We have now lived in Portland longer, but when I think about what city I feel the most connected to, where my feet took root and will always belong, it’s Boston.
Watching the video of the explosions I felt scared, heartbroken, powerless, angry, and confused. The Boston Marathon is not like any other race. It’s an event and a day celebrated and embraced by its city more than anything I’ve seen anywhere else.
It’s full of love and strength and courage and hospitality and cheering and undeniable happiness. Honestly, if you haven’t experienced it, it’s almost impossible to describe.
All my thoughts are with the victims of this horrible tragedy, and I wish so badly that I could be with my city and grieve with my city.
It feels really difficult to grasp that this day I love so much now makes me feel like this. But I don’t want to forget what is at the heart of this race. It brings out the absolute best in people. So here are some of my memories, big or small, of the best day in the best city.
Freshman year at Emerson, eating lunch in the dining hall, and watching marathoners with their space blankets hugging their families on Boylston Street.
A couple of runners stopped in front of Dean Road, where we watched every year in Brookline, and exchanged vows in front of the church there. They kept running with “Just Married” bibs pinned to their backs.
A runner slowed to a stop and slumped over, exhausted. The crowd erupted with encouragement and cheers and he got back up and continued on.
Riding the T with the runners right next to you.
Yelling the names of every person who has theirs written on themselves. While we lived there, we never knew anyone who ran. But we felt like we knew everyone.
A runner jogged towards a group of girls who were drinking beers and yelled “Who’s got one for me???” and then he chugged it.
Riding the T a day before the race, a visiting runner was talking to a Bostonian about how amazing it feels to be a runner in the Boston Marathon. Not because of the glory, but because of the crowd. He told this stranger that no other marathon is like that, and no other city welcomes him like Boston does.
Seeing marathon-themed advertisements on the subway every year as spring approached. Namely one with pictures of Kathrine Switzer as the first woman to enter the Marathon, and the word “Courage.”
Leaving dinner around Copley, we started walking down the street, deserted and full of crushed gatorade cups, until we heard sirens. It was an escort for the last runner of the race. There were a few other people out on either side of the street, who stopped and did what we did. What anyone who has ever been in this city on Patriots’ Day would do. Clapped and screamed and cheered. “You’re almost there, man!! Yes!”
I was always so proud of my city every year after the Marathon. The way we treated the runners. The way we treated each other.
This year is no different.