Oral History Feature is a series of articles drawn extensively from interviews with individuals who participated in or have personal knowledge about historic Pennsylvania events.

Pier 30 Tennis Pavilion is situated on the Delaware River to the east of the historic downtown of Philadelphia and Just to the south of the Penns Landing Revitalization project. By comparison with the drab, desolate or abandoned piers that haunt the waterfronts of many cities in the Northeast, this freshly painted white cement structure is a refreshing contrast. In the place of old, rusted signs, bold green lettering announces its recycled function. At almost any hour of the day or night one sees out front the Mercedes, the Triumph sports cars, old Volvos, Saabs and assorted American cars that carry affluent players from nearby Society Hill to the tennis courts and saunas within.

Everything about this part of Philadelphia’s downtown suggests revival: the three, high rise luxury Society Hill Towers that dominate the skyline; the adjacent residential, restored colonial townhouse district of Society Hill that many consider the most successful Urban Renewal project in the entire Northeast; the fashionable bars, restaurants, discos and specialty shops of the nearby Headhouse Square that thrive with nightlife and tourists on weekends; the modern pedestrian pier, boat marina, entertainment area and unopened waterfront museum that comprise the rebuilt area of Penns Landing in which the city of Philadelphia has invested millions of dollars; and the still incomplete portion of Interstate 95 that will link Philadelphia with Washington, D.C., Baltimore, New York City and New England.

Yet, there is another way of seeing what has occurred in downtown Philadelphia that is suggested by the remarks of a local community worker of Irish working class an­cestry. “Look.” she said in a discussion that had come to focus on Pier 30 Tennis Pavilion,

first containerization of cargo, puts our people out of work – people who have worked the waterfront for generations. Do you have any idea of what the unemployment rate is here with the piers sitting empty? Then they come along and take our homes for a highway that cuts the neighborhood right off from the waterfront. Now they take a pier and make it into tennis courts. It’s like rubbing salt in our wounds. I mean, who plays tennis? Do my people play tennis?

One building – two points of view. And like so much else in the surrounding area, Pier 30 Tennis Pavilion is suggestive of a major collision of cultures that poses profound questions for the future of our cities. Depending on where you stand, the last twenty years of reinvestment and re­construction in downtown Philadelphia look totally differ­ent. For some it symbolizes a renewal of confidence in the downtown, a daring and successful battle against encroaching urban blight, the saving of a city at the edge of disaster. But for others, it has meant being overwhelmed by powerful outside economic forces, the sudden displacement from family homes and the destruction of an entire way of life. Nowhere is this clash of viewpoints, this collision of cultures, more apparent than in the nearby Queen Village neighborhood.


An Immigrant Neighborhood

Queen Village is located in the northeastern corner of South Philadelphia, just below Society Hill. It occupies an area along the Delaware River that was the independent township of Southwark prior to the incorporation of the city of Philadelphia in 1854. Today, its boundaries are Lombard St. on the north, Washington Ave. on the south, Delaware Ave. on the east and Sixth St. on the west.

Originally settled by the Swedes in 1643, Southwark had become by the middle of the nineteenth century an area inhabited by Swedes, English, Germans, Blacks and Irish. The overwhelming majority of these individuals derived their livelihood from the waterfront: working as mer­chants, sailors, carpenters, ship joiners, and mast and sail makers. In the decades after the Civil War, however, the social composition of the neighborhood was dramati­cally altered. Throughout the entire Northeast these years were a period of rapid urban expansion, widespread indus­trial growth and a resulting massive influx of new immi­grant groups who were drawn, as if by a magnet, to the emerging employment opportunities. For Southwark-Queen Village. it meant after 1880 the successive arrival of Poles, East European Jews, Armenians, Lithuanians and Portu­guese – all who found work on the waterfront, in the rail­road yards, in the slaughter houses or in the garment district along Fourth Street.

