Beantown, The Hub, The Athens of America, The Olde Towne, City on a Hill, The Walking City…and home of the world’s oldest and most venerable marathon race.
I’m sure that, by now, you’ve all heard about the horrific events that took place near the end of yesterday’s 117th running of the Boston Marathon. I don’t need to rehash the gory details here. They can easily be found if you want them. That’s not what this post is about.
It’s also not about the surreal experience of walking past barricaded streets (I live a block away from the edge of the one mile square section of the city that is now a “crime scene”) and National Guard troops just to get to the subway to come to work. While it did elicit an emotional response that I still feel while typing this, it also gave me a profound feeling of solidarity with the people of New York. I never truly understood what it must have felt like, nearly twelve years ago, to have one’s city, one’s home, violated in such a way, but unfortunately I do now.
I won’t speculate about who would perpetrate this event on a day when we were celebrating not only elite athletes, but the patriots who founded our country. There’s been too much unfounded finger pointing and arm waving about the cause of this tragedy already.
This post is because I am grateful to have a place where I can voice my grief and share my love for my home, with all of you.