I go to a small liberal arts college in the Northeast, so almost every conversation about where I’m from ends with an eye roll and some comment along the lines of: “Classic, another kid from just outside of Boston.” There’s even a word for those of us from the Boston suburbs: the JOBs. I’ll be the first to admit that saying “I’m from Boston” is just way more convenient than describing my town. But to me, Boston is so much more than the physical borders that define it. And since April of 2013, I’ve never felt closer to the city I call my home. So yes, I’m from Boston. Hear me out.
It has been exactly three years since two men attempted to destroy the safety and morale of the city of Boston on Marathon Monday. Everyone was affected differently – some were present at the race, others were nearby, and many were at home enjoying the day off from school or work. My team and I were rowing on the Charles River, confused as we watched emergency vehicles and helicopters go rushing by us. When we got off the water and put our boats away, our phones were full of worried text messages and missed calls, and we discovered that there had been a terrorist attack in Boston. We had no idea how close we had been.
Four days later, I woke up 2:30 am to my mom and cousin talking in hushed voices. I was lucky enough to wake up to their voices; they woke up to gunshots.
The shootout between Watertown Police officers and the terror suspects was taking place one mile away from my house. To put that in perspective, it’s a 3 ½ minute drive. My friends and I walked by the same street on our way to practice that week. It’s on my typical running route.
After waking up to this news, I stayed awake for a full 24 hours, refusing to sleep until my home was safe again and the suspects were in custody.
The worst part was not knowing what was happening less than five minutes away, and news feeds can only tell you so much at 3:00 am. The shootout and missing suspect led to a full day of lockdown in our homes and door-to-door searches. We were luckily outside of the search radius, but fear still ran high. It is terrifying to feel unsafe within the walls of your own home, unsure if a terrorist could be hiding in your backyard. Our usually bustling neighborhood was empty, apart from emergency vehicles and army tanks. And the silence was absolutely deadly. When sirens are the only sound you hear for an entire day, they never sound the same again.
We heard more gunshots when evening settled in. The police announced shortly after that the suspect was found in a nearby backyard, and the manhunt was over.
It’s been three years, but that day still haunts me. During the third week of April every year, recurring anxiety and fear hit me and I relive the nightmare that was April 19. When I watched the Washington D.C. fireworks this past summer, I almost expected disaster. I was skeptical of every human being around me. On the most patriotic day of the year, I was still afraid. And I cannot begin to imagine the pain and fear that those who were present at the marathon still carry around, and the strength it must take to face each day. It isn’t fair.
But as much as I still struggle with the lingering fear, I know just how strong Boston has become because of it. On the first anniversary of the attacks, I ran to the house a few streets over where the suspect was found to remind myself that my home was safe again. Every year, I put on my Boston Strong shirt and go for a run, regardless of how I feel that day. And so many others perform the ultimate act of strength: running 26.2 miles down the streets of Boston to honor the survivors and the four amazing individuals who we tragically lost three years ago.
I know that none of us will forget what happened, but year after year we have chosen strength. The thousands of runners continue to prove that we will run again. We are Boston, we are strong. I may live just outside, but this is our city.
