Twelve hours in Philadelphia that broke my heart

Philadelphia is a city capable of such great joy, and yet filled with so much pain. It’s a dichotomy I continually struggle with, in my heart and my head.

The events that unfolded in this city Tuesday were, once again, a stark reminder of that. The city reeled that morning when Municipal Court Judge Wendy L. Pew dismissed all charges against former Police Officer Mark Dial in the shooting death of Eddie Irizarry. This came after video showed Dial shooting Irizarry as he sat in his car during a traffic stop with his windows rolled up and a knife in his hand; Dial had been fired by the Police Department for not cooperating in its own investigation; and he previously had his bail revoked by another judge.

The family’s anguish over the verdict was righteous and palpable, but Philadelphians did not let them shoulder it alone. About 100 supporters came out to join the family during a rally at City Hall and a march around Center City that evening, and I was once again reminded of how there are always people here who will help their fellow Philadelphians carry a heavy burden and amplify their voices.

Then, shortly after the peaceful rally ended, groups of people not associated with the protest, whom acting Police Commissioner John Stanford called “criminal opportunists,” broke into stores and vandalized businesses across the city.

As I watched photos and videos of the break-ins, I couldn’t help but think of Irizarry’s family and the pain and confusion they must have felt seeing these acts falsely carried out or connected in any way with their loved one’s name, especially after they — the ones who loved him most, the ones who are in the greatest pain — had so peacefully and powerfully exercised their First Amendment right.

Then, shortly after 9:30 p.m., something that would usually bring me joy brought only confusion in the wake of the day’s events.

My social media feed started to be taken over by people posting about “Red October” and the Phillies clinching a wild card spot in the playoffs.

I saw fans celebrating in the stands and the Phillies spraying champagne on each other in the locker room. At 9:48 p.m., The Inquirer even sent out an email news alert that said: “It’s party time at Citizens Bank Park.”

But the last thing I felt like doing on Tuesday was partying.

I don’t fault the fans who did — I know these wins, these moments, bring us together as a city in a way nothing else quite does — but on that day, the gulf between joy and pain in Philadelphia became too expansive for me to navigate.

I love this city and all it has shown me and given me. I love the incredible people who’ve let me into their lives, the new pockets of beauty and mystery I can still stumble upon, the wonderfully weird people who give this city character, and the celebrations that bring us together.

But how do I love a place that sometimes feels so broken? How can we celebrate our victories when so many others continually face defeat and pain?

And why does it feel like our sports teams winning is the only thing that ever really brings this city together? What, if anything, will get us to care as passionately about the problems and pain in this city the way we care about the playoffs?

I don’t have answers, I just continually struggle with these questions, and fear I always will.

Loving anything — even a place — can be complicated.