Somewhere in the maze of North Philadelphia—in a tiny neighborhood you’ve zoomed past on I-95 a hundred times without ever thinking about—I’m pulling open a heavy door to a community center.
First impression: the smell of burnt coffee. Community centers are dependable in this way, like waiting rooms and used car dealerships. Though not immediately visible, I’m positive this coffee is being served in Styrofoam cups.
The entranceway is warmly lit, with colorful paintings on the walls. Up ahead—at what I presume is the front desk—an elderly Latino man in a half-zipped green tracksuit is staring down intently. At what I can’t tell. He might be reading a book, or building a puzzle.