We often have an image of hundreds of thousands of immigrants entering at seaports and randomly scattering themselves throughout a variety of cities. Yet, recent re­search has suggested that the process was far from hap­hazard. Rather, because of pre-existing skills, cultural values, physical attributes or employment opportunities, particu­lar immigrant groups sought work in particular cities and in specific industries. Second, the choice of residence was determined in most cases by more than economic factors or the availability of cheap housing. The immigrant groups who reshaped the Southwark area from the 1880’s to the 1930’s, like immigrants to all Northeastern cities, tended to cluster together in tight-knit communities not simply because of external hostility, but also so as to preserve Old World traditions and customs. As Caroline Golab, author of the recent study Immigrant Destinations, has argued, immigrants often came here not to become assimi­lated Americans, but precisely to live as Poles, or Italians, or Jews – a luxury which for economic, political or re­ligious reasons, they did not have in their native lands. A surprising number of immigrants came here as well only to earn enough money to afford the land they always wanted back in the Old Country. When they attained that goal, they returned back home. Thus, no sooner did each group arrive, than it undertook to recreate as many as possible of the institutions that had characterized its former life: parishes, churches, synagogues, schools, newspapers, fraternal and beneficial associations. and social clubs all sprang up overnight. The result was a series of ethnic clusters in which diverse groups remade small en­claves in the city in their own image. Thus, for example, by 1920 the seventy square block area that comprised the Southwark neighborhood contained no fewer than forty­-four different religious congregations.

“Philadelphia is one of the last of the big cities that has this type of neighborhood with all its good and bad points,” commented a local social worker:

This was a beautiful area in so many ways, especially in the Queen Village area. It is an amazing area. It is, in my opinion at least, the most ethnically and racially mixed com­munity in all Philadelphia; and this is basically because of the way people landed along the docks. There was a point in time in the fifties where every ethnic and racial group could be found in Queen Village: Russian Orthodox, Russian Jews, German Jews, Poles and Lithu­anians and groups I don’t even know where they came from. There were Armenians. Everything was there. It’s not any more. I-95 moved out a lot. Society Hill moved out a lot. Southwark Housing Plaza moved out a lot. The new people are moving out a lot. All of them have moved out of that beautiful mix. It wasn’t created by anyone. It was something that just happened. People just – you know­ – that’s where they wound up, and, good, bad, or indifferent, they lived with each other.

An immigrant neighborhood was thus not comprised’ of a single ethnic community. “Philadelphia’s neighbor­hoods,” notes Golab, “contained a multiplicity of com­munities or social-emotional networks. One immigrant group sometimes dominated an area, that is, was the largest single group present, but no groups ever monopolized an area or lived totally apart from members of other groups.” What this gave rise to then, was a type of social diversity characterized by extreme turf consciousness, heightened feelings of local loyalty and a sense of community based on familiar institutions, shared memories, affective bonds and kinship patterns.

A neighborhood is more than their house; it’s more than the money that they can invest or the money that they could get if they sold their house – It’s a sense of pride, a sense of family. it’s a sense of sensitivity; it’s a sense of church; it’s a sense of school. It’s a sense. It’s a sixth or seventh sense that no newcomer can ever have.

So long as the work remained, the community remained intact. It was not uncommon for two or three generations to be born in the same house or on the same block. A re­cent survey of the neighboring and similar community of Pennsport for example, found that seventy percent of its present residents were born within the neighborhood. Further, they continued to live as part of large, extended, multi-generational families dwelling in close proximity to an average of twenty to twenty-five relatives. Even in today’s world of instant communications, the horizons of these people are often still limited by the boundaries of their neighborhood. Living in close proximity to work, school and religious institutions, these “urban villagers,” as Herbert Gans called a similar community in Boston, have preserved intact many of the values and traditions of their grandparents.

Such a sense of community is alien to most Americans whose primary experience is of the nuclear family, whose close emotional ties are frequently supplied by the lines of the Bell Telephone Company and who change their residence as often as they change their jobs. Indeed, it takes a special act of imagination, or special circumstances, for an outsider, accustomed to a life of mobility, to grasp this very different mode of being in the world. In a curious manner, disaster – sudden or gradual – has a way of reveal­ing the essence of a thing, of enabling us to glimpse what everyday reality tends to take for granted and conceal. And nothing less than disaster, a slow, cumulative process of collision with a very different way of life, seems to many life-long residents of Queen Village to have occurred in their neighborhood during the last two decades.

To document the nature of this “disaster” the author undertook, with support from the Public Committee for the Humanities in Pennsylvania, an oral history of the neighborhood that focused upon the process of revitaliza­tion, and the consequences of a variety of public and private urban policies. Underlying the project were the ques­tions: What do we mean by a thriving neighborhood; What do we mean by “neighborhood preservation” – the preservation of physical structures or social institutions? What type of neighborhoods do we therefore seek to preserve or create through urban policy and “community develop­ment?”


