It’s been a year since the terrorist attack at the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013. This Monday, thousands of people will converge on Boston to celebrate the 118th Boston Marathon and celebrate the strength of the runners, the victims of last year, and the resilience of this city. Monday also marks a special day for me; it is the first time I will return to Boylston Street since that Monday one year ago.
The morning started out like any other. I woke up ridiculously early with my roommate. A group of us walked 2 miles to an off-campus house. I was excited to experience my first Marathon Monday as a BC student. I had been in Boston before for the Marathon. My mom has run the Marathon multiple times since she qualified in 1997. I spend the night before making a poster, “Celeste you’re the best!” I had a t-shirt that said “My mom runs faster than your dad” in a youth x-large courtesy of the Marathon Expo. I was happy and carefree and totally unaware of how my life would change in six hours.
After spending the morning off campus, my best friend and I got lunch at Lower and made our way to the Mile 20 mark on Centre Street to meet up with my mom’s best friend, Janet, from Boston. After a few minutes, my mom ran by, smiling but feeling a little sick. Janet, her daughter, my best friend, Michelle, and I headed to Janet’s car down the street and took off towards the finish line. I had been to the finish line of multiple marathons, in fact I “ran” one when my mom was two months pregnant with me, but I never appreciated the bonding experience that came with supporting my mom running her 30-something marathon. We drove into Boston with ease, but it took ten minutes to find a parking spot. Those ten minutes may have made all the difference. Walking towards Boylston Street, we crossed Newbury Street. That’s when we heard the explosion. It’s that noise that stops you in your tracks, a noise few ever heard.
The sky was grey so we couldn’t see smoke. We speculated it was a canon, I mean it was Patriot’s Day. The second bomb went off and we could see down Newbury Street how people were running away from Boylston. Everyone turned and ran. Janet grabbed my hand, and I grabbed Michelle’s and we ran for two blocks. Everyone was just standing around. No one saw what had happened. A small family speaking Spanish stood at a street corner with two little girls. They were scared; we all were. We walked to Janet’s friend’s house a few blocks over but still in the region that they would section off the following week. Walking, Janet looked at me and said, “Your mom is fine. She shouldn’t have been this close yet.” That’s when I broke down.
Watching the news in a stranger’s apartment, you could see the blood on the street. No channel knew what was going on. I called my dad who just landed in Chicago with no idea of the recent events. Texts poured in from my BC friends and friends from home. Five minutes earlier, I had posted a picture on Instagram saying headed to the finish line. Everyone was asking if I was ok, and I had a copy and paste response: “I am safe, I don’t know where my mom is yet but we’re looking for her. Thanks for the concern.”
My mom doesn’t run with a cell phone so we had neither a means of contacting her nor a way of knowing where she was stopped. I watched the news: the police cars and ambulances they showed on TV, were the sirens I heard through the window. Janet went looking for her, and after the longest hour of my life, Janet sent a text saying that she found her and they were coming back. We had a prearranged meeting point and my mom managed to find a phone and send a text to Janet. Janet walked in the door said my mom was waiting in the car and we were going back to their apartment. I have never been so relieved, thankful, grateful, or happy in my entire life.
Sitting in the car, my mom shared her thoughts when she was stopped at Mile 26, out of 26.2. She made me laugh for the first time since that morning. “My first thought was, “Why the hell would you stop me? I’m almost done!” and the second was, “Was anyone I know already at the finish?” The runners weren’t given much information but they knew a bomb had gone off, the race was over, and the city would never be the same. My mom flew home that evening, and Michelle and I returned to BC.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I was shaking and had constant rumbling in my ears. The next day I went to class like normal. My Intro to Law teacher told is that events like yesterday’s should inspire us to call my parents more often just to say hi. I called my mom twice a day for two weeks. My history professor asked if anyone was there. I got all the invitations to healing masses but I couldn’t bring myself to go. I needed to come to a realization of what happened and how I was going to let it change me. Michelle and I would check up on each other, it seemed like no one could understand what we went through. Four days later, Boston was on lockdown while police combed Watertown for the suspects. They finally found him and I think it’s safe to say the whole country celebrated. There was no longer a chance that they would do it again forcing someone to suffer or fear like this nation did on that Monday. For months afterwards, sirens made my heart race. Loud noises, like fireworks and thunder, would bring me back to that day. I still feel sick whenever I hear a fire alarm, and as mentioned earlier, I haven’t been back to Boylston Street.
So what are my reflections on the events? I was angry when the bombs went off. I was angry that someone would attack people who had done nothing wrong, angry that someone attacked this city I called home. I saw a banner in the Quad that said “Don’t meet Hurt with Hate, Love Islam” and I realized that the action of a few cannot speak for a nation, a religion, a majority, a minority, a political party, or a socioeconomic class. The anger wouldn’t help so I let it go. I think I appreciate my life and the people in it more than ever before. I think that every moment you are on this Earth you are exactly where you are supposed to be. Janet told me the trash cans next to where the bombs exploded were where they normally stand. I can’t speculate what would’ve happened if we found parking immediately because that would detract from those who were there: the survivors, the victims, the runners, and the spectators. My advice to you is to tell your friends and family you love them. Don’t ever end a conversation on an angry note. Find little reasons to smile. Appreciate the opportunities we have at Boston College and in the United States. Learn from the past and leave it behind. And of course, line the golden mile on April 21st and cheer your hearts out for a city that’s healing and some of the most dedicated people you will ever see.
The Marathon bombing is ,to this day, my most memorable event in Boston but I’m working on changing that. When I think of Boston, I will think of the Marathon but I will also think about the aquarium, a Red Sox game, going to Fashion’s Night Out, and all the other amazing moments I’ve had. The bad come with the good. It’s just how life is. There are ups and downs and stops and starts but that’s just life.
As a final note, am I scared to go back to the finish line this year? No, not really. I’m excited to celebrate the insane dedication of the people who voluntarily run 26.2 miles. I’m excited to celebrate Patriot’s Day and this nation’s founding. I’m excited to honor those who were affected physically, mentally, or emotionally by last year’s attacks. I’m excited to celebrate the healing this city has done and the healing we still have to do. I’m excited to display my fifth grade art skills on some awesome posters this year. Most of all, I’m excited to watch my mom cross the finish line, something she wasn’t allowed to do last year. Rest assured, I will be there on Boylston Street screaming my head off for the first time since April 15th, 2013.