I’ve lived in Boston for most of my adult life. I love Boston. For me, it’s the nexus of what makes sense about America.
It’s crazy. The
politics. The sports. The bizarre
vocabulary. Tonic? Spa?
And don’t get me started about the accent.
But when I moved here, from my own well-beloved hometown, I
knew I had found something special. I
love the history and the weavings and re-weavings of all we know about
ourselves. I love the savory
accumulation of generations of intelligentsia.
I love the eternal scrappiness of every new set of immigrants.
I love the dogged determinedness of people who live with
their people, and celebrate saints and poetry readings and marathons.
And it’s so small.
And intimate. And knowable. Boston is a city we should all love. Or at least, that’s what I feel. Yes, I know I’m a chauvinist. But honestly, shouldn’t we all love the steadfastness
of the pre-2004 Red Sox? Isn’t that
insane determination what America is all about?
I feel savaged by this horrific event. I’m shocked. I’m outraged. I’m grief stricken. The pain is visceral. When tragedy struck New York, I felt outraged
that such a huge strong city could be dealt such a deadly blow. Now that it’s my own town, I feel protective. I wish I could collect each wounded soul and
help it back to soundness.
I happen to be out of town for a few days, and I feel awful
to be so far away from my adopted city while it’s undergoing such a cruel
experience.
Boston, I love you. I
have faith in you.
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