Patriots

The very first spring I lived in Boston, some 15 (!) years ago, I spoke with my mother one night from my dorm room.  We were trying to coordinate Easter plans, wondering if it would be feasible for me to get down to New Jersey for the weekend.  "Do you get Good Friday off?" my mother asked.

"I don't think so.  But there's this other date listed as a holiday on our schedule... it's the 3rd Monday in April.  They're calling it Patriot's Day."  I paused. 

"Huh. I've never heard of that," Mom replied.  "Why don't you ask at the front office tomorrow on your way to class?"

In the end, all I had to do was knock on the door of my next door dorm neighbor, a friend and life-long resident of Lexington, Massachusetts.  My friend explained Patriot's Day, telling me about its traditions and significance, clearly excited, giddy.  There would eventually be a year that this friend and I would actually stay overnight back in her hometown, intent on getting up at the crack of dawn to see the famous reenactment.  

But not that year.  No, in 1998, two of my friends and I made our way to a stretch of the marathon near campus.  We were slightly bewildered, none of us 'outsiders' having any idea what to expect.  If I'm honest, I will tell you that 90% of what got us there was the fact that one my friend's favorite instructors insisted that "you had to watch a Boston Marathon at least once in your life."  With my friend pleading me to come along,  I shrugged, agreed.  I sheepishly admit now that I remember thinking at the time:  "Watching a marathon?" Won't that be kind of boring?"

Little did I know that the Boston Marathon is anything but boring.

*****

Having lived in Boston for 13 years, it sort of mystifies me now when people don't grasp the intensity, the power, the just how big of a deal the day is - this Marathon Monday.  I've had friends from out of state wonder aloud about the sanity of an entire city taking the day to watch people run by, I've had a former boss, located out of state, ask me if I had made a last minute decision to run the thing when I waited until Sunday night before requesting that Monday off.  Even this year, my own brother, when I texted him on Sunday night about the upcoming Marathon Monday seemed to not totally "get it."  (A Marathon on a Monday?" he asked.  "Isn't that a little odd?")

But I have to remember, as a non New England native, that I was there too once, completely clueless about what has come to be one of my absolute favorite days in the city.  

So, before we go any further, let me explain a few things - in short, the Boston Marathon is a really big deal.  Really.  The oldest in the country, it is THE marathon.  Thousands upon thousands of runners participate every year. Bib numbers are extremely hard to come by - you either need a qualifying time or you must enter to be awarded one through a charity (and subsequently raise the necessary, promised funds attached.)  And every year, come rain or come shine, hundreds of thousands line the 26.2 mile route to cheer each and every runner that passes.  If you've ever watched one, you get it.  Trust me.

I spent my college days and the years immediately following along Commonwealth Avenue, up around Cleveland Circle.  It's a raucous area where runners know they should triple check the plastic cups they reach for while running - as it's just as likely they'll get a swig of beer as they will water.  I've watched in recent years closer to the Kenmore Square area, as it is always a thrill for me to watch runners mingle with Sox fans who spill out of the traditional 10am start-time Patriot's Day Red Sox game mid-afternoon.  In years past I've cheered for friends and strangers alike along Hereford Street and Boylston.  I've often been moved to tears by the people I see run past me, as they give their utter and complete all with less than a mile left to run.  I have high-fived runners, I have gathered at house parties.  One year I brought my father to watch, proudly taking him to various viewing spots along the route, marching him all the way down to the finish line once the last few runners had straggled through.

I have tracked friends online, screaming their names as they got close to our congregating spot.  I've met up with friends once they finish, toasting their good fortune and luck at having conquered 26.2 miles.  I've watched two dear friends meet during marathon training, listened to her tales and updates as a romance blossomed between them, congratulated them as they got engaged on the finish line a few years later, and attended their wedding two summers ago.    

The marathon is a classic, a must, a guarantee. In the sunshine or in the sleeting rain, in frigid temperatures as well as abnormally hot ones, we always have a marathon.  I have snapped photos, I have shared memories.  I've breathed in deep and fallen in love with Boston all over again each and every year on the 3rd Monday in April.  Always, I've been amazed by the human strength and perseverance I am witnessing in front of me.  Always, I've been inspired, awed, and humbled. 