Two Decades of Change

In the years after World War II a variety of factors began to affect the vibrant diversity of this waterfront, working class community. First, modernization of the shipping industry and the introduction of containerization of cargo produced a rising unemployment rate among neighborhood stevedores and workers in related industries. No longer were there clusters of men at dawn seeking to unload freighters that had docked the night before. By the late 1950’s the piers immediately adjacent to the neighborhood along the Delaware River were abandoned for the more modernized facilities further to the north and the south along the river. Second, a process of institutional disin­vestment, the aging and deterioration of the housing stock, when coupled with mortgage lending practices that encouraged suburban development and inner city decline, caused a steady process of outmigration. Finally, uncertainty after 1956 about the status of the proposed Crosstown Expressway, which would have cut across the northern portion of the neighborhood, discouraged any new invest­ment. In the mid-1960’s, two planners from the University of Pennsylvania described the neighborhood as follows: “The area’s ‘heyday’ is long past and now it is largely a backwash area, characterized by depopulation and stag­nation rather than by its former vibrancy and growth.” Still, many of the families remained because their jobs remained, or because they were able to commute to the new location of their work, or because they were retired and living on pensions, or because of their emotional ties to the area and its institutions, or because they simply could not afford to move.

It was those who remained who felt the greatest impact of the intrusive effects of both private and public policies during the 1960’s. In 1962, despite some opposition from black and white homeowners, a six square block area at the southern end of Queen Village was demolished for the construction of a low-income, high-rise public housing project. In 1967, a three block wide strip running the entire eastern length of the neighborhood was cleared for the construction of Interstate Highway 95. In both cases, the displacement of numerous life-long residents occurred.

Finally, beginning in the late 1960’s a process of un­regulated, private rehabilitation was begun. Located im­mediately below the urban renewal area of Society Hill, Queen Village began to feel the spillover effects of this massive concentration and commitment of federal, state, local and private funds. First, there was an influx of the relatives of many Queen Village residents who had been displaced by the process of renewal in Society Hill. Second, new investment and new construction followed close be­hind. While the process of rehabilitation was initially viewed with only a moderate amount of skepticism by the “old-timers,” by the early 1970’s there were major hos­tilities. In the beginning there were clashes between the life­style and values of the old and new. Taste in architecture, patterns of socializing, attitudes toward work, marriage and childrearing often came into conflict. Next, econom­ic factors incited resentments. As land values rapidly inflated due to rehabilitation, tax assessments escalated. Residents who made no improvements in their homes began receiving sharply increased tax assessments. Numerous homeowners, particularly senior citizens, were forced to sell because of their inability to pay the new assessments that in many cases increased by two hundred to four hundred percent. Many long-term tenants were evicted as landlords made the decision to rehabilitate old housing as new luxury apartments. Finally, the children of “old-timers” who anticipated buying a house close to their families, found themselves unable to afford the prices within the area they defined as their community. This process, alternately called “gentrification” or “reinvestment displacement” has begun to occur not only in other Philadelphia neighbor­hoods, but also in cities throughout the United States. Fundamentally, it poses the question: For whom are we saving the cities?


Two Ways of Looking at a Neighborhood

The question “For Whom” ran through many of the in­terviews with Queen Village residents and city officials. Even when it comes to recollections about the neighbor­hood during the 1950’s, there is little agreement. For example, an employee of the Philadelphia Housing Author­ity, who became a consultant to a neighborhood based non-profit development corporation in the early 1960’s, recollects the neighborhood he first encountered in 1951:

It was a stagnant area where there had been no new construction to speak of, very little new investment, many of the homeowners that were there were hanging on and kept their houses in nice condition, especially in the first two or three blocks from Front Street. The deterioration had set in around Sixth or Sev­enth Street and up Bainbridge Street and Fitz­water Street and very, very badly, with a lot of abandonment there and the beginning of third-rate commercial uses – car lots and taxi lots and that sort of thing. Some institutions were being abandoned.

Likewise, a local realtor focused upon physical characteris­tics:

It was a situation of periodic decline from the late forties into the fifties when people, again, started to move into other areas. The houses that they left became occupied by lower income people and gradually it was just not economically feasible to keep these properties up and when they became vacant in such a state they just remained vacant – especially the large tenements.

