"I Am A City Girl" (by Katja L.)

 

Dear George, 

This summer Katja and I have been attending an informal OLLI-initiated poetry group that meets on Thursday mornings. Last week one of our members suggested that we write a poem about “Where I am from.” People responded with enthusiasm. Katja’s and my poems could not be more different. Hers about growing up in center city Philadelphia; mine about growing up in the country outside Menominee. I’m posting Katja’s here, will follow with mine in a week or so. 

Love, 

Dave 

             I Am A City Girl 

                by Katja L.  

I am a city girl 

Born from a flurry of sounds and smells 

Father and mother — two people and a 

four year old singing their way through 

the Blue Ridge mountains in a boxy 

old Chevy 

from Roanoke to our forever home — Philadelphia: 

     “It’s a long, long trail a winding 

     Into the land of my dreams 

     where the nightingale is singing

     and the white moon gleams “ 

I am a city girl 

Raised in a noisy, colorful world 

of trolley cars that clickety clacked 

across the cobblestone streets; ten 

cents to get me across town to Spring Garden School 

Lining up outside in perfect lines 

Eager to hear the buzzer — signaling 

our race to “home room” and snacks 

Apples, Twinkies, peanut butter and grape jelly, no crusts 

Every Monday lunch: 

Boiled Hot Dogs 

Boiled Sauerkraut 

Steamed Baked Beans 

Milk 

Junior High — so far away 

Trolley car, subway, bus — twenty five cents 

Eighteen hundred students 

Pushing, jostling, cursing, angry 

fourteen years old 

Algebra, English, Phys Ed 

So many smells 

Don’t forget homework, papers, deadlines, 

food, money! 

Missed the bus 

Wait until 4:30 for the next one 

Home by 5:30 

Help Dad with the animals. 

Clean cages. 

Hold the Tabbies. 

Feed the pups. 

Mom upstairs — home from her job. 

Tired and grouchy. 

The smells from the animals wafting 

up through the air vents — mixing with the aroma of hamburgers 

and onions frying. 

My father’s veterinary practice on the 

first floor 

My mother’s domain on the second 

a combination that drove the two 

of them into perpetual angry retreats 

Center City Philadelphia 

     The border between the ghetto and the Gilded Age. 

    Saturdays were the best. Grandfather

came and took me to the movies. 

Betty Grable in technicolor or 

Randolph Scott in a double header. 

Lassie Come Home 

National Velvet 

Popcorn and chocolate covered mints. 

My mother’s beloved father 

kind and gentle. A tailor from the 

“old country” living in a new world 

that had no need of bespoke tailored 

suits and, thus, had little need of him. 

Germantown — a large niche in the 

fabric of Philadelphia. 

His business was on the first floor — in front. The 

smells of dry cleaning fluid and musty 

fabric mixed with the aromas of his 

kitchen where my grandmother made 

borscht and black pumpernickel throughout 

the week. 

     Some Saturdays we would sit 

together in the kitchen before an old 

wooden cased radio listening to the 

Metropolitan Opera, marveling at the 

drama taking place before 

us — in our very own kitchen. 

Upstairs — the parlor. 

Covered in dark, prickly, plush 

fabric 

on the walls, two large black, velvet 

pictures of oriental ladies wearing 

pink geisha girl costumes — beckoning 

the onlooker in knowing ways. 

I would caress their velour bodies and 

wonder at their softness. 

 I am a city girl. 

     Years of piano lessons — another 

subway ride to Little Italy and Miss Theresa’s house. 

     The smells of Braciola and Ragu 

permeating my embrace of Grieg 

and Tschaikowsky while Miss Theresa, 

totally blind since birth, reminded

me to sit up straight and try “pianissimo”. 

 I am a city girl 

     Walking through Rittenhouse Square —

     pushing brother and sister in a royal 

     wicker pram up to Mickey’s Garage 

     where I stand — gorging 

     on gas fumes that left us swooning. 

 I am a city girl 

     I come from holiday dinners and loud, noisy eaters — each trying 

to capture the last matzoh ball 

or lightest knish. Three months of study 

with Rabbi Jacobs over in a blink! I ask 

the four Seder questions and am showered 

with gilded chocolate coins. My reward 

is candy and loud murmurings of 

“congratulations”. 

     I am the result of Sunday dinners 

at City Line Horn & Hardarts. 

Chicken a la King, Mashed Potatoes, 

Creamed Spinach, and cherry jello topped 

with real whipped cream for dessert. 

     I am a survivor of the Philadelphia 

High School for Girls. A test to get in — a test 

to get out! Rules, discipline, competition. 

Miss Wilhemina — Geometry. Failed again. 

Told to try harder — or else. 

     On to Shakespeare, French, Physics, Phys Ed. 

An opening in the orchestra. 

Hallelujah! Out of the gym, into the symphony. 

A percussionist. Big noisy me! Father comes 

every Friday to the school’s back door and off we go with the 

Timpani, snare drum, tambourines, and 

castanets to our little home where I 

practice like crazy. Poor Mr. Finkelstein 

and Mrs. Alberti next door. 

     Terrified of being cast back into 

     Phys Ed, my percussion skills improve 

     and warrant a solo performance in the 

     Girls’ High “Olympic” band. 

     My roots are in the city — 

     I come from a flurry of smells and 

     sounds that form the moving screen 

     of my life. 

     I am a city girl.