I want to leave my mark on the world. And frequently I do, with a chisel tip paint pen. There’s no bigger rush than scrawling my tag on a clean-painted surface, staking my claim on mailboxes and traffic signs right under the noses of oblivious passers-by. My name is all over Philadelphia, declaring, “I was here.” The streets belong to us and it’s our prerogative to leave some evidence of our existence. Thus, I like to think of what I do as a service to the community, a gesture of populist re-appropriation. But there are some — like the po-po — who call it a criminal act.
One night, after branding Old City with my graffiti moniker, I headed down into the 2nd Street SEPTA station. Spying an ideal spot for a tag, I ducked behind a pillar and gave my paint pen a few shakes. Suddenly, I spotted a police officer peering down through the glass on the landing. I resigned from my mission and stepped out of view. Within seconds a booming voice cried: ” Don’t think you can hide from me!” The cop approached me with a determined stride. “What were you going to do? Don’t play stupid with me!” he barked. Seeing no way out, I admitted that I was about to graffiti my tag. He demanded that I turn over my supplies and threatened me with arrest if I didn’t supply some identification. I gave him my Penn ID, and he “walk-of-shamed” me up and down the platform, waving the pen for onlookers, all the while sermonizing about how morally wrong graffiti is and how I, as a Penn student, should know better. “Judith Rodin would be ashamed.” (Um, wrong president?) He let me go just as the train arrived. Suffice it to say, I learned a valuable lesson that day: don’t tag in the subway, because it’s full of cops waiting to pounce. But everywhere else is still game.