By contrast, a woman, now in her early 30’s recollects something far less visible or tangible about the neighbor­hood in which she was born and raised:

I don’t recall that when I was in high school we would walk around the neighborhood and think of it as a slum. I never thought of the neighborhood as a slum because when we were kids, I think it was more – I don’t know – there were more people who were related to each other who lived here and their families at the time. And everybody was sort of in the same economic level at that point. We were probably poor but we didn’t think of it that way.

One neighborhood, two points of view: community or city slum? Indeed, nothing is so guaranteed to start an argument in Queen Village today as a casual remark of a “newcomer”: “Isn’t it great how people are fixing up the neighborhood? This place was so run down a couple of years ago.” For it all depends on what you are looking for. If quaint, restored colonial houses, freshly painted shutters, and new flower boxes are one’s ideal, then the neighborhood of the 1950’s, with some of its streets having aban­doned properties and boarded-up windows was definitely a slum. But if the sort of place where you knew all your neighbors, where you could leave your doors unlocked and raise each other’s children was the ideal, then today’s Queen Village with its streets lined with three and four year old trees, its blocks filled with affluent transients and strangers and with bars on many of its windows-is definitely not a community.

Nowhere did the clash between these conceptions of a neighborhood become clearer than during the process of private rehabilitation that began at the end of the 1960’s. At first, the reaction of residents was favorable and open:

I didn’t feel threatened by it. I thought it was something that was nice. And, too at the time, I think, some of the people who had al­ways lived in the neighborhood were starting to do that. It would be, “Oh, did you see Mrs. so and so’s house, doesn’t that look nice? She’s really done a nice job on it.” And my aunt and uncle had started to renovate their house and people that you knew were doing it too, so it just seemed like it was all right for that to happen. At the time there wasn’t any massive development, like what was occurring in Society Hill, you know, in a large quantity. This wasn’t happening in Queen Village. That made us feel more secure, I think, that it wasn’t happening like that.

But already from the beginning there were cultural differences. The long-term residents who remained in Queen Village had deep attachments to a way of life. Beyond the vital ties to families and religious institutions which were the very center of their social lives, there were important everyday habits as well. Because of the particu­lar construction of Philadelphia row houses, it became customary for residents to sit out on their front steps in the evening, after work and on weekends. Because the in­terior of the houses was usually small and considered a private space restricted to family members, the front step became the primary space for social interaction: for talk­ing, gossiping, or complaining; for avoiding the heat on summer nights, for simply watching the world pass by and for watching the children playing on the sidewalk or in the streets. On any summer evening, the streets were filled with the sounds of conversations and arguments from the clusters of people along the block.

By contrast, the newer people usually chose to live in the neighborhood for economic reasons. Many had looked first in the Society Hill area to the north for housing. When they found themselves unable to afford the prices, they came south to Queen Village because it was the next closest thing to their place of employment in center-city. When they moved to Queen Village, they brought with them very different networks of friendships and patterns of socializing. With friends in other parts of the city, or in other cities, with a habit of going away on weekends, with a very different notion of the living room as a space for entertaining guests and with an ethic of privacy that dictated that one owes no more than a “hello” or a “goodbye” to one’s neighbor, many of the newer people simply did not “sit out.” More important, they did not consider the neighborhood as the locus of their social lives. In many cases, when homes would be rehabilitated or newly constructed, they would have no front steps at all. Instead, the house might present to the world a locked, iron gate­way or some other system of security.

To many of the older people this in itself was a sign of snobbery. Many of the newer people, accustomed to a more cosmopolitan existence and the anonymity of the downtown, never assumed that their neighbors might expect more than a casual greeting from time to time, and thus were amazed to learn that they were considered aloof and arrogant. To be sure, these are generalizations. Many of the new people were arrogant, while many adapted readily to the customs of their neighbors and worked hard to get necessary municipal services into the neighborhood. Many of the old people were rude and suspicious, while many were intrigued by their new neighbors and learned many things from them. To be sure, television and air-condition­ing have taken their toll as well upon the old habits of “sitting out.” But an oft-repeated anecdote captures well what many feel has happened in their neighborhood. “You know,” one version goes, “it used to be that I would go to the corner store to buy a newspaper and my wife would not expect me back for at least an hour. I’d usually get caught up talking with someone or other. Now I go out, there’s no one on the street, and so I’m back in two min­utes and she asks me what’s wrong.”

