Sesame Street, With Beer

When my son Rorie was a little over a year old we watched our first episode of Sesame Street. I had vowed that my precious firstborn child would not be exposed to television until he was much older. I planned to provide much more stimulating interactive pastimes to develop his little mind and spirit.

Then I became pregnant with Ra’s younger sister Maggie, and was so tired and morning-sick that I had to lie down on the floor to read to him. We spent a lot of time there, me on my side, propped up on an elbow, and him giggling as he bounced books off my head to keep me awake. As a result of these months, I can still recite Sandra Boynton’s Moo Baa La La La, and I still feel nauseated every time I see it.

So we tuned in to PBS. Rorie loved “Street” and so did I. The characters were fun, the songs addictive, the guest stars and many of the jokes aimed at adults. Bird and Snuffy and the Count, Bert and Ernie and Elmo became everyday companions. The day Maria and Luis’ daughter Gabriella was born, we made a special picnic and celebrated with a few of my Baby Group friends and their toddlers. I think we still have an old VHS tape of the big event.

Fast forward over twenty years. Ra lives in a row house in multicultural South Philadelphia with five other guys. There is a little convenience store at the end of his block, and front stoops on all of the houses.

We visited on a recent Saturday. I brought lunch for Ra and his friends and Maggie and her friend Farah, who were visiting. As often happens when we pull up, Ra’s next-door neighbor Mr. Freeman, who just celebrated his seventieth birthday, was standing outside. He’s taller than Ra’s height of 6’4” and no wider than my lanky son, and I can barely reach up high enough as he hugs me hello. Ra’s friend Chino waved from his third floor window—“Hey, Rorie’s Mom!”

Mr. Freeman both watches out for the boys-- “I tell people, these are my sons,” he says, and keeps them in line, “I tell them, if it gets too loud over there they’re gonna hear from me.” Ra digs his garden for him and takes him to Home Depot. Mr. Freeman and Miss Mattie, his wife, feed Ra regularly, which makes me happy.

We picnicked in the back yard, sitting on mismatched chairs the guys pulled from all over the house. A few stray cats the boys have adopted poked around looking for a handout. The corn and tomatoes they planted were sprouting. Mr. Freeman leaned over his fence and accepted a cupcake. His niece Celestine, a talkative six-year-old, kept up a constant prattle about her toys, her outing to the park, and school (“no matter if you’re listening or not,” Mr. Freeman remarked). Henry, his brother, came out to visit, as did Celestine’s mother Anastasia.

Victor and Anthony, who live in the house on the other side, passed Ra a Corona over the fence and asked if we wanted to try the Vietnamese lunch, a mix of seafood, herbs and greens in a bubbling pot of broth, that his aunts were was concocting in their kitchen. We’d just stuffed ourselves, but next time we’ll leave room. Ra says the aunts are amazing cooks.

Moving from chair to chair and fence to fence, talking about perennials with Mr. Freeman, cameras with Jeff, and teaching autistic kids with Shea, I thought of how we become part of communities we never could have envisioned. Ra had considered small colleges where he could play basketball, but he decided on an ultra-urban school of twenty thousand in North Philly. And while he loves all that big city life has to offer, he has also created a welcoming home, surrounded by friends of all ages, in a neighborhood in a house with a stoop.

Which is where, Maggie told me, the kids sat after we left, hanging out for hours. One of the guys’ friends rode up on his bike around eleven and said, “I thought you’d be out here.”

Next time maybe we’ll stay late enough that I can check out the Street after dark. We have to visit again soon. I promised Mr. Freeman that I’d divide some perennials from my yard and give them a chance to thrive in South Philly.