1It was uncharacteristically hot on the spring day that my father traveled from Chicago to Pennsylvania to take me on a trip into Philadelphia to see the historical sights. We took the ride into the city down the Schuylkill Expressway, getting stuck in the customary traffic of the Conshohocken curve. The sun was burning through the windows of the rental car as we made our way through the stop-and-go sea of brake lights. After fighting with I-76 traffic, we still had city traffic to contend with. Horns were beeping; bicyclists were swerving in and out of crosswalks and car lanes. I was loving it. I was fourteen years old, and this hustle and bustle was exciting and pulsing with life. I was craning my neck to see the tops of the skyscrapers around me. One glance at the look on my father’s face, though, and I decided my day was ruined. Although we shared a love for history, our similarities ended there. He was stressed. I was angry. Our day together wouldn’t be perfect. In hindsight, especially after a recent trip into the city with my own children, maybe I was a little hard on him. Maybe I can see things more clearly through his eyes now.

2By the time that we were pounding the pavement to our first destination, the Liberty Bell, things started to look up. We made our way through the businessmen with their briefcases and the hippies with their backpacks and dreadlocks to the Liberty Bell Center. This was the bell that rang to mark the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence. It was fascinating to see the object that marked the event that our forefathers had worked hard to make happen. There the bell sat, with the big crack in its side that had made it even more famous. This is what we were here for—to see this history in person and imagine stepping back in time to be a part of the birth of our nation. The day was saved. My father was easygoing again and happy to be kicking around the city with his fourteen-year-old daughter.

3To feel as if we were really stepping back in time, we went to Independence Hall. It was filled with old, antique-looking chairs, tables, chandeliers, and quill pens. These were the rooms in which men had argued, planned, and brought to life the right for all men to be equal. It felt like a blessing to step inside these rooms, rich with history and freedom. It was not a solemn visit, but Independence Hall has an air of reverent dignity. The founders are not sitting there, but you can almost see them. And their spirits seem to say, “We were here.”

4Reenergized, we stepped out onto the streets with enormous appetites. It was time to eat! When my father asked where I wanted to eat, I told him South Street. I was fourteen, and that was the place to be at that age. After arriving at South Street, we quickly became aware that this was indeed the place to be. We walked down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder with punk-rock strangers, bumping into and sometimes tripping over the rich culture of South Street. My father was not amused. He scolded me if I went too far ahead. He tsked when questionable individuals stepped on his toes. Finally, he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me in tight to protect me from the red-and-pink mohawks, the Doc Martins, and the pants held together with safety pins. I was mortified. But more important, I felt like I had let my father down by ruining his day again. When we found a place to get cheesesteaks, I sulked and barely choked mine down. The lump in my throat kept threatening to escape in a sob. I just wanted to go home.

5We drove back home without much to say to each other. I watched the world pass by through the window. I was angry at him and hurt. I felt like a disappointment. When we arrived at my home, I swung the car door open, and he told me to wait for him. He walked around the back of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a pink Easter basket filled with chocolate and jelly beans. There was a green bunny sitting on top. The chocolate had melted and made a gooey mess. He tsked when he saw the mess, but I smiled and thanked him, gave him a big hug and kiss, and said goodbye. I would see my father twice more: once on July 4, 1998, when he remarried, and again on June 7, 2003, on my own wedding day. He died December 4, 2008.

6In the spirit of keeping the few memories I had of my father alive, my husband and I took our boys to Philadelphia. I admit that I was there to be in the place that I had spent my last day alone with my father. We took the train, rocking and rolling, into the city. The boys loved it. The conductor made train stop announcements, and they squished their faces against the window to watch the world race by in a blur. Already the trip was much more of a success than the trip my father and I had taken. We weren’t stuck in traffic, and the boys were having the time of their lives.

7We got off at our stop and ran up the stairs into the noisy streets above. As I crossed the street with my little one’s pudgy little hand in my own, he tripped and fell; my hand lost his. Traffic was barreling down on us. I tsked at him and yanked him up and dragged him across the street to safety. “Eli, you have to be careful!” I exclaimed. Eli choked up and grew teary-eyed, and immediately I thought of my father and our day on South Street. Quickly, I changed the mood back to careless fun, and we continued our romp toward the Liberty Bell.

8Things didn’t go as planned. As we approached the Liberty Bell, we noticed a commotion in the street. It was a parade. There were floats and bands, and men in dresses and heels, women with shaved heads, and rainbow flags. It was a gay-pride parade. I barely resisted the urge to cover my sons’ eyes and ears and run. They wanted to stop and watch the parade. Improvising, I pulled out my camera and began snapping pictures. What a great time! I wasn’t ready to talk to my boys about sexual orientation, not on our day in the big city. Luckily, they didn’t ask. They didn’t even notice. They caught beaded necklaces and sang and danced right along with all of the people around us. Finally, we walked on. The parade stretched all the way down Market Street right up to the Liberty Bell Center. The scene there was a little more extreme.

9As we came to the corner there, old women held signs that read “Burn in hell fags!” and “Only Jesus can save you!” and a man with a megaphone urged the parade participants to accept Jesus as their savior: “I know some of you haven’t had the love and attention you deserved from your fathers! You have a father in God our Father!” A man in red body paint wearing nothing but white underwear and devil’s horns jumped, screeched, stuck out his tongue, and moaned in front of these religious folks. I finally felt entitled as a parent to pull my kids in and protect them from this “culture.” Briskly, we moved on.

10The racket was going on behind us as we passed the horses and buggies parked along the side of the Liberty Bell Center. We could smell the horses as drivers yelled at us to take a historic tour in their carriages. “Can we go mom?” I promised we could; I just wanted to get to the Liberty Bell Center first. They sulked. Uninterested, they followed me into the Liberty Bell Center. They hopped from one foot to the other, swung their arms back and forth, and asked, “Can we go now?” The Liberty Bell Center had changed. It was much more interactive and hands-on than I remembered, and I wanted to check it out. I couldn’t get angry at them, but I decided they could wait.

11Once we finished up there, we came upon the horses and buggies again. “Can we go mom?!” Yes, we could go. We took the bumpy, half-hour tour as we sat on cushy, red-velour seats. The clip clop of the horses’ hooves was soothing as the driver pointed out historical interests along the way. The boys got a kick out of The Signer¹ statue at Norris Court, which is also affectionately known as The Singer, since he looks as if he is singing into his rolled-up piece of paper. As far as history goes, the boys weren’t very interested. But they enjoyed the ride and the silly jokes that our driver made.

12Throughout the day, we made a few more stops. We visited the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Washington Square, where an eternal flame burns. It was shortly after Memorial Day, so a cemetery wreath was there, decorated with red, white, and blue flowers. We went to the Betsy Ross House and spent too much money in the gift shop. To finish the day, we headed back to Independence Hall. It was a lengthy wait before we got in, but finally I found that this day was worth it.

13I went to the city that day with my boys to share with them the one thing that my father and I had shared—a love for history. They were more interested in buggy rides, overpriced knickknacks, the height of the tall buildings, beaded necklaces, and parades. We heard gay people being damned to hell; we saw Satan bouncing perversely. I had tsked at them and wrapped them up in my arms, the way my father had done to me. Then, as we walked into Independence Hall, I observed the hush that fell over the boys. They felt it. They felt the thick historical air that you could cut with a knife. I watched them look around as the guide painted a vivid picture of the times and described how our forefathers had fought and written for freedom. I felt my husband behind me and took my eyes off of my boys to turn to the left, where I could almost see my father. I almost whispered to him, “We were here.”