Alex Wong: The search for stories

I'm definitely not one to give anybody advice. But what I can offer you freshmen is a good story or two.

During my own freshman year, I had the ambition to create a new magazine for Penn devoted entirely to true story-telling. My reasoning was that this city, filled with a million people, was also filled with a million stories -- all crying to be told.

So here comes an 18-year-old kid from suburban New Jersey who thinks he's gonna capture Philadelphia with words. Needless to say, he failed. I never did quite find the time, let alone the writing talent, to carry out the project.

But I was right about the stories. In my three years here, I never stopped finding those stories. Better put, those stories never stopped finding me.

There was that Tuesday night in the Newman Center, sitting down to a soup kitchen dinner with Marsella. Though not quite homeless, Marsella needed the free meal and she was recovering from drug addiction.

Along with her old plaid scarf and faded canvas coat, Marsella carried around a 60-page typed manuscript. "This is my life," she said, dropping the stack of papers on the table. "I've seen this all and done this all."

Between bites of chicken, Marsella told me she was leaving her old life behind, and that she planned to do so through writing.

There was Joe Sadonna, former Olympic boxer-turned-unlicensed cab driver. Joe was nice enough to give three fresh-faced kids a ride out of South Philly at midnight. All he asked in return was four dollars and the chance to tell how he came to the brink of a world championship.

With the missus riding shotgun, Joe moved some rags and a toolbox from the back seat to clear some space. But he wouldn't let us in until we took a gander at a faded black-and-white photo of the featherweight he used to be posing with the rest of the 1956 Olympic team.

He came in fourth at those Olympics, Joe said, and when he returned, "They offered me a scholarship to Temple, but I thought I was gonna win the world championship so I said no."

Well, Joe got that title shot but never did put the belt on. He took the guy to 12 rounds -- 12 bloody rounds -- but dropped the decision. He's been driving a cab ever since (and putting three kids through college, mind you).

Then there was Chris, the backup guitarist with a 9 p.m. gig at Zanzibar Blue but a whole lot of time to kill till then. Chris offered us a trade: a tune on his guitar for a toasted bagel sandwich. It was a good deal: we got a lot more out of him that day than a tune.

Chris was a better story teller than I -- much better -- but then again I can't think of better material to work with than the life of a traveling musician.

There were the drugs and madness of the '70s rock scene. ("Because of music I didn't end up in jail -- but it wasn't like I wasn't trying," he said.)

There was his spiritual side. ("You guys should really look into Buddhism. The West can learn a lot from the East.")

And, of course, there were the women. ("When I saw her, I knew I didn't want her forever. I just wanted her for one night.")

But the one constant was his guitar. He had a name for it -- I forget what at the moment -- and for this 47-year-old loner, it and the music it made were the most beautiful things he had.

Playing a Spanish tune on the stoop of a brownstone in Rittenhouse, with autumn leaves falling about him -- one gently caressing his calloused fingers -- Chris gave us a brief glimpse of that beauty.

These are city stories, folks. Philadelphia stories. You only find this brand of poetry here.

The Schuylkill school, America's first poetry movement, began here 200 years ago. Black literature was coming from these streets 20 years before anyone began putting the words "Harlem" and "renaissance" together. This city started its own jazz movement and named it accordingly. I don't know when Philadelphia began singing, but it hasn't stopped since.

And it won't stop with you.

You freshmen are wide-eyed and excited, and with good reason. Four years in Philadelphia are a lifetime's worth of experiences anywhere else. This city sings in you from the second you arrive. It sings every minute you stay, in every memory you make, in every quiet moment when you recognize where you are, when you are and who you are.

You're in Philadelphia, in the year 2001 and you're a college student. Sounds like the beginning of a damn good story to me.

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