More on the marathon
Apr. 19th, 2013 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magidI kept starting this post in my head as I walked, or lay in bed, but when I got to a keyboard, the words that had been flowing so eloquently turned into stilted, awkward things instead, so the post kept on not being written. And of course, writing that post now means it's a different post, not only for the usual changes in perception as things are no long immediate, but also because on this warm spring day, almost no one is out, the area functionally in lockdown (except for the ever-important Dunkies). It's quiet, pleasant, even, being able to hear the birds, no traffic, but it's disturbing, because I know why it is. So I finally push myself to write something about this odd week.
Monday I was working the front desk as usual at the makerspace when someone told me that there had been explosions at the finish line. I wasn't very fussed, because I didn't believe it could be as bad as it was. Who would bomb the Marathon?! I grew up cheering people on at Wellesley every year (my mom is an alum), a family day out with a picnic, the beautiful campus to run around, and the cheering on of all the people who were bigger than life to me, because they were doing something I thought beyond mere mortals (though I admit to yearly fear that one of the wheelchairs would hit a rock that would force them out of the narrow path left open by all the spectators, mowing people down; never happened, of course). One year when I was working in Needham, a coworker and I snuck out at lunch to watch and cheer before Heartbreak Hill in Newton; I was happy we got there in time to see the Hoyts*. And it's the oldest of the modern marathons, with international stature. Maybe it was just some horrible accident, but when I checked the news, it seemed to have been intentional. Still, at that point, I didn't know the magnitude of the destruction.
* A father and son team; the father pushes his now-adult son in a wheelchair the whole way, and manages pretty impressive times even for someone not pushing another person.
I went home, and my FaceBook feed started to blow up, with people checking in, posting links to news and opinion. I was relieved to find that the one person I knew who'd been running had been past the finish line, while another acquaintance I hadn't realized had come this year (from Australia!) had been stopped before the finish line. The news was grim, with so many injured, three dead, and one of those a child. There's been a lot written about how none of the injured people who made it to one of the many area hospitals has died, though there were many severe injuries, including amputations, and by now, four days later, there is some hopeful news about people being released (er, before the lockdown started, that is). The first responders were impressive, as were the medical personnel, all around. Plus all the ordinary people who stepped up to help, offering phones, meals, showers, beds, whatever was needed to help. As others have already pointed out, it could have hurt more people had it been earlier (though packing an explosive with pieces of metal is obviously designed to maximize damage).
I didn't want to go out, but I rather wish I hadn't been home alone that night; it reminded me a bit of being in the same situation after 9/11. It just didn't make sense. OK, I admit, most terrorism doesn't make sense to me; people are not pieces in a political game, but whole individuals, each a whole world. But I have some clue the why of explosives in Northern Ireland, or Israel, or Iraq (to focus only on the I-countries :-). This? This made no sense. It's an international race attracting runners from all over, so it didn't make a statement (decadent Americans, evil Zionists, whatever), other than pure chaos. Oddly, when I went to bed, I found myself thinking of an art installation, three pairs of sneakers followed by however many as there were amputees, set on some material people could write on (cardboard?). I'm not sure what that flashed into my head. Maybe something for FIGMENT?
Tuesday, the Westboro Baptist Church folks declared that they'd boycott the memorial service and funerals of the slain, and locals sprang into action (again on Facebook; however much I abhor their privacy issues and algorithms that fail to show me all of what I'd choose to see, it has been a force for rallying good through this), organizing people to come and keep them from spewing their hate. I finally got the details late Tuesday, and realized that though it would be hard to get up early enough, this really was something I needed to do: it was something positive, trying to make things better, rather than going about my regular life as if nothing had happened, even though in a certain light, really, nothing had happened to me. Just the world changing.
So I got up Wednesday, dressed in black, and walked to join the hundreds of others who'd gotten the word and come out. Security was tight, with the president attending the memorial service, the one helicopter overhead just emphasizing that. It was an odd sort of morning: most of the time I had no clue what was going on, but I was with other like-minded people, and even ran into a handful of people I already knew. I still haven't watched the speeches from the service, I didn't see the president in passing, nor anyone else famous, and, happily, I wasn't needed to be part of a human wall against hate-mongers, just there in support of those who were most affected. And there was time to talk with people, compare notes. It felt somewhat healing.
