I heard about the Marathon explosions through a lunch guest at the restaurant. I changed the TVs to the news station and waited for more details, and when S came in around 4:30, I couldn't help but ask immediately if she had heard about it. She hadn't.
"You know," she sighed, "I feel like I'm not even surprised."
I had to admit that I, too, was concerned by the lack of shock that I felt when I heard the news. Instead of a state of disbelief, I found myself getting angry and upset- that THIS is what our world is coming to- that an event that has long been a celebration of community, of athleticism, of people coming together, has been scarred forever by an act of senseless violence. Marathon Monday would never again exude the same brightness and enthusiasm. Sure, that energy would still be there, but not without the shadow of sorrow from times past. Not without a constant, nagging feeling to look over your shoulder and be sure that everything is all right. Not without children who want to stand close to the runners, but instead must grapple with the fear that they might accidentally stand too close to an explosive.
S was feeling similarly, and suddenly, she was so angry and speaking so quickly that it was difficult to understand. "This is why I feel sorry for my nephews!" she spat, "this is why I don't have children! I feel so sorry about the world that we are leaving behind for them!" I think the dismay on my face must have been too much. S rummaged through her bag and offered me a Twinkie.
Most of the evening was pretty grim. Everyone who walked in wanted to watch the news coverage and talk loudly- "what a shame, so terrible, are there any more details?" New York 1 ran the same clip of the explosions over and over- a clip that appeared to be taken from someone's cell phone. I watched as the tremors from the blast knocked runners over, and- this was really hard- as a group of people sprinted forward into the left side of the screen. I gasped when I saw that they were pushing a stroller. It was rough- the whole thing, just--devastating.
And then I took note of something that I hadn't before. As the explosion played and replayed, I saw the police, the volunteers, the bystanders, all rushing toward the barrier from which it came. They worked together to rip the fence down and get to the wounded. If any of them were concerned about another device, or for their own safety, they didn't show it. The only thing that mattered was getting to those people. I watched as people ran toward the smoke, ran into the chaos, to try and help others. I heard later about runners who literally RAN to the hospital to try and donate blood, about bystanders helping to comfort those suffering from the physical and emotional turmoil of the day. The outpour of love from social media sites was through the roof. And I changed my mind.
It is easy to embrace the anger fueled by this event. I woke up this morning feeling really angry. I shouted several choice phrases that culminated in me wondering aloud "WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THIS? HOW ARE WE GOING TO CHANGE THIS?" And in all honesty, I really don't know. We don't have answers for these questions yet, but I know that they will come. But I do think that a glimmer of hope has emerged from all this. Even in the face of pointless and devastating violence, there is a kindness in humanity that will not soon be changed. That's the kind of thing that gives ME hope. Even in the wake of such a travesty of humankind, it's hard to not feel at least a little optimistic- so many people were there to help. SO many risked their lives to help others and to try and make everybody safe. A terrible act of violence may have occurred yesterday, but we will rally. Marathon Monday will return in all of it's glory. The present devastation is only a momentary low. Humanity will not be held down.
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