THE FOUNDING FATHERS
It was a bright and sunny day when Mr. Los Angeles and I met our Indiana godson and his parents in Philadelphia to show our godson the birthplace of our nation.
Photo Courtesy of the National Constitution Center
This was an occasion to which I had been looking forward for years. My proud immigrant’s soul is rarely able to think of the founding of America without a little swell of emotion for the scholarly men living in a city founded on religious tolerance and named for brotherly love, who met in taverns and walked on cobbled streets and under apple trees, and together, out of nothing but their own soaring and untrammeled vision, invented modern democracy. I am physically incapable of visiting Philadelphia’s Independence National Park without shedding a tear there, and ever since The Godson’s parents had absconded with him to the Hoosier State on the paltry grounds of affordable housing and a superior quality of life, I had been consoling myself with the prospect of our all meeting here one day to share with my American-born godson the stirring story of our nation’s beginnings.
We met at the Park.
“This is a very exciting day for me,” I told The Godson. “I’ve been looking forward to coming here with you almost since you were born.”
“Do you like my bored teenager face?” asked The Godson.
“I’d say you’ve nailed it,” sad Mr. Los Angeles.
The Godson nodded in satisfaction.
“I’ve been working on it,” he said.
“Your work has paid off,” said Mr. Los Angeles.
We started at the National Constitution Center, and walked around the bronze statues of the 42 men who signed the Constitution.
“These are the people who started it all,” I told The Godson. “And you have to take a moment to appreciate how unbelievably brave of them that was. They were going up against the King of England, who had all the power and was the only ruler they’d ever known. They had no idea how any of this was going to end up. They were just sticking their necks out to speak up – not just for themselves, but for everyone – because …”
I won’t say that at this point I stopped to reach for my Kleenex. But I won’t say I didn’t, either.
“ … because it was the right thing to do,” I finished.
“You kind of put your head to one side,” said The Godson. “And you let your mouth hang open like this. And you stare hard. Staring’s the most important part.”
We went past the Liberty Bell to Independence Hall, and stood in line waiting for the tour to begin.
“And they ended up inventing America,” I told The Godson. “There was nothing like America before these guys came along, and now here we are today. They talk about inventing the wheel, but I’d say …”
It’s faintly possible that at this point another Kleenex might just have been employed.
“ … I’d say that inventing American democracy is right up there with it.”
“When are we going to eat?” said The Godson.
“After this,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “You and me and your Dad are going for cheesesteaks.”
The Godson’s bored teenager face wavered very slightly.
“I’ve had a cheesesteak,” he said. “In Indianapolis. It was good.”
Although jointly delighted that cheesesteaks are there for people who like them, The Godson’s mother and I would not be joining the cheesesteak party. I have once eaten Philadelphia’s beloved signature sandwich – a long hoagie roll filled with chopped fried beef and fried onions and topped with a mound of melted cheese – in a deli near the Museum of Art, in the summer of 2002. On quiet days I can feel myself digesting it still.
“It won’t have been as good as the cheesesteak you’ll have here,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “Cheesesteak is what Philadelphia does best.”
“America,” I said, sternly steering the conversation back to the reason why we were, after all, there, “was an experiment that no one had ever really thought to try out before. Until then, it had been that wherever people lived, there was a King who was in charge of their part of the world, and the people underneath the King did what they were told to do. These guys right here in Philadelphia decided to change all that, and to me, that makes this city a very – very – special place.”
“Where’s the best cheesesteak in town?” asked The Godson.
“Ah, now, that’s the big question,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “There’s some who say it’s Pat’s and there’s some who say it’s Geno’s, and if you’re for Pat’s, you’re for Pat’s, and if you’re for Geno’s, you’re for Geno’s. They’ve been rivals for decades, and sometimes it can get real ugly. Which is kind of fun because they both sit right across the street from each other at the same crosswalk.”
“Are there ever fights?” asked The Godson, his bored teenager face now as far distant a memory as the sovereignty of King George.
“What do you think?” said Mr. Los Angeles.
“Well, of course there had always been revolutions,” I conceded. “Obviously over history, people everywhere had rebelled against their reigning King, if they really didn’t like them. But until then they’d mostly just gotten rid of the King they didn’t like and set up a different ruler instead. This was something else again.”
“When you go to place your order at the counter,” said Mr. Los Angeles, “they’ll ask you Wit’ or Wit’out. That means with or without onions, and when they say onions, they mean onions. There’s a heap of them, all fried and greasy and falling off the sandwich. But if you can’t take them, you say Wit’out and they’ll hold them off.”
“I’m getting Wit’,” said The Godson.
“Delightful,” said The Godson’s Mom.
“After that you choose your cheese,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “You can have American, provolone, or Cheez Whiz.”
“I’m getting Cheez Whiz,” said The Godson.
“Adorable,” said The Godson’s Mom.
“This wasn’t just saying ‘We don’t like this King, let’s have that one.’” I said. “This was saying, ‘Let’s do away with Kings completely and try a whole new system.’ It was saying, ‘Let’s try having all of the people in charge, not just one of them.’ And that hadn’t even been an idea until then, and it just blows my mind that these men were able to dream it up.”
“And the most important thing to remember,” said Mr. Los Angeles, “is, once you have your food, then in order to eat it, you have to employ the South Philly lean. Want to know what the South Philly lean is?”
The Godson nodded, rapt.
“OK,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “Here’s what you do. You grab the sandwich with both hands, like so … “
The Godson obediently seized a hefty, if imaginary, cheesesteak.
“You hold it directly over the plate …”
The Godson, who has actors in his family, squinted downwards to confirm that his invisible sandwich was positioned correctly.
“ …. and you kind of bend forward and stick your head over it like that, and send the rest of your body waaay back, yes, just like that, so that when you eat, the glop – and there will be glop – goes straight onto the plate and not onto your clothes.”
The Godson nodded, happily.
“Glop,” he repeated.
“Mucho glop,” agreed Mr. Los Angeles.
“Work on that lean, son,” said The Godson’s Dad.
We did the tour of the Hall and then prepared to part, the men to join the fray at Pat’s or Geno’s and the gentler gender in pursuit of an experience involving laminated menus and a wine list.
“They were cool guys, those Founding Fathers,” said The Godson.
My heart melted with love for my beautiful godson, who it turned out had been listening all along, and who one day, if he chooses and if our democracy survives, will be eligible to be President of these United States.
“They were amazingly cool guys,” I told him. “They were some of the coolest guys ever in history. And it’s our job now to remember them and honor them and do every single thing we possibly can do to protect their legacy.”
The Godson nodded again.
“I’ll bet they had theirs Wit’,” he said, practicing his South Philly lean.