******

And yes, of course, I have watched at the finish line - having stood in years past in the exact locations of those explosives.  Truthfully, I have only a delayed bus to thank for not being at the scene of such madness and chaos yesterday.  I'd made plans with friends to meet them in the general area of the finish, had I caught the bus I ran to make but just barely missed, I would have been en route or just arrived when the first bomb exploded.  Instead, my friend Kate, the one who met her now husband because of the Boston Marathon, who was already down in the area with her husband and our other friends called me, a minute after the first explosion.  "I don't think you should come down here," she said, panic in her voice.  "I don't know what happened but we just hear two load explosions.  There's smoke, there's a funny smell.  They've stopped the race, people are trying to get out of here."

Mystified, dumbfounded, and confused I walked home; keen to turn on the television and see what was unfolding - eager to text my friends in the thick of the chaos what I could learn as they had no news directly on the ground.

Of course, as we all know by now, the news was certainly not good; the messages that I hurriedly tried to pass along to my friends and family far too surreal to even process.    

******

I was in San Francisco just last week, having flown the red-eye back to Boston Sunday night, landing sleep deprived and stiff early on the morning of Marathon Monday, intent on taking a cab back to my apartment to crash for a few hours before meeting my friends; before cheering on the runners; before reviling in what is always this city's finest hour.

I've written before about the special place that San Francisco holds in my heart, I've talked much and thought a bit about packing everything up and moving across the country, I am so enamoured with her beauty. And this trip proved no different, convinced me all the more about what a stunningly beautiful and lovely city this country has in Northern California, what a nice place it would probably be to call home.

Even as I was there this most recent trip though, before all of the madness that descended upon Boston and the marathon, I found myself missing the East Coast, my friends, my family, the life I had waiting for me back in Boston.  Back home.  

After work this evening, I went to yoga, intent on clearing my head, realigning my thoughts, trying to make some sense of the events of the past 24 hours.  The studio I go to is very close to the areas that are still blocked off as a crime scene, only a T stop away from Copley Square.  When my yoga instructor walked into our unusually empty class, he asked the ten of us how we were doing.  We all sort of shrugged and nodded - all of us united in our confusion, our heartbreak.

"I'll tell you what," our instructor said, as we started our class.  "People should know that you do not mess with Boston."

And he's right, of course.  The outpouring of love, of strength, of bravery - have you seen how many people ran toward the explosions to help the fallen, the injured? - it moves me to absolute tears. 

I have heard a quote echoed quite a bit in the past 24 hours, it is one I love, one I've had on repeat in my own mind throughout the day, though I have no idea to whom it is originally attributed to: "If you're trying to defeat the human spirit, marathoners are the wrong group to target."

******

Boston can be a frustrating city at times.  The winters can be depressingly tough, there's a reason why the stereotype of the stand-offish New Englander exists - because it is often true.  It's an expensive city, parking is a pain, and since almost nothing is on a grid, it can truly be a bitch to navigate if you don't know your way around.  

And yet, there's something about this place.  It may not be exotic as London, as bustling as New York, and sweepingly romantic as San Francisco.  But it is unlike any other place that I have ever known.  The minute someone recognizes they have a Boston connection - whether they went to school here, lived here for any amount of time, or have family and friends that live here, there is a bond, an instant familiarity.  Even my friends who have left, moving on to different cities, far out suburbs or other states admit to carrying Boston in their hearts - always.

 Tonight, when I left my yoga studio, the church across the street had just started playing "God Bless America" from the bell tower, stopping virtually everyone in the area in their tracks, all of us pausing to look up and listen.  I crossed the street to move to the church and passed my yoga teacher.  "Hey," he said.  "You take care tonight.  Be safe."  I smiled, nodded. "Yes, you too."  He nodded back at me. "We're strong stock, remember."

I fiercely love this city, the Hub. I cherish these people, this life I have made here in Boston.  Never have I been more proud to declare myself a Bostonian than I have been in the past 24 hours.

I am so honored, so blessed, to call this city home.