Birthplace of freedom — and inequality
Philadelphia is a city of American Firsts: the first library, the first stock exchange and the U.S. Mint, the first hospital, the first art museum, the first university, the first penitentiary and the African Methodist Episcopal Church are among the institutions that were born here — alongside America itself.
But if our city has pioneered democracy, we must acknowledge that it has also pioneered inequality.
And as a proud American on the 245th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I am faced with the reality that the founding document establishing our government and young country intentionally excluded women, enslaved Black people and indigenous people — all of whom were present at the time of the American Revolution and played a crucial role in the creation of a democracy in which they have never been fully allowed to participate.
A More Perfect Union is a special project from The Inquirer examining the roots of systemic racism through institutions founded in Philadelphia. Read the series →
This is not the part of our history that we celebrate on the Fourth of July, but it is history we should acknowledge. To not do so risks repeating the mistakes of the past and not fully embracing our founding ideals.
The declaration is a living document, and we should understand the ideals it contains not as fixed in history, but as building blocks for a new way forward. We the people must be the pioneers of this generation, as the course of human events now calls us to be. We must reconcile the inequity of our origins as inconsistent with who we say we are and want to be.
This is the quest for our More Perfect Union.
This project, launching on July Fourth, began as an idea I conceived in the city where these words first rang: All men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, among them Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Our work as framers begins now.
For the next year, The Inquirer will explore some of the institutions that formed the cornerstones of our democracy and society, linking them directly to ongoing harm against Philadelphians living today. Joining me in this ambitious work will be journalists from inside and outside of the Inquirer newsroom and others committed to a clear-eyed look at these institutions and their impact.
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Our country is in the midst of a national reckoning that, at its core, is about confronting systems that have worked to maintain inequality. Journalism is not immune from that reckoning, and among the Philadelphia institutions we will examine is this newspaper, the second-oldest continuously published in the country. This is work that has already begun, but seeing The Inquirer’s role as part of the city’s systemic inequality is essential to understanding the way forward for all of us.
This is the work we can all do as Philadelphians, because this is who we have been, and who we can be. Like the framers, we may not always agree. But where better than the place where going first is as old as our democracy itself?
Since last summer, I have thought a lot about revolution, about what it means to be a citizen, a patriot. I watched as thousands of Philadelphians joined the millions of people around the world to protest the systemic injustice that was the only thing egregious enough to force them into the streets in the midst of a global pandemic.
For perspective, I turned to a place I often go: the Museum of the American Revolution. It is perhaps my most favorite site in the entire city and, I believe, one of the most honest places in America about who we truly are as a nation.
One of my most recent visits to the museum was after the Jan. 6 insurrection. I was bereft and at a loss for what to say or how to feel about what I and my fellow citizens had just witnessed. I watched the film on George Washington’s tent, the crown jewel of the museum that miraculously survived through generations.
By the end, I was weeping — blame the sweeping, patriotic score — but encouraged. The tent, for me, was a symbol for our democracy: A shelter in need of stewardship and constant vigilance, one that could have been lost many times but that survived through collective effort and a shared sense of responsibility.
I think a lot about the stories we tell ourselves as Americans. There are the facts of history that we are taught — names, dates, places, events — and there are the myths that we learn about. Today, our nation is at a crossroads forced by the national reckoning on race, and we find ourselves at the intersection of what is true and what we want to believe.
The latter can be far more powerful, as the truth can be painful and hard to face. What we choose to believe in its place is soothing and affirms our best instincts, but is often a matter of perspective.
What Philadelphia means to each of us also has a lot to do with our vantage point. From the rooftop of my apartment, I can see the statue of William Penn atop City Hall, taking a sweeping view of the city, surrounded by skyscrapers, shops and signs of the city’s vibrancy. But there are Philadelphians with a different perspective, who live in the shadow of the poorest big city in America. From a high perch, it is easy not to see them or their daily reality — or worse, to look away.
I will admit to being seduced by the nation’s origin stories I learned about growing up. They feel even more potent to me living in a place where the ages collide with the present. As a history buff, it thrills me to walk on the same cobblestones as Benjamin Franklin and George Washington.
My path led me to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection six years ago. Born and raised in Atlanta, and most recently a resident Washingtonian, I have now become an honorary Philadelphian — a “half-jawn,” as I was declared by a native, a title I wear with pride. And as such, I feel a deep connection to my adopted home, a loyalty and an instinct to defend this place as fiercely as anyone born here.
But as a Black woman, there are other parts of our history that I think about as a Philadelphian, particularly questions over who gets to participate in our democracy and who gets to be an American.
When the Declaration of Independence was signed, it was read aloud in public squares and town halls across the colonies to a largely illiterate population. Still, for those within earshot, the words rang true, regardless of their station.
They understood then, as Americans do today, that our founding ideals should apply to them, that they are the DNA of our democracy and dwell in our very souls. Our experiment as a nation has focused on whether and when our ideals will apply to all and not just some.
For many Americans, today is the day we celebrate the birth of our democracy. But for others, the holiday serves as a self-evident reminder of the exclusion of their forebears. The freedoms and liberty we collectively recognize did not exist for them at the time the declaration was signed — a point famously made by abolitionist Frederick Douglass in his speech, “The Meaning of the Fourth of July to the Negro,” in which he declares:
“I am not included within the pale of glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me … This Fourth of July is yours, not mine.”
Today, we ask what this day means for a country divided. The original declaration was a rejection of oppression and a collection of truths amid omission, and our present-day efforts should attempt to correct the record in the true spirit of journalism. We do not honor our heritage by continuing to willfully ignore the unpleasant aspects of our story.
The time is now for us to make a new declaration in the spirit of our founding document. Together on this Fourth of July, let us take the oath of the original signers, who ended the declaration with these words: “We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”
In this moment, in this city, our Declaration of Independence and our democracy are calling us to action, asking us to address our past and confront our present, in order to form a more perfect union.
Acknowledgement
A More Perfect Union is produced with support from The Lenfest Institute for Journalism, Lisa D. Kabnick and John H. McFadden, Peter and Judy Leone, and Surdna Foundation. Editorial content is created independently of the project’s donors.