Boston Strong

This past Monday, two bombs went off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, resulting in three deaths and hundreds of injuries.

My mom texted me and had said that someone bombed the Boston Marathon. I replied with a simple “What?” It seemed like a joke, although a cruel one at that. But as soon as I got home I pulled up the news and there it was—my city, under attack. My parents got married less than a block away from the finish line, my prom was held in the same spot. I walk down that street every day when at home, and I have wandered into Marathon Sports to buy a new pair of sneakers. And there it was on the news, in chaos, in disaster, in need.

And here I stood, in Virginia. Ten hours away, in the midst of sunny, warm weather, walking around Jefferson’s University. I felt helpless, and despite the fact that I was 550 miles away, I felt attacked. It was my city, my home. My heart ached, and still does for the destruction that has been done. Luckily, everyone I know was out of harms way, but it was scary. Is scary.

As I started watching the news, and reading articles, and following stories on Facebook or Twitter, I started to see the Boston that I know. Resilient, tough, fighters. We will rag on our own city, but when someone else even tries to criticize we will defend to the end. The running-couple who got married in the Common three hours post marathon; the Google-doc set up to offer housing to displaced marathon runners; the taqueria that offered food, water and housing to those nearby.

One of the saddest parts to me that the Marathon’s identity has changed. No longer will it mean twelve-year old me going down to the Lenox to watch from the roof. No longer will it signal that I can’t drive through Newton because it’s all been blocked off. It no longer means the silver blankets they hand out at the end, or the drunken cheering college students lining the streets. When you Google Image Boston, images of destruction and pain arise, not of the beautiful city I grew up in. Now the marathon is something that is covered in fear, in scare, in sadness. It will never be the same, and that is devastating.

Thank you to every Yankees fan that sang “Sweet Caroline”—it may seem silly but it means a lot. I wish that I could have been at home to help and to support. I wish I could have been at home with my fellow Bostonians. Though I stand in Virginia, my heart is always in Boston. I love that dirty water, oh, Boston you’re my home.