A few weekends ago, in pursuit of a peaceful place to study my Immunology notes, I decided to take a bike ride to Bartram's Garden, a beautiful Revolutionary War-era estate on the banks of the Schuylkill River in Southwest Philadelphia. What's amazing about Bartram's grounds is that it makes you feel as though you are wandering through the woodlands of rural Pennsylvania, when in fact you are in the middle of Philadelphia. From most spots on the estate, there are no modern buildings or signs of city life in view. What's odd about Bartram's Garden is that it is almost completely surrounded by a very poor urban neighborhood.
As I was sitting at one of the garden's picnic tables enjoying the solitude (but not the Immunology), I heard several gun shots ring out at close range, within maybe a hundred yards or so. I waited for the sirens to arrive (maybe ten minutes) and then rode my bike out to the estate entrance. Four police cruisers and an ambulance were on the scene, and a number of officers in bullet proof vests were milling around and looking for witnesses. I approached two men standing nearby and asked what happened. All they could tell me was that someone had been killed. I rode back home with a heavy heart.
Later that evening, I found a news article online discussing the incident. A 56-year-old man was caught in cross fire and shot in the back. He died at the scene. To my knowledge, there are still no suspects, and perhaps there never will be any suspects. The victim's name was Joseph Bradley. Yes, he had a name. I haven't been able to find an obituary for him online, which leads me to wonder what his family life was like. Maybe he had no close family. Maybe he had family, but they don't know that it's common practice to submit obituaries. Or maybe it's not as common as I think.
I found this whole event so strange and sad, not only because an innocent man died, but also because it highlighted for me the very strange juxtaposition of Bartram's Garden with the rest of Southwest Philadelphia. Here we have the breathtakingly pristine estate of John Bartram, a self-made Revolutionary-era gentleman, the embodiment of the early American spirit. An avid botanist, Bartram traveled extensively throughout his life, both to Europe and throughout the colonies, to collect various plants for his farm, which is arguably the nation's first botanical garden (from Wikipedia). And yet today, the garden sits next to one of the poorest and most violent areas of Philadelphia. This is a place where opportunity - opportunity to travel, to learn, to feel safe, to make something of one's self, seems very scarce. Now I do believe in self-determination and the ability to succeed against the odds, but damn, if you are kid growing up in the this environment, the odds are not in your favor. I am not placing blame here, and I don't pretend to have the answer to this travesty. But we may begin to move toward answers by acknowledging that these places exist in our country.
