“I walk the empty street… on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams”
This song has always been one of my favorite lyrics, even as a teenager. For some reason, the melancholy beat and longing violin bows dragging across their strings when we performed this in our school orchestra had an emotional draw to me then, and now, even more so, can I really understand the music.
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I retraced our usual Sunday routine to Saint Agatha Saint James, early in the morning for a college campus, when it was still and peaceful. It actually felt quite beautiful. Harnwell looked exactly the same. Took the side path, which used to be gravel and a bit unkempt with the 5 or so eroded steps overgrown with weeds off the side of the Locust Bridge. [note: in the 10 years since, that little nook has been reconstructed with paved incline path and now features a shiny white granite and glass building called Perry World House]
We’d cross the street in front of Huntsman usually, to avoid the section on the west side of 38th because there’s sometimes a homeless person meandering in the empty lots. I want to say there used to be some 7-Eleven type convenience store there too. [note: it is now a grand vermillion brick multi-story building]
Newman Center is also no longer a backdoor entrance off the vacant alleyways behind the Pottruck gym. It is now a modern multi-story building clinging to the side of the 19th century brick of St. AJ. Right next to it, is another tall, glass and steel commercial building. [note: looks like off campus housing squeezed between the Newman gates and St AJ] I walked through the new Newman Center — a unified Catholic community between Penn and Drexel now — and tried to imagine how it’d have been if we met in this building during NSO instead. It feels so distant, but I want to say it’s the same Mary statue in that indoor tile entranceway, where you and I first exchanged numbers on our flip phones, with a promise to get lunch soon.
I entered the church, skipping up the high side steps and heaving open the thick wood doors. To this day, it is still one of the most stunning churches. It’s not the largest, but it’s certainly not small. The soaring domed ceiling reflects back muted murals of Jesus, saints, Heaven. The gold and red paint is not brilliant, but not so faded after however many years. The pews are thick wood, worn from years of use, heavy and dark with the weight of prayers from those seeking solace. In this church, was the first time I ever went for Confession, at your encouragement. It was the first time I attended (or heard of) a Blessing of the Throats for the Feast Day of St. Blaise. It was the first time you told me there’s also the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi and your family would want to bring in Beau and the cats. Who would have known that there were such rituals? I once imagined getting married here because it had the perfect length of aisle and the church was so beautiful (that was quickly dismissed each time I stepped out and remembered this was Philadelphia). But, I kind of hoped perhaps you could have gotten married here, that was within the realm of possible.
St. Agatha St. James was the reason we became best friends. We attended that NSO activity for Catholics; we went to church together every Sunday. We rolled our eyes at the overly exuberant Father James. We smiled in appreciation at the kindly Father George — who never recognized us independently, but always called us by name when we were together. This church will always have a special place in my heart.
Once mass finished, I brushed away the tears and stared thoughtfully up at the massive organ as I walked away from the altar. The solidness and resilience of this Catholic Church inspires me, how it contains so much history, and carries worshippers’ troubles. Maybe that is the ultimate purpose of faith.
I walk up the gray concrete squares of Locust Bridge, I can feel your presence, with your big(ger) feet in flats not quite stomping up the path next to me. Your jeans grazing the ground slightly, your hands hooked on the straps of the navy blue Jansport backpack. Sometimes we chatted about random things, other times, we just walked together in peaceful quiet save for our footsteps. We went up and down that Locust Bridge hundreds of times. In the sun, in the rain, in the snow, in the wind. Sometimes just a casual walk to or from classes, where we’d also cut through that courtyard to the right. Other times, we’d be lugging random things (Food? Trays of cupcakes? Suitcases? Lamps? Speakers?) up and down over the bridge. Harnwell is still a faded yellow tower, although is it paler than before or is that just a trick of the eyes?
While I walked east, I passed by Williams Hall, in its drab reddish, brown brick, tucked away in an alcove. Ah the humanities and languages classrooms often had no windows and for some reason, maybe of my classes were in the basement even. This is another building that looked exactly the same after all these years, down to the lonely one or two bikes on the bike rack. I remember the small café where we sometimes studied together, it wasn’t particularly comfortable, with hard steel chairs, but functional enough. Do you remember our Arabic night class? That was such a great decision. If only we had been smart to have taken more semesters earlier in our years; then perhaps we could have actually retained something from it!
It felt cathartic to be back on campus. Observing how some things never change, how some things drastically change, and also how much changes within ourselves. If it’s one place, college campus can certainly be a time-warp with the background existing exactly the same as years pass by. Just the trees have grown a little taller, and the faces in the photos, grown a little older.
