December 15, 1983, is a date indeliblyetched in my memory. I was eight years old, it was my first day in America, andI was crossing the Delaware River into Philadelphia. On that chilly, cloudlessevening, I caught my first glimpse of downtown Philadelphia, impressed by thecavalcade of lights radiating from its imposing skyscrapers jutting high intothe sky. We were a motley crew—me, my two younger siblings, my father, and mymother, who was nine months pregnant with my sister, born a week later.
My family was on the final leg of aseven-thousand-mile trek that began two days before in our home in Kinshasa,Zaire, when we were rushed to the airport in the middle of the night to avoidany detection by the secret police. Our trip was only possible because, aftermy father’s release from his brief butbrutal detention as a political prisoner, the United States had mercifullyended our nervous wait for a safe haven by granting us asylum.
I vividly recall the indescribableblend of wonder, trepidation, and anticipation I felt about what lay ahead:forging new friendships, settling in a new home, learning a new language, all aworld apart from virtually everyone and everything I had ever known.
At first, things couldn’t have been worse. We lived in partsof North Philadelphia that had suffered the twin scourges of a ragingcrack-cocaine epidemic and senseless gangbanging. I often went to bedoverwhelmed by hunger, even though my parents had swallowed their pride andreluctantly accepted welfare.
While our climb was steep, weeventually crafted a place for ourselves in Philadelphia, thanks to my parents’ steely determination and unrelentingfaith in the promise of this city. After all, its public schools instilled inmy siblings and me a thirst for knowledge that lifted each of us to college,and me to Harvard and Harvard Law School. Its hospitals supplied a new liverfor my father; and, of course, from that sullen, wintry night until today, thiscity has been our sanctuary.
So, I believe in Philadelphia. Notjust its people, thoroughfares, or parks, nor its sports teams, with theirknack to frustrate and uplift their devoted fans in equal measure. I mean thespirit of a city that, beginning with the Quakers, has offered to heal theshattered lives of those escaping persecution. This belief is deeply rooted inthe improbable arc of my family’sstory and those of countless others like us.
Today, as I admire the mischievoussmiles and wonderful babbles of my seven-month-old son Kiese, I know that thisbelief is real. And years from now, perhaps he, too, will embrace it andproudly and loudly proclaim, this, I believe.
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About Author:Sozi Tulante - Philadelphia,Pennsylvania
Sozi Pedro Tulante is an attorney inPhiladelphia. He received his JD, cum laude, from Harvard Law School and hisAB, cum laude, from Harvard College. He grew up in Congo and NorthPhiladelphia, went to Northeast High School in Philadelphia, and lives in WestPhiladelphia with his wife and three kids. He continues to pass on to hischildren the lessons he learned from his late father, Manuel Sozinho.
When Sozi Tulante was only a boy, heand his family fled the Congo and found themselves in the United States, wherethey were able to start a new life. Mr. Tulante believes in the country thatgranted them political asylum, and he believes in the city that welcomed themhome.
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