We were at home, painting the house, slopping primer all over the wooden trim and ourselves, when our phones just started going off. Some people would say that our phones “exploded,” but after today’s events that phrase just doesn’t seem right. Keith’s office overlooks the finish line, and his colleagues were under the impression that he had been in Copley Square when the bombs were detonated. He wasn’t, but still his phone kept on ringing and buzzing, and alerting him that people cared.
I am a New Yorker, born and bred. Up until this point, I’ve allowed Boston a sliver of space in my heart because it raised the man I love. Still, “I’m not from here,” I’ve said. I’ve bemoaned giving up my New York license. I’ve called its people provincial. I’ve scorned its awkward and archaic laws. I’ve derided its class system. I’ve begrudged the bagels.
Today, I’m telling all of you that I’m from Boston. I’m from here, and I’m mad. I’m mad and confused and troubled and upset and pissed off. I’m frustrated with the breathless affect of the news media. I’m sick thinking of all the athletes who were running for a cause, or for a charity, or a for purpose that didn’t include hate or fear or pain or terror. I’m shaking with anger because I need someone to explain to me the point of this.
Something that has really struck me about these events is not how much people hate and want to hurt, but how much people love and want to help. The Red Cross website was inundated for hours with people trying to glean information on when and how and where to donate blood. Residents across the Boston Metro Area and beyond are opening their homes to strangers stranded in a maimed city.
This is what’s important to remember: in times of terror, there are moments of triumph, and those moments are made by people.