Ariane de Gennaro

I believe in Pennsylvania.

I believe in the keystone state. I believe in freedom, rolling hills, “Brotherly Love,” the Reading Terminal Market and saying “wooder” instead of “water.” Pennsylvania bred the United States of America and nurtured it with cheese steaks and Hershey’s bars. I took my first breath in Pennsylvania, lost my first tooth in Pennsylvania and was lightly bullied by schoolchildren in Pennsylvania. The state raised me. 

I don’t believe in Punxsutawney Phil. 

For 136 years, he has successfully swindled American citizens with promises of spring’s birth, budding trees and sunshine. Every year, we willingly believe. On February 2nd, he emerges from his lair. Like a politician, he disseminates a false hope we’re all too familiar with for personal interest and power. He is the State.

If he sees his shadow, residents of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania face six more grueling weeks of winter. If he does not, he promises an early spring. He, our fickle master, abuses the godlike power we give him with no consequence, despite his 46 percent accuracy rate. 

First of all, I don’t get this. How do we determine whether or not he sees his shadow? Does Punxsutawney Phil report his findings? Even when it’s overcast, we all have a shadow. What makes him look? What makes him ignore? Does he know his power?

Thought to have begun in 1887, Groundhog Day was born from “Candlemas,” a Pennsylvania Dutch holiday that announces a seasonal turning point, like the summer and winter solstice. In the absence of science, they pursued reason in the Groundhog. On this day, they ask the groundhog to escape his earthen home, check for his meteorological shadow, and celebrate if he saw it. Punxsutawney sought relief from the long, barren winter. They found it in a rat. Despite their reverence for the rodent, residents KILLED him and feasted on GROUNDHOG MEAT after the ceremony. This is a cause I can get behind.

Seeing that the tradition has lasted more than a century, Punxsutawney Phil has surely met his maker, but the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club insists otherwise. Every few years, he consumes an “elixir of life” which, with repeated doses, grants Punxsutawney Phil immortality. As we great thinkers know, eternal life comes with more drawbacks than advantages. He has no reason to love life. He cherishes not the time he has on earth; he lives in a monotonous drone, uninterrupted by the tick of mother nature’s clock. He feels no guilt. He feels no fear. He feels nothing, only the manipulative power he wields over humankind when February dawns.

Nonetheless, he has a wife. He might even have a son. Phyliss, his devoted spouse, is not treated with the “Elixir of Life,” no doubt a symptom of ceaseless sexism in the United States of America. Groundhogs generally live for six years, so Phil has grieved his wife about 22 times, making him either immune to sadness or a sick sadist who thrives on her death. He essentially has a harem. Down with Patriarchy Phil.

In reality, Punxsutawney Phil has no concept of his own significance, which, for some, is a beacon of hope. Maybe some greater being watches me, too and waits for me to indicate some turning point in a meta-season or time. Maybe they want me to see my shadow when I go outside. Maybe winter ends when I floss. If so, these mystical beings are in for a long winter. I won’t change for them.

All facets of this story conflict. If they ate Punxsutawney Phil in the early years of the tradition, how is he 136 years old? How does he know to come out on February 2nd? Why must he give Pennsylvania a bad rep?

Pennsylvania is more than Punxsutawney Phil. Metropolitan corners sandwich farmlands, Amish country, coal mines, mountains and running creeks. It’s rural. There are groundhogs everywhere. One even lived in my backyard. Considering the fact that he literally burrowed himself under a rock, I don’t think he had sufficient meteorological expertise to tell the weather, but I never really asked. I hope he’s okay. 

Please, I beg, do not let Punxsutawney Phil characterize Pennsylvania. When you think of my home state, think instead of the Poconos, Questlove and Gritty, not that tyrannous rat.