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Power: The Dwight Stuff?
By Gregory Gilderman
DWIGHT EVANS, WHO'S 52, has been a state representative for 26 years. His district includes the West Oak Lane section of northwest Philadelphia, which is 95 percent African-American and middle-to-lower class. In addition to twice running for mayor, he ran for lieutenant governor, in 1986, and governor, in 1994. In 1999, the first time he ran for mayor, he was not only the youngest of the candidates running, he was the youngest-looking. Eight years later, he’s shaved his head and put on a few pounds, but the extra weight is carried well: He looks more statesmanlike, more credible.
He’s also funny. Yes, you read that right. In fact, his natural persona is so different from what he projects on television or at campaign forums that it’s almost startling. On a Tuesday morning in January, Evans took me on a tour of North Philadelphia, Germantown and West Oak Lane. Most of our time was spent talking policy, but what struck me most was Evans’s demeanor — he was smiling, teasing some of his advisers, laughing and hugging the students at Martin Luther King High School when they ran to meet him.
“You’re cold, right, Murph?” he kept saying to a staff member, with a laugh. It must have been 20 degrees out, and “Murph,” one of the four entourage members trailing us, had on a jacket you wouldn’t want to wear past November. “You can’t stand it, right?”
The lighter, warmer side of Evans is something his colleagues in Harrisburg know well, and it’s helped him become an effective legislator. Dan Surra, a state representative from Clearfield and Elk counties, remembers when Evans came to Surra’s home in Kersey, PA, years ago. “The world Dwight lives and operates in is different from the world I work and operate in,” says Surra. “But Dwight drove from Philadelphia and had a meatloaf dinner at my house. I think he was the first African-American my children had ever seen. Everyone in my family is around five-foot-six, but here comes this tall guy with a big smile. Before the end of the afternoon, they were climbing on him like a tree.”
Evans spent his childhood in North Philadelphia. He was born in 1954 — the day before the Brown v. Board of Education decision. Back then, North Philly was still a decade away from becoming the island of poverty and violence it is now.
“You see that,” he said as we stood on North 17th Street. He pointed to a handful of refurbished brownstones in an otherwise bleak block. “That’s what the whole neighborhood looked like. There were kids playing, people out washing their stoop. On that corner? That used to be a police station. There were jobs. There was activity. You know, as a kid, growing up here, it was a good environment.”
He’s also funny. Yes, you read that right. In fact, his natural persona is so different from what he projects on television or at campaign forums that it’s almost startling. On a Tuesday morning in January, Evans took me on a tour of North Philadelphia, Germantown and West Oak Lane. Most of our time was spent talking policy, but what struck me most was Evans’s demeanor — he was smiling, teasing some of his advisers, laughing and hugging the students at Martin Luther King High School when they ran to meet him.
“You’re cold, right, Murph?” he kept saying to a staff member, with a laugh. It must have been 20 degrees out, and “Murph,” one of the four entourage members trailing us, had on a jacket you wouldn’t want to wear past November. “You can’t stand it, right?”
The lighter, warmer side of Evans is something his colleagues in Harrisburg know well, and it’s helped him become an effective legislator. Dan Surra, a state representative from Clearfield and Elk counties, remembers when Evans came to Surra’s home in Kersey, PA, years ago. “The world Dwight lives and operates in is different from the world I work and operate in,” says Surra. “But Dwight drove from Philadelphia and had a meatloaf dinner at my house. I think he was the first African-American my children had ever seen. Everyone in my family is around five-foot-six, but here comes this tall guy with a big smile. Before the end of the afternoon, they were climbing on him like a tree.”
Evans spent his childhood in North Philadelphia. He was born in 1954 — the day before the Brown v. Board of Education decision. Back then, North Philly was still a decade away from becoming the island of poverty and violence it is now.
“You see that,” he said as we stood on North 17th Street. He pointed to a handful of refurbished brownstones in an otherwise bleak block. “That’s what the whole neighborhood looked like. There were kids playing, people out washing their stoop. On that corner? That used to be a police station. There were jobs. There was activity. You know, as a kid, growing up here, it was a good environment.”
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