Boston

Greetings.

Today and much of this past week has brought tragedy. Three deaths occurred in the St. Andrews community last week and the events in Boston on Tuesday continue to be tragic and unbelievable.

I first heard of the tragedy a little less than an hour after it occurred. My Uncle - working nearby - wrote about witnessing the blasts and was later quoted in an article in the Nashua Telegraph.

I followed updates, spoke with friends and family members, and found the U.K. and international media that I followed covered the event extensively.
And I thought of Boston. Boston. The city I know. The city I was born in (well, a few towns over). The city where I fly in and out of. Where I visit friends, where I grew up. Where my Mom and her three siblings received their educations just as thousands of international students do, leaving their countries and cultures for Boston. Just as I did for St. Andrews.

I thought of how I never thought it would happen. How being raised and coming of age in a post-9/11 world, New York City always seemed like the closest terrorism would strike. Boston was too small to host the Olympic Games...why would terrorism enter New England after striking New York? And then I thought of Newtown. How that was close. That was New England.

I texted family and friends and wanted to cry. It was 10pm and I hadn't gone to the grocery store in far too long. I scraped together a few items I found around that contained any amount of protein to settle my hunger. I ate some yogurt and made brown rice, broccoli and peas. The rice cooker took nearly two hours and when I spilled too much dark soy sauce I borrowed from the kitchenmates on my mix of food staining my dinner and bowl black, I didn't eat it and I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was.

I thought later of how much I loved Boston. I had always loved it when crossing the bridge from I-93 in the north, but even more so now. The people. The accents. The community. Irish-Americans. Italian-Americans. Americans. Yet hours before I had met someone who when I told I was from north of Boston, he commented positively that I didn't have a Boston accent. I proudly agreed.

I thought too of the Middle East. A Boston emergency official spoke of the bombs being similar to those used by suicide bombers. I recently read a book on Afghanistan that I loved and three hours before hearing of the attacks, I wrote a political poem about the American view of suicide bombs in the Middle East. How we barely bat an eye. It's ordinary and nothing to us when occurring in a foreign land with different customs, culture, language, people. It's an everyday occurrence hardly viewed as a tragedy.

I continued to watch. To listen. To read. Then I had a few minutes of panic when I realized my Dad was at Logan airport in Boston. We texted and he was safe, but I watched as all flights were grounded and airspace above the city closed. His plane was full of marathon runner leaving the city.

And I thought of how I don't know Boston like my own neighborhood or hometown, but I knew where it all occurred. I knew the names and had faint memories of childhood visits. Backbay. Boylston. Copley.

And of course I knew Mass General, Brigham and Women's and Tufts Medical Center. Common words now, splashed across the international media.

I watched as the White House went on lockdown along with Boston's colleges and universities.

And thought of the memorial that one day years from now would spring up in the spots where the bombs exploded. Where people were killed by bombs designed to injure and kill in the most inhumane way.

And I realized that life continues. Shortly after 11pm, the front cover images of the U.K.'s Tuesday papers were released, all bearing monumentous black letters spelling out variations of 'Boston' 'Massacre' 'Marathon' 'Murder' 'Bomb'. I turned to my class preparation for my Tudor course. I took a break from the media. From the coverage. From the images of blood, heavily armed law enforcement on rooftops and running through the streets of Boston in the gray fog. Like scenes from the Middle East. The Arab Spring. The twin towers collapsing. Their neon green vests. The screams. The runners. The stumbling and wheelchairs being pushed through the rubble. The attack on Boston. On democracy.

And this morning I woke up to the sunshine and the warmth of my heater I had slept a foot away from. I gathered a good-sized breakfast and began the day. I studied. I wrote. I laughed so many times with friends and embraced my time left in St. Andrews. I'm still saddened by what happened yesterday and as history has proven, I can only hope the years to come will bring greater reform, understanding and peace.