It’s been an exhausting week. That’s how most of us here in Boston would describe it. Exhausting, because we’ve been trapped in a movie that we can’t get out of, and this movie isn’t a romantic comedy. It’s more like a really long episode of “Cops,” or a week-long version of “24” (“168?” Doesn’t have the same ring to it…), only more personal. This “movie” has come complete with villains and heroes, car chases and bizarre breaking news, love stories and heartbreak, close calls and sad coincidences. It’s been doused with losses and fanned by unpredictable violence. But most of all, it has left so many of us feeling on edge, unsafe where we are supposed to feel safest, and angry at the senseless destruction of human life that has occurred on our home turf — especially because, in a sense, it came from within the very place we retreat to when we’re scared. While the death toll isn’t particularly high compared to other attacks, the ripples of those few deaths and the many injured have felt more like tsunami waves here in this proud city. Everyone in Boston spent five days incredibly close to terrorists. Too close. And most of the time, we didn’t even know it.
In all honesty, this has also been a fascinating week. Not only have we been part of this developing storyline as its plot unfolds, but we have also, in a way, served as its directors. Thanks to the rapid (albeit sloppy) dissemination of shared images and information through every form of social media, we have been working as full-time investigators, only without the bulletproof vests. Every time a new license plate was announced on Friday, I found myself at my window trying to read the plates of every car that went down my street — JUST in case I could help (ok, so my roommates may have made fun of me for this). When the first photos of the suspects were released, I stared intently at them, trying to memorize every detail of their blurry faces while desperately trying to rack my memory for any clues I could offer. It was all of us v.s. them. All week long, we had to be on high alert as tidbits of information were shot out of our TVs and i-screens like rapid fire hitting and missing the facts. During a few brutal days of painfully slow progress, we were left sorting through three-day old casings to see if any evidence had been left behind long after the smoke had cleared, and where, if anywhere, all of it might lead us — if we even wanted to know. Unfortunately, it lead us right to our own backyards (literally, for one family).
Really, what we wanted (well, needed) to know was: Are we safe? It’s a simple question that many Americans don’t usually have to ask themselves on a daily basis, or if they should, they usually don’t. It is a particularly exhausting question when you don’t have an answer, and you don’t know when you will. In some ways, it was that simple. We had to go five days without knowing where a couple mass murderers were sleeping. We had to go five days wondering if they wanted to kill again. We had to go five days knowing we were who they wanted to kill. That, my friends, is a horrible feeling. While we felt many other wonderful feelings as the city came together in beautiful, inspiring ways last week, that feeling lurked, despite my best attempts to pretend otherwise.
As we tip-toed around the city, the grotesque details and haunting images of lost limbs and shrapnel became part of our daily lives. As much as I don’t want to admit it (and trust me, I really don’t want to say this), terrorism won for a few days. It gave me that anxious feeling in my gut when I got on the T that I remember so well from the first weeks in Manhattan after September 11. It kept my eyes open a little wider and my heart beating a little faster at loud noises and sirens (ugh, the sirens — they were the constant, unsettling soundtrack to the week). I had my finger constantly seeking the story’s pulse, worried that the worst might not be behind us. I don’t want to admit it, but at times I was really a little scared… It all felt so out of our control. I wasn’t necessarily scared while I was awake, but it was in my gut at night, proven by the two nightmares I had, and the deflated sense of security that I woke up with knowing I was a little less sure of what each day might bring.
I won’t forget checking the news right before I went to bed Thursday night, only to find out there was a shootout a few blocks from where I had lunch that afternoon. Or waking up repeatedly in the middle of the night, as so many of my friends did, with a nagging need to keep checking the news and find out more as a dramatic confrontation unfolded. My roommate heard the shootout from our house. A couple of my best friends live right up the street from MIT. I eventually found out I had eaten ice cream across the street from the two suspects’ home that Wednesday. Everything was feeling a little too close. It reminded me of the coup attempt I experienced just before leaving Quito, complete with listening to machine gun fire for the first time (which you can read about, and listen to, here: Couped Up In Quito). It felt almost surreal, yet unavoidably real.
Waking up Friday morning to a massive manhunt, being told not to leave our homes, and spending the day glued to the news as emails, texts, and Facebook messages trickled in from friends near and far (and even some who have been completely MIA for years) is something I won’t forget.
As the story unfolded and the chase ensued, we watched with a perpetual anxiety that became incredibly draining. I had intense cabin fever, and while I didn’t necessarily want to go outside, I struggled with not knowing how long this manhunt-induced buzz would have to be sustained. As the world looked on, we sat trapped in our living rooms (an ENTIRE city off the streets — how crazy is that?!), hoping — at times, desperately — that the good guys would finally catch the bad guys, hoping that it wouldn’t take long, though the hours mounted and mounted, as did our snacking. Then came that final, perfectly unique and dramatic discovery of a bloody boy in a boat — a very “Life of Pi”-meets-the-OJ-Simpson-trial grand finale. And the heroes of this story? There were too many to count.
We really have been a part of this investigation from start to finish. Never in my life has the public played such a critical role in such a serious and dangerous real-time investigation. While we’re all still dealing with what has happened here in Boston, I cannot describe the sense of relief that I felt when I went to bed Friday night, and when I woke up Saturday morning. It is a relief, not just in knowing that the manhunt was over and the suspect had been captured, but in knowing that we live in a world surrounded by mostly GOOD people — people whose instincts lead them unflinchingly into the wake of destruction to help strangers, people who despite having their legs blown off awoke in a hospital bed determined to tell police that they looked into the eyes of the man who put them there, people who worked extra shifts in the hospitals and came together to help complete strangers with the precise coordination of a ballet during one of the most traumatic and chaotic moments of their lives. People offered their homes, their businesses, their BLOOD without even thinking twice. These are the people who surround us, not them.
While the fleeting sense of terror may linger in our bones, the faith that for every two bad guys, there is an entire city of good people around us — THAT is what I hope to take from this last week in Boston, and into the next four weeks I have here before moving back to New York City.
Thank you Boston, for reminding all of us that there are more good people in the world than bad. And, despite being a little mangled and beat down, for showing the world how strong you and the people in this city really are. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.
But, 40 degrees in April… Really?! Can we talk about this?
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