Differences in architectural taste produced flare-ups as well. Awnings, aluminum storm doors and perma-stone fronts are not uncommon on the homes of “old-timers.” To many new people, who eagerly sought to have their homes restored to their original condition and have them certified by the city historical commission, nothing could have been more ghastly. “Why don’t you fix your house up the way it should be?”, they often asked people who had been born in their homes.

Differing roles of women became apparent as well. Most of the newer people in Queen Village were young, newly married, professional couples with husband and wife both holding jobs in center-city. College educated and career oriented, like other members of the upper­-middle class, the women usually did not have children until close to their thirties. “You know,” remarked a Catholic mother of four children. “I’d get home from the Park with the kids in the afternoon, I’d know I had two or three loads of laundry left to do. My husband would be coming home in an hour and would expect dinner. And there’d be this rich girl with no kids at all, sitting on her steps, sipping a cocktail and her maid would have just finished cleaning the house and I’d think, ‘My God! Where did I go wrong?'”

Or as another woman remarked half-jokingly after seeing the recently refinished bare, hard-wood floors in her neighbors’ house: “We were always programmed that you had to have a dark rug on the floor, because then it would show the dirt. And if you cleaned it a lot, then you went to heaven!”

All of these contrasts would perhaps have remained no more than the intriguing conflicts always produced by the diversity of urban life had it not been for economic factors that greatly exacerbated existing tensions.


“It’s Just Eating the Neighborhood Alive”

Property taxes are calculated not only on the value of an individual property, but also on the value of the sur­rounding area. Thus, if two of my neighbors improve their properties. chances are that in a rising market, the value of my property increases as well. Now, if I conceive of my house as an investment or even as a speculative venture, then nothing could be a more welcome development. But if I am retired and living on a pension, or if my income is merely fixed and limited, or if I had been born or raised in my house and if proximity to family and familiar institutions is of central concern to me, then “resale value” is one of the last things on my mind.

The taxes go up when a house changes hands. That’s the way it should be. But why penalize people that spend their life living in the place?

They’re making enough money off these new people. When they had the tax meeting over there all the old-timers showed up but none of the new residents. Why? Because they knew it. They knew when they moved in here that they were going to have to pay these taxes. So they accept it and they can afford it. But people on fixed incomes can’t.

“Okay,” said one woman frankly:

What you have is a class problem. You have people coming in who have money, who can make repairs. Now they had very good motives. They were going to upgrade the community and support the ethnic people there. They wanted some of the life style, security and safety and knowing neighbors and friendli­ness that you don’t always get. But what happened is, … then you had individuals just buy­ing the property and doing repairs or whatever and it caught on. It suddenly became fashion­able. So you had people who could afford $40,000, you know, young, married, professional couples, some children, moving in. Well, you began to change the composition of the community …

Then, suddenly, the word got out there’s no properties up there. You know, my son and daughter are getting married. They can’t buy anything next door to me in my street, which was the tradition and they began to realize it. Again, as with them most of the time, it is too late. They questioned, how can we stop it? And people told them quite frankly, “It’s a free enterprise.” There is no .. . you can’t stop anyone from buying a house if they have money. Money was the key.

The effect of these developments was equally devas­tating upon the black community of Queen Village, which in 1970 constituted about forty percent of the population of the neighborhood. “There’s just something happening in this community that I can’t get through myself what’s happening,” declared the pastor of a black Methodist church:

But I do know one thing. I say this without fear. I think the whole thing about this thing is to get Black people out of here and you believe me, in another few years, unless the trend changes, that’s going to happen. These people just can’t afford these high rents. Now those houses right there behind us on Queen Street, with all that exorbitant price, and what the Black people make a month or a week, they can’t afford that. But I think the com­munity is going to be a nice community for those who can afford to live here. But I’m doubtful about our people, very doubtful. They’ll have to take what’s left.

