you don’t know when there are plenty of other free seats is unfailingly taboo.

So this woman plopping herself down next to me in a car holding maybe four other people was my first sign that something might be going on here. She smiled and said hello as she sat down, though, and such an uncommon gesture of kindness among Septa riders is always something I welcome warmly, so I couldn’t be annoyed with her.

I should have known that no Septa rider is ever nice just to be nice.

After she and I shared the row in uncomfortable silence for about thirty seconds, she handed me a brochure, and said, “Here, would you like one of these?” which was kind of a pointless question, because it was already in my hands. I smiled and thanked her. But just taking whatever it was she was giving me was not enough for her; she stared at me, smiling, until I was forced to read the pamphlet.

And of course, just my luck, it had to do with God.

Now, as anyone who lives in Philly knows, being handed one of these religious pamphlets is a relatively common occurrence. They’re usually small, colorful little things with pretty drawings that explain to you, very kindly and at a fifth-grade reading level, how wrong you’ve been about God your entire life. The people who give them out are clearly passionate about what they believe in, and they want others to feel the same way. And honestly, even though I know most people hate it, I really don’t mind it when someone gives me a God brochure. I’m not too keen on other people telling me what to believe, but I have an odd respect for anyone who can believe so strongly in something intangible. Most of the time when someone gives me one of these pamphlets, my odd respect for them overpowers my annoyance. This is because the encounters usually require no further interaction between the converter and the convertee/sinner (me).

But that day on the subway, while I was stuck seated next to the woman who’d given me the handout with at least four stops to go before I could get off, the encounter could not and did not end.

She watched me as I paged through it, pretending to be interested. I nodded my head and said “hmm” a few times for good measure, because I thought that seeming interested would satisfy her. Apparently, though, it only encouraged her to take things a step further.

“I’m actually headed to a barbeque that my church is holding for our youth group,” she told me. “There will be all kinds of food and games, and plenty of kids your age. We’re all supposed to bring a new friend with us, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

I looked at her for a second, then back down at the brochure, then back to her again.

“You know what?” I said. “That actually sounds great. I had nothing else to do today anyway- it’s not like I was on the subway for a reason, headed anywhere in particular. I’ve actually just been kind of wandering aimlessly. And I do mean that figuratively and literally. I’ve been needing some guidance in my life, but I didn’t know it until you handed me this brochure. And, after the three minutes I spent reading it, I’ve realized that your religious beliefs fit my outlook on life perfectly. I think that I, as a very white girl who only moved to the city a year ago to go to college, would fit in perfectly with the other people in your congregation. We have so much in common. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You saw me sitting here, and you could just tell that I’d be a perfect fit for your church. It’s amazing how accurately you judged my personality after having known me for only a few seconds. Let’s go! Where’s your church? Are you going there right now? Just lead the way, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Actually, I just told her that I was on my way to meet my mother for brunch, but damn, I would have liked to go, and that I really appreciated her offer. Which also involved a lie, just like I would have been lying if I’d said all those things I didn’t really say, but I lied a lot less this way.

And that was how I learned the next rule of Septa: Don’t ever take anything that someone is offering to you while on board. You’ll avoid a lot of painful, awkward, lie-filled situations. This may seem like a relatively unimportant rule, but I’ve actually had to utilize it multiple times since that first encounter. People like to hand stuff out on the bus/trolley/subway a lot more than you’d think.

People like to ask you to give them stuff on Septa vehicles, too, but I’ll save that for my next chronicle.