A Few Thoughts on Boston
This blog has been on radio silence since the utterly tragic events at the Boston marathon April 15th. I had planned on posting that day about my grad school decision, or perhaps even about the marathon itself, yet have taken these past two weeks to attempt to come to terms with what happened to my city, and to find adequate enough words to express what I want to say. Although I am not sure either of those has really happened, I feel it’s time to say something.
Since I began work at a university in Cambridge three years ago, Marathon Monday has not been the same day of reverie (or really even the day of annoyance) that it has been in years past: I had to work. It was not a vacation day, and as the bombs went off, I was plugging away at my desk. This year was different in that I knew two people running: my cousin was running for Dana-Farber, and my former colleague’s husband was running for Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. I was insanely proud of my cousin and was really enjoying following both runners along online as they hit each checkpoint.
Boston Magazine Cover, May 2013
My world changed as a friend messaged me with the news: explosions at the finish line. I was confused: perhaps it was just some sort of cannon fire. I immediately tuned to Twitter and the local NPR website, and refreshed the runner check-in. Vague reports of bombs. Ghastly videos of explosions and twitpics of bloodied sidewalks. I sat at my desk for what felt like hours learning everything I could, tweeting and retweeting, assuring friends and family of my safety (side note: thank goodness for Facebook that day. Knowing the whereabouts of all friends that day by a simple status update or a like was an extreme relif).
My cousin was safe. As was my colleague’s husband. Had my cousin not stopped twice at the medical tents for to treat blisters, she might have been there when it happened. I have never been more thankful for blisters.
That day I walked across the Weeks Footbridge which spans the Charles River and connects to Boston to get home (I had been afraid to take the T after reports of bridges being closed and police investigating a suspicious package at the Harvard train station). I was so struck by how normal everything looked: people rowing, people running along the river. Ducks swam merrily along. The sun was shining beautifully. If only the unthinkable hadn’t occurred hours before a few miles away, it would have been a perfect day.
April 15th was an emotional day. I felt violated, numb, scared, unsafe, angry, and overwhelmed. How could someone do this to my city? At such an event which honors the ultimate athletic achievements? To hurt such innocent people? Tears were plentiful that day, but I quickly grew saturated from the constant rotation of news footage. We quickly turned on a comedy on cable.
I was still scared on April 16th. I hadn’t wanted to leave the house for fear of the unknown. Yet I told myself to have the conviction to show that I was not afraid, even if I was trembling on the inside.
That fear has since subsided (aided by the capture of the suspects), and my energy has refocused on two words: Boston Strong. This phrase, which has been adopted as the slogan of the city’s collective efforts to heal, is more than just two words on a t-shirt. Boston is a strong community. We’re the host of America’s revolutionary spirit, the diehard sports fans, the intellectual elite. We honor our first responders, help those in need, demand justice, and love our community even when it makes no sense. As Garytt Poirier (@Garytt) said on Twitter “If you expect #Boston [to] ease up, you are not aware of how we treated Bill Buckner for 18 years after a baseball rolled between his legs.”
This is changed our city forever, yet I believe that our city can turn this tragedy into a positive change. As long as we can stay united, if we can stay Boston Strong, then we can make the right steps forward.
Falling Feet First 