This year, instead of many grand generic New Year’s resolutions, I’ve created a specific, reasonable, and achievable goal. Here’s my New Year’s resolution in honor of Philadelphia, my adopted home. 

How come nobody told me I was pronouncing Philadelphia all wrong?

    Having lived in the City of Brotherly and Sisterly Love for more than 20 years, this egregious error was embarrassing. Because I often said Philly, shorthand for Philadelphia, few people picked up on my faux pas. Or at least, I hoped.

    For years, I said fil-luh-del-THEE-uh instead of fil·luh·del·FEE·uh. (Of course, you know how it’s pronounced.)

    From this week forward, I have promised to practice the proper pronunciation of Philadelphia. In fact, Philadelphia Freedom, the city’s unofficial anthem by Elton John, helped ease my linguistic anxiety.

When my dad wasn’t sure how to pronounce a tricky word, he’d pause, say the word, and then spell it aloud. I supposed this was a holdover from his schooling. In my case, correctly spelling this particular word hasn’t helped me.

     I can’t explain how or why I failed to get “fee” into Philadelphia. Perhaps, the celestial sounds of the string bands composed of banjos, violins, accordions, saxophones, and percussion performing in the Mummers Parade, led me astray. The foreign sounds of banjos blending with wailing saxophones were pleasant to my jazz-loving ears. 

    The crowd cheered for each band. Each ensemble was playing, dancing, and strutting with more bravado in brighter, more outlandish costumes than the last.

    Stunning showmanship was on display and the parade had more acts after the 20 or so bands had performed. Mummering was fascinating. Golden slippers, lively music, and fancy feather festooned costumes delighted me.

    But the mummers parade had and has an ugly side: sexist, racist and anti-Semitic themed skits. Have the mummers changed? New rules around skits won’t erase hate. Awareness training can’t reverse ingrained beliefs. I’m reminded of the lyrics, You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear, from South Pacific.

    I was grateful I didn’t witness those skits.

    This long extravagant parade/party held January 1, touted as a century-old tradition, has become a spectator sport marathon. (An endurance test that consisted of 12 to 15 or ? hours of parade watching in cold weather.) Thankfully, the city designated the convention hall as an indoor venue for a portion of the parade festivities. Perhaps, a shorter parade has been better, and it hasn’t dampened the audience’s enthusiasm.

    In my first parade experience, the crowd grew as the day wore on. Sidewalks and stands filled with families, friends, and tourists. Soon, I felt trapped in the frozen mass of onlookers. Breaking through the mass was a feat akin to steering Shackleton’s ship through ice flows. Unlike Shackleton’s stranded crew, we hobbled away—safe but stiff—cursing our numb toes and frozen faces. (A bowl of pho helped us thaw out.)

    But back to thee: Can we propose, thee descended from the heavenly aura from walking the same streets where Ben Franklin once strolled? When I worked in Old City, I saw the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Christ Church every day—sacred places where our nation’s founders met and worshipers. When I saw Independence Hall for the first time, its gleaming bright bricks looked new. I reminded myself it was built in the 1700s.

    Every block offered a glimpse into the city’s past. In summer, many tourists have met many famous figures from Colonial times. I was thrilled to spot Betsy Ross on my train, commuting to her job in the city. When in costume, these actors, like Betsy and Ben, played their role well, feigning surprise when visitors took pictures with their cellphones. (Gasp.)     

    I could blame thee on the picturesque Schuylkill River, which means “hidden river.” Dutch settlers discovered the nearly 135-mile long waterway in the 1600s.  

    Maybe, thee rose from the visit to Reading Terminal Market where I first discovered a cannoli. The Italian sweet has a divine deep-fried crispy pastry shell filled with creamy sweet ricotta cheese. That cannoli from Termini Brothers Bakery changed my life.   

    Beyond the historical, cultural, and natural beauty of Philadelphia, it’s the people who changed my life and won my heart. So, if you hear me humming Philadelphia Freedom, you’ll know I’m working on my New Year’s resolution.