Saturday, April 27, 2013

You Can't Break Us

After some personal upheaval I’m back and yet I can’t post about horses…not yet.  As those of you that follow this space know, I am very proud to be a Minnesotan by choice (well – I was transferred here, but let’s not get nitpicky).  I love my adopted home state very much.  I’ve grown to love the people, the traditions, and the racing – not the weather so much – but I do love it here and I cannot ever imagine really leaving…except maybe in winters and come back every summer.  You also know, though, that I have never been able to completely shake my New England roots.  I live and die with the Red Sox and Patriots mostly, but also avidly follow the Bruins and Celtics and just about anything Boston HAS to be good in my book.  That’s what happens when you grow up about 12 miles north of the greatest city in the world.
That more were not killed in the Boston Marathon attack was a miracle.  That three were killed was horrific (four in all).  All four young people (all four victims were under 30 years old) had so much life ahead of them and 8-year old Martin Richard had barely even gotten started. With scores wounded and dozens of amputees the number of directly affected lives will ripple into the hundreds, if not thousands.  Those of us unaffected personally but affected nonetheless may number in the millions.

Watching these terrible events unfold anywhere in the world is difficult.  Watching it unfold in your hometown, a place that you’ve loved longer than you can even remember is excruciatingly painful.  I rode those subway lines with my dad to Sox games when I was 5 or 6.  I remember the Hancock Tower being completed in time for the Bicentennial.  Fenway Park, Copley Square, the spot on the road you would walk by and tell tourists, “This is where the Marathon finishes” were sacred places but sacred because of the history and tradition, not sacred as the Marathon finish will forever be now: christened by the blood of innocents and cleansed by the efforts of heroes.
The tears that I shed that week were different than all the others.  These are for MY home.  MY people.  MY city.  MY city will be the one that’ll never be the same now. It’s different.  My anger is greater; my grief deeper.  It’s different when it’s your own.  But there are some things I know about Bostonians: we’re stubborn, aggressive and defiant.  Shit, we picked a fight with a superpower when we were just a bunch of smugglers and farmers for crying out loud and we all know what came out of that!    We’ll beat this.  We’ll beat THEM – these two punks and anyone else that dares takes us on.  The Marathon may never be the same and Patriots’ Day will have added significance but they will go on.  Boston will pull itself back up and go on.  And it will be better than ever – as if that were even possible!

We are Boston.  We are Strong.
Boston Strong.

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