Around midday, I realized I needed to leave, to eat something, to get back to the other side of the river before another volunteer shift (it's been a little crazy: four front desk shifts this week, one that was beyond crazy as about 1000 people came through the doors in four hours of an open house as part of the Cambridge Science Festival, plus ushering for a play). I ended up walking partway with my friend M, who works at Berklee, so hadn't yet been able to go to work this week. We meandered over towards Copley, the white tents set up there momentarily making me think there was a farmers' market, until I realized what they must be. The barriers were still in place; we continued around the perimeter to the place where people have been leaving messages, flowers, candles, and more. Then past the Common, which also had a variety of police and military presence. I wasn't sure why the area around Copley was still blocked off, since I assumed that three days would be more than sufficient time to gather physical evidence, but really, what do I know? There were other bombs defused, plus a headquarters needed, but still, having the area continue to be closed meant that things could not be normal, that the bombers had disrupted more than I'd thought about before (despite having a number of friends who work in the area posting about not going to work).
When I got home, I was physically tired (all that standing is far harder for me than the 10+ miles I walked yesterday), but feeling a bit better about things. Still mad about marathoners who have become amputees (will some get those kangaroo-like scoop things, and run the race even faster? (are those allowed in competition? does it matter if one isn't in contention to win anyway? etc.), and about how so many people's lives are changed, some in large and obvious ways, some less so, but as someone merely on the sidelines, like this too, was passing.
This morning, I woke up early, and found that overnight, the bombers had again wreaked havoc, killing an MIT police officer, through explosives about while driving stolen vehicles from Cambridge to Watertown. And again, the news started unfolding. Watertown was on definite lockdown, people to stay in their houses and off the streets. In adjacent towns, people were 'advised' to stay in. The T was closed (or, more accurately, never opened; I wonder how that would have worked if we had 24-hour service...). Businesses were told to close. Taxis were not allowed out. The area was enlarged to include Boston and Brookline. It's been a long day of waiting, of staying in. One suspect was killed, the other (as of this typing) still eluding the massive numbers of people looking for him. Pieces are starting to come out about who they were, and I still have no idea why this happened, really. Having no friends (one theory about the dead suspect) isn't enough reason. I just.... it's too strange, too far from what I understand reality to be.
I'd thought earlier this week about next year making the midnight bike ride of the marathon route the night before the race. I'm not sure whether I'll get myself enough into shape to do it, especially if I don't use the bike train, so bike both directions, but I think next year could be the year to get me out there, the need for a positive response, to show that this Boston tradition will continue proudly on.
eta, 1830 The "shelter at home" order (aka lockdown) has been rescinded, the T has started again (I have never been so happy to see a bus go by), but the suspect hasn't yet been found, which is not the conclusion I expected after this widespread lockdown. It's a fade into the unknown, rather than a definite conclusion. Still, good to know before Shabbat (and the eruv is even up in Cambridge/Somerville, though the Brookline/Newton one apparently is not).
Monday I was working the front desk as usual at the makerspace when someone told me that there had been explosions at the finish line. I wasn't very fussed, because I didn't believe it could be as bad as it was. Who would bomb the Marathon?! I grew up cheering people on at Wellesley every year (my mom is an alum), a family day out with a picnic, the beautiful campus to run around, and the cheering on of all the people who were bigger than life to me, because they were doing something I thought beyond mere mortals (though I admit to yearly fear that one of the wheelchairs would hit a rock that would force them out of the narrow path left open by all the spectators, mowing people down; never happened, of course). One year when I was working in Needham, a coworker and I snuck out at lunch to watch and cheer before Heartbreak Hill in Newton; I was happy we got there in time to see the Hoyts*. And it's the oldest of the modern marathons, with international stature. Maybe it was just some horrible accident, but when I checked the news, it seemed to have been intentional. Still, at that point, I didn't know the magnitude of the destruction.
* A father and son team; the father pushes his now-adult son in a wheelchair the whole way, and manages pretty impressive times even for someone not pushing another person.
I went home, and my FaceBook feed started to blow up, with people checking in, posting links to news and opinion. I was relieved to find that the one person I knew who'd been running had been past the finish line, while another acquaintance I hadn't realized had come this year (from Australia!) had been stopped before the finish line. The news was grim, with so many injured, three dead, and one of those a child. There's been a lot written about how none of the injured people who made it to one of the many area hospitals has died, though there were many severe injuries, including amputations, and by now, four days later, there is some hopeful news about people being released (er, before the lockdown started, that is). The first responders were impressive, as were the medical personnel, all around. Plus all the ordinary people who stepped up to help, offering phones, meals, showers, beds, whatever was needed to help. As others have already pointed out, it could have hurt more people had it been earlier (though packing an explosive with pieces of metal is obviously designed to maximize damage).
