In my first attempts to create Philly Grown magazine I came to the realization that I am a 23-year-old “journalist” who executes her writing like a 70-year-old English teacher.  I diligently write my sources on 3X5 index cards, place them on a corkboard, and study them aimlessly, searching for the starting piece to my extravagant puzzle of journalistic attempts.  Poking, prodding, discarding, and rearranging have always allowed me to pull out the prize-winning centerpiece to my stories.  Naturally, I decided to go about writing the entirety of this magazine with the same methods I am usually prone to.  Lo and behold, my usual old-school literary structuring did not pan out as I had hoped.  In complete distress and terror, I wanted to give up and throw my index cards in, left to forfeit the game of reporting.  After a long night of tossing and turning, I knew I had to grow some “doodle berries,” if you will, and find a different path around the obstacle blocking my end product.  When I finally rose out of my writers-block coma, I brushed my insecurities off, grabbed my camera, and set out on a mission to wander the streets of Philadelphia.  I figured if I couldn’t figure out the complex inner-workings of Philadelphia, then maybe this city would bring some of its “brotherly love” to me. 

West Philly, where I currently reside, became my starting point in my modern-day pilgrimage.  I always thought of this section of the city as the chubby kid who is effortlessly picked last for the kickball team, not based upon gluttony, but because it straight up plays too rough.  Skyscrapers? No.  Pat’s or Geno’s? Not a debate here.  Rittenhouse Square?  The only thing barely resembling an angle formation in this part of town is the crooked lines the police enforcement use to create “order.”  Yet, it is still proudly considered “home” to hundreds of Philadelphians.  Rather than a tourist-infested park, West Philly has Clark Park, the “crust punk” hub that monthly turns into a local culturally enthused flea market.  Rows of tables are scattered with Philadelphian artifacts, offering West Philly residents the opportunity to barter for an amazing piece of vintage jewelry provided by Third Street Habit, or stumble upon the Record Exchanges 1972 vinyl of Hall & Oates “Whole Oates.”  A Rocky statue (based upon the 1976 film) displayed upon Art Museum steps is not West Philly’s claim to fame, rather, bragging rights belong to the West Philadelphia High School  the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air played ball in.  Instead of the cracking of the Liberty Bell, West Philly’s place in history entails the bombing of a cult-like activist group on Osage Avenue.  Overall, what West Philadelphia may lack in “glitz and glamour” is made up for in its infectious sense of culture, arts and community found on every corner of this neglected area.  My small journey exposed me to music, arts, food, and community I had never really witnessed before.  When reviewing the snapshots I had taken, a growing need to further explore the small wonders of Philadelphia overcame me, and without realization, the content of Philly Grown was rooted and seeded.  As the head “gardener” of Philly Grown, my hope is that readers will gain a strong desire to plant their own dreams and ambitions into this city’s rich soil. 

Helana N. Nosratbakhsh

Editor-In-Chief