I was halfway around the world when the two bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon. It was three o’ clock in the morning where I was, and I spent the rest of the night trying to get in touch with any family and friends whom I thought may have been nearby, knowing that at the very least this would be a rude awakening for many people like myself who have only seen tragedy on a mass scale in the newspapers of other cities and other countries around the world.
Having lived in Boston for over five years of my life now, and growing up less than an hour outside the city, many different facets of this city have shaped who I am. I call a milkshake a “frappe,” a water fountain a “bubbler,” and the Boston Red Sox broke my heart until well into my teenage years. To this day, there are only a few things that can bring tears to my eyes, and highlights of the 2004 Red Sox playoff run are fairly high on that list.
What happened at the marathon this year did not closely affect me. I had friends who were avid runners that were near the blast site when the bombs went off. I knew others who worked in the area and had to be evacuated. However, no one I knew well or loved dearly was physically hurt. In fact, as is the case with most tragedies I hear about on the news, the one that occurred on Marathon Monday did not properly resonate with me until I found myself in Copley Square last weekend and took the time to see the memorial that has been placed there since the attack.