From My Porch, June Fifth 1966

Fast forward more than forty years and the reader finds Ruth Molloy describing two people passing her home. She assumes they are Nigerian and she says that they are speaking a language that she identifies as Nigerian. It might be inferred from her assumption that in the 1960s West Philadelphia had a large population of African people specifically from Nigeria. It should also be noted, however, that in 1966 Ruth Molloy lived at 3822 Locust Street, just one block west of the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. The two people she observed were probably students, but still, Ruth probably had no way to know exactly what African nationality and culture these people represented. Her guess is revealed as just that, because in Nigeria many languages are spoken and there is no national language known as Nigerian.

In the same poem, Ruth also spoke of a young couple walking down the street, pushing a baby stroller and speaking an unrecognizable language. She wonders if they are not married, as that is the way of the new times and she admits this time that she cannot identify the language they are speaking. What is evident from the first verse of this poem is that in 1966 the face of West Philadelphia was changing racially, ethnically and culturally. It also seems clear that Ruth Molloy had yet to adjust and recognize the new peoples who lived in West Philadelphia.

In the revealing poem, Ruth also writes that she lived in "Philadelphia’s University Area" and does not want to be more specific because she does not want to be "crowded." Perhaps this is a reflection of how she feels about the expansion and encroachment of Penn upon her neighborhood. Interestingly, the poem also describes the distant cries of a cat, as well as the police cruisers that pass her by. She also mentions that some people do not even dress up for Sunday anymore and that the laundryman is open all of the time as the church used to be. Metaphorically, the police cars are present because of the increase in crime. People no longer attend church and are committing sin, which is why they must always wash their clothing and sheets. The cat’s cry may show that even nature is saddened by the state of West Philadelphia.

Ruth Molloy then describes the presence of Japanese and "Indians" (South Asians) in the neighborhood. She seems to be interested in their cultures and how they are changing the face of her neighborhood. She regretfully mentions that she is not skilled in languages, and therefore feels a limited ability to experience different cultures. She mentions that she hears on the radio that astronauts have discovered islands off the coast of California, to signify that as her neighborhood is changing and progressing, so is the world. The last verse of her poem indicates that she feels disconnected from the new immigrant population, just as much as they feel disconnected from their new surroundings. She demonstrated her feeling by pointing out that the Indian people she was observing were "foreign" to Sunday morning, a Christian holy time.

"From My Porch, June Fifth 1966"

Two Nigerians pass, earnestly speaking Nigerian
How do I know? I don’t know. I’m guessing.
A truck goes by. The drives, both with beards, wave to each other
As if they were brothers, recognizing the bond of beards.
A couple, loudly carrying on in an unrecognizable language
(Although, of course it’s familiar to them), look married
(Although it’s possible that they aren’t-you never know these days).
He wears a loud plaid shirt. She pushes a stroller, carrying a baby.
They both carry parts of the Sunday paper.
From my porch, it’s harder to tell which paper.
Paper, languages…hard to tell apart.

From my porch in Philadelphia’s University area
(I could be more specific, but I don’t want you to crowd me…)
I hear a lot of birds, unmusical, but real birds - and a cat’s complaint
I heard his cry all night.
Some passerby are dressed in skirts and trousers, even hats
Others treat Sunday just like any other day, in shorts and slacks
Some passerby are dressed in skirts and trousers, even hats
Others treat Sunday just like any other day, in shorts and slacks
Some bring their laundry home. The Laundromat (like church door used to be) is open all night long.
Police cars cruise. Their ever-noisy voice speaks out a city’s crimes.
That cat cries out again
A family of Indians from India have parked their car and ring my neighbor’s bell
She carries an electric fan. The father and the children carry folding chairs.
Two Japanese pass by with tennis things
My porch’s Capa shells clink loudly in the breeze.
Church bells join in and make announcements. The chaplain and his 
pigtailed girls respond, "We’re on our way."
My next-door neighbor, a medievalist, puts out his garbage bag.
I hate to mention this, but residents four houses east once
Dropped their garbage bags out third-floor windows.
These nameless dirties picked up their Ph.D.s and left the street forever, 
we can hope, to be acclaimed in various motherlands.
A danger-loving dog crosses the street on the diagonal, against the corner light.
The radio in the Indians’ car tells me the news: The astronauts are walking 
in the sky. They see, the announcer says, islands off the coast of California.
A middle-ageless man, wearing a white shirt and a brown fedora,
Just passed me on his bicycle, his briefcase in a basket,
His leg in motion like a walk in space. There goes that cry again. I cross the street.
The chaplain’s youngest daughter has squeezed a kitten into misery.
"Amy, be nice to kitty, please"
"I love my cat," she says. This makes her torture right.
Beyond the cat, the birds, the bicycle, beyond the bells and the garbage 
bags, beyond my Sunday morning
I see the astronaut out on his Sunday walk
A summer student passes by and yawns.
This is a warmish June 5th in 1966. A bird says weep, weep, weep.
A girl on a motorbike, her hair blowing west
A lunch hamper on her handlebars, heads east.
A parked charter bus, a giant earthborn thing, begins to move,
First backing out, then heading north on 39th.
It lumbers, moves nosily, going to pick up passengers, then it’s off to New 
York for the day and more excitement than our town can offer.
Two new Nigerians walk west this time, speaking Nigerian.
It is political? Or ate they wondering what to have for dinner?
I wish I had been skilled in languages
So I could listen in and understand.
Two uninvited lines are in my head and almost float away:
"She died at the end in a beautiful robe
Exquisitely tailored to fit the décor"
They are as foreign to this Sunday morning as any exotic couple
In turban or bright sari, placing their sanded feet
Upon my Philadelphia Sunday street.