Boston Strong

When the September 11th attacks took place, I was—embarrassingly—just young enough to not grasp how bad this was. I remember exactly where I was when I found out. Who doesn't? I remember where I was and who I was with and what I said in response, and my words were so utterly clueless and blockheaded and teenage-girl-centric that I am not even going to write the sentence down.

Twelve years later, two guys brought bombs to the Boston Marathon. I use the term "guys" because one of them was just a kid. The elder was my age. Guys. Not men.

My then-fiance and I had both been on the phone to the East Coast all day, trying to make sure all of our friends and family were accounted for. I remember Verizon crashing and phones and Internet in New England going down. I'd watched Facebook like a hawk when I didn't get text responses, waiting for those "I'm okay" statuses to pop up. I remember thinking, "Okay. This is what it's like." We were so far from home.

That night, we decided to distract ourselves and go to the movies to see Olympus Has Fallen. About fifteen minutes in, Korea attacks the White House—no spoiler here, guys, we all know some attack gotta be happening, and it's on Netflix anyway—and that's when I started to get nervous.

By "nervous," I mean I saw explosions and then had a full-blown panic attack in the Sunset Station.

There is no motivator like fear. I am old enough to know that now, old enough to know that people use it against each other in terrible ways. I am old enough to know, but not old enough to understand.

The Boston I know is a town full of aggressive love. We fiercely love our city, and we fiercely love each other. It's a town that has thrived since the beginnings of our country, because no matter what, we stand. I don't say this to be patriotic. I say this because everyone I know who lives in or near that city has fortitude. Massachusetts embraces its citizens in a way that other states don't, and the people who gravitate toward it are the people who can weather storms.

On April 15th of last year, I was scared. I was shaking uncontrollably in a parking lot outside of a Vegas movie theater, trying to keep my insides from bursting every time I heard a car start. I clutched my bag to me and I wept silently and I tried not to be afraid of the planes flying overhead. I tried not to think about the 3,000 miles between me and so many people and places I loved. And then the next day came and my city was still there.

Today, I am still far from home, but I direct what fierce love I have toward my city. I direct it to Krystle Campbell, to Lu Lingzi, to Martin Richard. I direct it toward Sean Collier, whose very job was to love his city and its people as fiercely as he could. I direct it toward those victims of injury and heartbreak and fear. And I direct it toward those who fear so much that they would use fear against a whole country to ease their own pain.

We run together.