I didn't want to go out, but I rather wish I hadn't been home alone that night; it reminded me a bit of being in the same situation after 9/11. It just didn't make sense. OK, I admit, most terrorism doesn't make sense to me; people are not pieces in a political game, but whole individuals, each a whole world. But I have some clue the why of explosives in Northern Ireland, or Israel, or Iraq (to focus only on the I-countries :-). This? This made no sense. It's an international race attracting runners from all over, so it didn't make a statement (decadent Americans, evil Zionists, whatever), other than pure chaos. Oddly, when I went to bed, I found myself thinking of an art installation, three pairs of sneakers followed by however many as there were amputees, set on some material people could write on (cardboard?). I'm not sure what that flashed into my head. Maybe something for FIGMENT?
Tuesday, the Westboro Baptist Church folks declared that they'd boycott the memorial service and funerals of the slain, and locals sprang into action (again on Facebook; however much I abhor their privacy issues and algorithms that fail to show me all of what I'd choose to see, it has been a force for rallying good through this), organizing people to come and keep them from spewing their hate. I finally got the details late Tuesday, and realized that though it would be hard to get up early enough, this really was something I needed to do: it was something positive, trying to make things better, rather than going about my regular life as if nothing had happened, even though in a certain light, really, nothing had happened to me. Just the world changing.
So I got up Wednesday, dressed in black, and walked to join the hundreds of others who'd gotten the word and come out. Security was tight, with the president attending the memorial service, the one helicopter overhead just emphasizing that. It was an odd sort of morning: most of the time I had no clue what was going on, but I was with other like-minded people, and even ran into a handful of people I already knew. I still haven't watched the speeches from the service, I didn't see the president in passing, nor anyone else famous, and, happily, I wasn't needed to be part of a human wall against hate-mongers, just there in support of those who were most affected. And there was time to talk with people, compare notes. It felt somewhat healing.
Around midday, I realized I needed to leave, to eat something, to get back to the other side of the river before another volunteer shift (it's been a little crazy: four front desk shifts this week, one that was beyond crazy as about 1000 people came through the doors in four hours of an open house as part of the Cambridge Science Festival, plus ushering for a play). I ended up walking partway with my friend M, who works at Berklee, so hadn't yet been able to go to work this week. We meandered over towards Copley, the white tents set up there momentarily making me think there was a farmers' market, until I realized what they must be. The barriers were still in place; we continued around the perimeter to the place where people have been leaving messages, flowers, candles, and more. Then past the Common, which also had a variety of police and military presence. I wasn't sure why the area around Copley was still blocked off, since I assumed that three days would be more than sufficient time to gather physical evidence, but really, what do I know? There were other bombs defused, plus a headquarters needed, but still, having the area continue to be closed meant that things could not be normal, that the bombers had disrupted more than I'd thought about before (despite having a number of friends who work in the area posting about not going to work).
When I got home, I was physically tired (all that standing is far harder for me than the 10+ miles I walked yesterday), but feeling a bit better about things. Still mad about marathoners who have become amputees (will some get those kangaroo-like scoop things, and run the race even faster? (are those allowed in competition? does it matter if one isn't in contention to win anyway? etc.), and about how so many people's lives are changed, some in large and obvious ways, some less so, but as someone merely on the sidelines, like this too, was passing.
This morning, I woke up early, and found that overnight, the bombers had again wreaked havoc, killing an MIT police officer, through explosives about while driving stolen vehicles from Cambridge to Watertown. And again, the news started unfolding. Watertown was on definite lockdown, people to stay in their houses and off the streets. In adjacent towns, people were 'advised' to stay in. The T was closed (or, more accurately, never opened; I wonder how that would have worked if we had 24-hour service...). Businesses were told to close. Taxis were not allowed out. The area was enlarged to include Boston and Brookline. It's been a long day of waiting, of staying in. One suspect was killed, the other (as of this typing) still eluding the massive numbers of people looking for him. Pieces are starting to come out about who they were, and I still have no idea why this happened, really. Having no friends (one theory about the dead suspect) isn't enough reason. I just.... it's too strange, too far from what I understand reality to be.
I'd thought earlier this week about next year making the midnight bike ride of the marathon route the night before the race. I'm not sure whether I'll get myself enough into shape to do it, especially if I don't use the bike train, so bike both directions, but I think next year could be the year to get me out there, the need for a positive response, to show that this Boston tradition will continue proudly on.
eta, 1830 The "shelter at home" order (aka lockdown) has been rescinded, the T has started again (I have never been so happy to see a bus go by), but the suspect hasn't yet been found, which is not the conclusion I expected after this widespread lockdown. It's a fade into the unknown, rather than a definite conclusion. Still, good to know before Shabbat (and the eruv is even up in Cambridge/Somerville, though the Brookline/Newton one apparently is not).