It’s been almost a week.
For those of you that haven’t been following the news or
anything of the like, Monday will mark one week since the Boston Marathon was
heinously attacked. I live in Massachusetts and have a large amount of family
(both biological and other) that either lives, or works in Boston. For a
moment; time froze. There is nothing that will ever ease the news of our states
home city being savagely attacked. I
waited with baited breath for phone calls, social media updates, and any sign
that those I loved were ok. Thankfully, no one that I knew was injured. So many
others were however, somewhere around 200 families (biological and other) felt
the shock of domestic terror.
I was angry. So angry I saw red. I wanted the ones
responsible dead.
Then I sat back and waited for more news. I saw one of them
was no more than 19, the same age as my little sister. I wondered what
happened, and for a moment, felt something I wasn’t familiar with. It was an
emotion I certainly wasn’t ready for.
Remorse.
Remorse for wishing
someone who is just starting out on his life; dead. Remorse for his family.
I became angry with myself when that happened. He acted
without any remorse. Why did he deserve mine?
I couldn’t answer that. Not readily. But come Friday,
sitting watching again as the state came to a stand still for a third time, he
was caught. Lying on a boat, alone, and bleeding badly. He would live to answer
for his crimes.
I breathed deep as he was caught and rushed to a hospital. For
the first time in a week, I realized that it was going to be ok again.
For now. This reality
of bombs and terrorists is a day to day reality for so many across the world.
Syria, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and so many others. Realizing just how unsafe I
felt for a week as news continued to pour in about my beloved Umass Dartmouth
and the victims from the marathon, brought more than one tear to my eyes. I
cried. And I sobbed. Not only for the events of Monday but for all those that felt that there is no
other way to change our world than through acts of considerable violence.
And then it hit me. Love. Compassion. Kindness of strangers.
These are things that spring up in the darkest of situations. Random people
reaching out, helping their fellow man; running into the war zone to break down
barricades, tearing off their clothes to make tourniquets and save strangers
limbs. I cried because not only because
did Boston see the worst of two individuals, but it saw the best of hundreds of
them.
There is still much to be done within the city to recover
and to ensure that hospital bills are covered. I may not be a Bostonian by
birth but I am Boston Strong. I am an American and most of all I will
persevere, and help those continue on with their lives.
If you feel compelled to help, below are two links to ensure
that the victims and their families will be able to look forward to a bright
tomorrow.
