April 13, 2013 was another routine spring semester Monday; no different for me, as I’m sure it was no different for any other student across the UNH campus. I went through the motions of my classes and meals and gym session. On my way back to my dorm from the gym, I scrolled through my twitter feed, and suddenly, my routine, nondescript Monday became one of panic, uncertainty, and fear.
At 2:49 pm, the first bomb exploded at the Boston Marathon finish line, followed by another one approximately twelve seconds after. Four people were killed, hundreds of people were injured, thousands of people’s lives would never be the same, and the foundations of one city were shaken forever.
My family and I live nine miles outside of Boston, and I remember freezing in the middle of the sidewalk on Main Street, scrolling though the Internet, scrambling for details on what happened. I called my mom, who I knew was contemplating going into the city for the event with other members of my family. I had friends running the race and friends waiting in the area of the finish line cheering runners on.
One year earlier, I would have been at that finish line. But fortunately, everyone I knew standing where I was a year earlier, although shaken, was unharmed.
The days following the marathon were also plagued by uncertainty and fear, with injury and death totals fluctuating and finalizing, conspiracy theories and rumors of terrorism flying around the media. All this mixed in with solid details and facts about what actually happened, as well as stories of courage, perseverance, and strength.
As I said, I’m from a town nine miles out of the city. Most “real” Bostonians would consider me a suburban outsider. But at the time, that didn’t matter. Every student from the city or the suburbs of the city at UNH had each other’s backs during the uncertain times. A friend of mine had an uncle working the marathon as a police officer. Another friend of mine is from Watertown, the town where Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the man who is suspected of planting the bombs was caught, and on the days they were chasing him, gunshots could be heard from her neighborhood over to mine. During this time, I had never wanted to be home, yet so far away from home at the same time.
I watched all of the news specials and read every article about the bombings, assuring myself that even though Durham is ninety miles from Boston; I was still as involved and updated in the events as possible. My friends and I went to the candlelit vigil on T-Hall lawn. When the police finally caught Tsarnaev, we got together and blasted the national anthem as tears welled in our eyes. The national anthem at the first Bruins game post-marathon gave me chills. I beamed with pride watching David Ortiz’s speech during the first game at Fenway following the bombings. The Red Sox’s worst-to-first World Series win in October meant more than just beards, rings and trophies to the city of Boston.
For the past one year and six days, we have been awaiting the trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. It is currently set to take place in November. As a city and as a nation, we hope that it will reveal the remaining details and motives of the Boston Marathon bombing. We still have unanswered questions. For the past one year and six days, we’ve been rallying and supporting. We have sported Boston Strong shirts and bracelets, worn blue and yellow ribbons and donated to the One Fund, helping those most affected by the bombings. We have created memorials, held vigils, and helped each other through this tragedy. We have a long way to go, and we will never forget.
For the past one year and six days, the marathoners have been training. They’ve woken up early. They’ve ran through sleet, rain, snow and heat. They’ve iced injuries, they’ve stretched and massaged sore muscles. They’ve climbed the hills of Boston, reached the top, turned around and climbed them again. They’ve fought exhaustion, dehydration, and discouragement. But the next day, they still wake up, lace their sneakers, and run again. One year and six days later, on Monday, April 21, 2014, the marathoners will take the streets of Boston again, running stronger than ever.
For the past one year and six days, the injured victims of the bombings have been recovering. They’ve had surgeries and medications and rounds of physical therapy. They have anything from a new prosthetic limb to post-traumatic stress due to their experience at the finish line. This past year has not been easy, and they’ve been more courageous than they’ve thought possible. They’ve felt heartbreak and indescribible pain. They have battled exhaustion and discouragement like this year’s marathoners, but, like this year’s marathoners, they wake up everyday and get stronger. They work through their adversities, their therapy regimens, and one year and six days later, they emerge stronger than ever.
This year on Marathon Monday, I will again be in Durham, watching the ceremonies and runners on television from my dorm room. I will remember the fear, the uncertainty, the pain that occured on that fateful day and on the days following. More importantly, I will realize how far we; the runners, the recovering victims, the city of Boston, has come in the past year. It’s easy to let the events of last year’s marathon make us bitter, resentful, sad and angry. It takes strength to keep running.
But that’s the thing. Isn’t being strong what Boston is all about?