Or, as a local Lutheran minister who has watched the changes closely for more than a decade observed:

There’s a whole process, a whole social process that’s involved here in which economics figures very powerfully, where all these properties were owned by non-resident landlords and people who moved to the Northeast or to Jersey or to some other suburban type com­munity and they keep on owning it and they don’t put anything into the property and they just rent it until it’s worn out. And then it’s abandoned or it’s unfit for human habitation and along comes some developer. They buy the properties and many times there are people still living there at $75 a month rent and they let them in there for a time and tell them, you’ve got 6 months and you’ve got to be out because we are going to redo the property and they redo the property and when the property is finished it sells for $45,000. At $45,000, you’ve economically predetermined who can afford to live in that house.

And the process to me looks inexorable. Money follows money, and it is just eating the neighborhood alive. Or if you stand on the other side and you own one of those proper­ties, it’s coming to life. You see? It depends on where you stand.

Standing on the top floors of the City Hall Annex Build­ing in downtown Philadelphia in the offices of the City Planning Commission, the view is quite different. Here the emphasis is upon regional trends, upon a major structural shift in the northeastern economy away from manufactur­ing to service industries. From this perspective, Queen Vil­lage is just a tremor along a “fault line,” a transitional zone where the housing market shifts away from blue collar workers toward housing for the new white collar workers of center-city. For a city hungry for tax revenues, the verdict on this process is clear. “I feel,” said a represen­tative of the Planning Commission,

that Philadelphia is up against a rock and a hard place. It’s like absolutely our aorta that we get those middle class people to move into town and, if there is a small price to be paid in the old neighborhood, it is almost trivial compared to … here you’re talking about the survival of the entire metropolis, not Queen Village. I mean, the issue is huge. The success of Queen Village has been a symbol to thou­sands of people, literally to invest here in town and there is this renewed confidence in downtown real estate by the private individual, not just the corporate world.


Waiting for the 1980 Census

Trivial or catastrophic. Again, it depends on where you stand and what you conceive a neighborhood to be. From the “old-timers” the message is clear:

Price wise it’s better. It’s not a better neigh­borhood. It’s slowly going downhill.

How so?

How so? Society Hill-so – like very not neigh­borly. Nobody sits out anymore. I would love it to be 15 years ago, to look down little Fitz (water) Street and see the people sitting on their steps and, you know, not nice people­ – crude people, good people. Not educated, nothing like that, but just genuinely good people who would give their arms for you. They’d do anything. That’s the way I’d like it.

Another woman, who was extremely active in the local civic association, sees the contrast in the following way:

There was more of a spirit of community. I think we have more community action now in terms of having an organization, notifying people, making them aware of programs and doing those kinds of things. What we don’t have is that spirit. I don’t want to see this be­come a Society Hill.

“Society Hill,” the social worker added,

if you check with the federal government and HUD, still stands out as one of their most mar­velous productions. One perceives the physical as being the end-all in evaluating. That’s one reason why a lot of Blacks and a lot of old­-time Whites see eye-to-eye because they agree on that. Any renewal is death to the old-timers, be they Black or White; because they are not going to be there when it is done: They are not going to be welcomed. They are not going to be able to afford it.

The United States census is taken only once every ten years. In 1970, the median income for Queen Village was $5,500 per year as compared with a median income of $8,180 for South Philadelphia as a whole, and a city-wide median of $13,343. The median value for a house was $7,500 as compared with a city-wide figure of $10,600 and a Society Hill median figure of $43,300. The population of eight thousand was forty percent black and sixty percent white, and among the white population close to thirty percent were either first or second generation European immigrants.

Today, the cost of new housing is in the $80,000 to $100,000 range, while the cost of rehabilitated shells is in the $60,000 to $80,000 bracket. Perhaps as many as three thousand to four thousand new people have bought homes in this emerging “townhouse district,” while an unknown number of “old-timers” have been displaced, left or have died. We will have to await the 1980 census to be sure.

But one thing is certain. When the results are in, the planners and real estate developers will surely celebrate the saving of another inner city neighborhood. But the old­-timers will probably shake their heads about all this fascination with numbers. For them, the results will only con­firm what they already know. The 1980 census will proba­bly read like an epitaph for their community.


Dr. Paul Levy is currently Visiting Professor of Political Science, Temple University, and also chairs the Planning Committee of the Queen Village Neighbors’ Association. This article is a syn­opsis of a study entitled, Queen Village: The Eclipse of Community, available from the Institute for the Study of Civic Values (for which the author is Director of Curriculum Development), 401 North Broad St., Philadelphia 19108.