Often the most difficult question I have to answer is where I live. Sure, the general area of city and state is not lost upon me, but I have problems being more specific. When people asked me early on in that awkward “how are you doing” phase of the first semester of freshman year, I quickly responded “Philadelphia” because, well, that’s where I was born and have spent my entire life. Ironically, it is with local people that my pseudo-existential dilemma is enlarged; they want me to narrow my search results like some human Google. I fumble for the name and say “Northeast Philadelphia,” that broad term for the part of the city which juts out of the main part of the city both geographically and mentally. The look I receive from such a response is generally uniform; somewhat mystified, a bit perplexed. I did not grow up in the generic “’hood” that most see as a necessity; there wasn’t a corner deli and the row-homes were actually twins. Violence, while existing, was not as high as in other parts of the city, and most of my neighbors were either elderly or families like mine. There were trees, a large park, and the houses did not reflect the notorious misconception most people have when they hear the words “Philadelphia neighborhoods.” So how could I even say where I’m from if my upbringing was in an obscure part of a forgotten section of a generally overlooked Mid-Atlantic city? It’s maddening at times to know where one is from and not be able to give clear and finite terms for it.

In many respects, Northeast Philadelphia is the forgotten wing of an otherwise well-defined city. South Philadelphia is known for the sports complexes, Italian Americans, and subsequently the “Italian Stallion” himself, Rocky Balboa. Center City can be seen on campus and is generally known for its skyscrapers, ritzy (depending upon who you ask) shopping, and City Hall, which houses Mayor John Street. With West Philadelphia comes our “University City” locale and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air; even North Philadelphia  might come up in many a nightmare as some legendary region into which one should never venture, especially at night. But something’s missing, and for most people it will take a map to recognize the large piece of land that, of course, lies in the northeast section of the city. This region, a generally quiet, sometimes mundane sprawl of row homes and figments of middle-class Americana, is where I call home. Much like the South in the larger realm of the United States, the Northeast has its own culture and identity separate from the conclave of neighborhoods that both outsiders and residents alike consider to be “the city.” Perhaps from our differences arise our anonymity and general neglect.

Northeast Philadelphia didn’t have the Democratic revolution of many large cities; the neighborhood is typically a healthy mixture of Democrats and Republicans with conservative social values and a yearning to preserve and protect the status quo of an overall decent area. Because the citizens of this area have a higher income on average than the rest of the city, the Northeast often bears the brunt of Philadelphia’s taxes, a little less than half of the city’s overall returns. In this sense the stereotype of “wealthy whites” is one of the prevailing characterizations and perhaps the center of ill will by the rest of the city towards this region. The crime rate is lower in the region and within the Northeast there are more pronounced neighborhoods like Frankford or Bustleton or Mayfair. In this sense there’s an ethereal pride towards one’s neighborhood, sometimes creating the negative effect of drawing moronic teens into neighborhood-based gangs. But this byproduct is a mere blemish on an otherwise admittedly imperfect beacon for the rest of the city as the murder rate grows and the local economy stagnates. So why, in spite of our economic importance and lack of notoriety, are we so neglected by the authorities in the city? Why are we relegated to the role of Cinderella as the wicked stepsisters are given their freedom while the famed future princess is left to do all the housework at the beckon of a cruel stepmother? How can I, a citizen of the Northeast, find my identity when no one seems to recognize it?

The mayor, whose staff and a few of the council members make Tammany Hall look like a cheap parlor trick, has yet to acknowledge in his eighth and final year in office that we even exist. He rarely graces the area with his presence and the efforts of District representatives and a few of the City Council members, while beneficent, have yet to answer this one gaping question as to why we as a region are often treated like the black sheep of the herd. The murder rate increases and yet not enough police officers are siphoned off to this section of the city; the Northeast has endured along with the rest of the Philadelphia the decline of manufacturing and the increase of rusted-out factories lining the Delaware, yet little relief has come this way. Once again, what can possibly provide a reason for this ignorance?

I am content, if not proud, of where I was brought up, even if I cannot actually say where in the vast forgotten ocean of the great Northeast I lived. In this sense it was difficult for me to believe I was “from Philadelphia;” it was something that seemed simple enough but never quite seemed to fit with what I saw before me. Some of the streets were curved and labyrinthine, in contrast to the straight and narrow of the more traditional city, and certainly were less plowed during a snowstorm than my North or South Philadelphia counterparts.  There were plenty of row-homes but they seemed larger, more up-kept. I grew up in a twin-home with train tracks, the woods, and an airport all around me. Public transportation was not a big part of my life and I ordered my cheesesteaks from places other than Pat’s or Geno’s. Trees lined some of the streets. For most of my life. I felt caught in the crossroad of neighborhoods, and even maps failed to elucidate my confusion; in many ways, I was at the nexus of the universe, on Michael Road, a name that even gave off a commonplace and undefined aura.

As late as the 1980s, as the disgruntlement with the lack of connection between City Hall and Northeast Philadelphia grew more pronounced, a bill was proposed to have the Northeast secede from the city and form a separate county proposed to be called “Freedom County.” The bill at the time was supported by many Northeast citizens but never gained ground and eventually floated into obscurity. Perhaps, with a new mayor elected this year, Philadelphia will offer its fraternal love to its lost comrade. Luckily, as I have turned eighteen, I will have a voice in this election, even if it is a voice wondering if I ever was a true Philadelphian at all.