Saturday afternoon, I weaved through the mass of humanity
and marathon jackets that smothered Copley Square in preparation for the Boston
Marathon. I was just looking to walk down Boylston and meet up with friends to
start drinking and I couldn’t help thinking how ridiculous everyone looked with
their $100 jackets from last year’s events, like they were showing off or
holding it over all the rest us (ok, just me) for whom the pushing of physical
boundaries is laying in one place in front of a TV for as long as possible.
(Talk about imposing your own insecurities on other people.)
Amidst the tourists, the runners, the cameramen, the police,
the construction crews, the reporters, the traffic and the passerby, I stopped
to look at the finish line and get my first glimpse of Copley Square partially
adorned for the finish. I stood
among the confusion and commotion and said thank god that I won’t have to be
here on Monday to see what it’s like during the event…
The report came across the radio and all I heard was one
word: explosions. The impact of that word has been unshakeable. Following the
report, it was impossible to focus on anything else.
The attacks of September 11 changed our nation and did
immeasurable damage to countless people across the country. At the time, the
impact on me was more about witnessing history than any real connection with
the events as they took place. It still felt like it was somewhere else,
happening to other people. The explosions on April 15 were not near the
magnitude in terms of lives lost or destruction caused but impacted me in ways
that I am still having trouble coming to grips with. It took me a while to
recognize what had me so completely shook.
I was scared. Terrorism had become personal.
I tried to work through it yesterday afternoon. But, I kept
scrolling through Facebook and Twitter to hear word from people, some I know
well, some I haven’t spoken to since high school, some exist simply as names on
my feed, wanting to hear from everyone and make sure they were ok, whether they
were ever in danger or not. I’m forever grateful knowing that Katie, Jane,
Brian, Caryl, Julie, Scott, Bruce, and so many others that I didn’t even know
were in Boston, came through it.
Still, everything felt changed. Like so many people around
the world, I now knew what it was like to have terrorism strike in my backyard.
I knew what it was like to have friends targeted, to have someone strike at
home.
Late last night, I received a text from a friend that no
longer lives in the area and she described feeling helpless. She said that she
should have been there. She wrote, “These are my people.”
Yes they are. They are all of our people.
Will it ever be the same? If the Marathon, less a sporting
event than a combination of tourist attraction and charity fundraiser, can be a
target, will any of our other games go back to normal?
Can we continue to play in the sunshine, but be scared of
the shadows?
Tuesday afternoon, my twitter feed was filled with game
updates. We went back to work. Of course we did. Kids across Massachusetts
picked up gloves and lacrosse sticks. They hit the fields, the tracks, and the
gyms and we were there covering it. Sure, part of it is finding normality in
midst of tragedy, but mostly this is just what we do.
We play. We work. We carry on.
It is a Boston trait, it is an American trait, and it is a
human trait. There is evil in this world, but we will not let it consume us. As
one runner that I interviewed, who finished the race just minutes before the explosion, explained
about taking part in next year’s race, “It makes me want to do it more. It’s
like they say - they can’t win. Getting into Boston next year will be
impossible because everyone is going to want to run.”
I am not going to run next year’s marathon, but for the
first time in my life, I want to be there. As I realized on Monday,
these are my people... and I couldn’t be more proud and more determined to stand with them.
