Jordan Meehan

Boston Strong
I had just spent the weekend in Boston with my parents. One of my favorite bands, Muse, was in town for a concert and my mother and I had bought tickets months ago. Despite now living in southern New Hampshire, a short drive from the city, we opted to stay in Boston for the night of the concert and make a short weekend trip out of it. It was a short but incredible weekend I saw one of my favorite bands, got to spend time with my parents and reconnected a bit with my hometown, which is something I dont get to do as often as I would like. But Monday came along and I found myself back at school in Washington, DC, getting ready for my last few weeks of college. It happened around 3:15pm. I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop starting on my weekly mountain of reading for my classes. It was dull reading and I often wound up flipping through Facebook and Twitter on my phone in an attempt to distract myself. I also overheard the occasional conversation from people sitting around me, but one of them, between two girls not much older than I am, shook me. Oh god, there was an explosion at the Boston Marathon, one of the girls said. Wait, really? Apparently a bomb went off at the finish lineoh my god I knew it couldnt have been more than a half hour or so since I had been perusing Facebook and saw that my cousin had posted a picture of himself, his girlfriend, and two of my other cousins by the finish line of the Boston Marathon with VIP passes. I couldnt breathe. Without thinking I threw all of my things into my backpack, scrambled to put my sweatshirt on and ran out the door and immediately texted my cousin to make sure

they were all right. I dont think I have ever rushed out of a place with such haste. I called my mother next, wondering if she knew what exactly had happened. It was too early to tell what exactly had happened, other than the fact that two explosions, most likely bombs, had gone off by the finish line and that the story was still unfolding. I walked home speedily, hardly ever taking my eyes off of my phone. I vigorously scrolled through every social media app on my iPhone, reading everything I could about the bombing to try to learn as much as possible about what had happened before I got home. It just didnt seem real. I looked up occasionally to see where I was going and everyone I walked past seemed unfazed as they went about their daily business. Did they know what had happened? Did they care? Why wasnt anybody as upset about this as I was?

I grew up in Boston, and despite now living in New Hampshire, the city still has a very special place it my heart. I was born at Beth Israel Hospital in the city and lived in Malden, at the end of the Orange Line just outside the city, until I was 9. My mom used to take me into the city three or four times a week when I was growing up; we would do anything from going to the aquarium (which usually included an obligatory trip to Tias Restaurant for seafood) to taking a Duck Tour to simply just walking around and enjoying the city. I can still distinctly remember the sun shining off the skyscrapers as we walked through the Financial District and being in complete awe of my surroundings. Back then just about every building looked like a skyscraper; everything in the city was so large and imposing, but never did I feel intimidated as I do

in so many other cities. I may have been young and small, but I felt at one with the city around me, embraced by the essence of the city, and completely at home. I have travelled around a lot in the 21 years Ive been alive. Ive lived in New Hampshire, went to Europe three times in high school, lived in Burlington, Vermont for my first year of college, Washington, DC for the remaining three, and even lived in London for a semester. No matter where I go, no matter where I live, I always feel like a stranger. I have never felt at home, and Ive never felt a true sense of belonging anywhere. Except Boston. Boston is the only city I have ever really loved. I may not get to spend as much time as I would like to these days in the city, and I might not know my way around quite as well as I would like to, but it will always be my home. My one true home.

I got back to my room and opened my laptop, frantically searching for a live stream from CNN or Huffington Post to see what was going on. Pictures and videos of the bombings poured onto the Internet and spread like wildfire. News updates zipped across my computer screen from an array of different sources as more information unfolded. Videos from spectators from the moment the bombs went off quickly appeared online. Watching bombs rip apart pieces of your home is an indescribable feeling. Seeing everything unfold from behind a computer screen hundreds of miles away elicits a feeling of absolute powerlessness and heartbreak. Tears formed quickly as I scrolled through

more videos and photos of the aftermath; despite the horror, I simply couldnt look away. I couldnt wrap my head around what had happened. It was simply unreal. My phone buzzed and I saw that my cousin had texted me. He had sent me pictures of the scene and told me that they were in the stands 5 minutes before the first bomb went off. Its one thing to see your hometown attacked, but quite another to know how close you were to losing three of your loved ones to senseless violence. I told all of them how thankful I was that they were safe and unharmed, but a simple text couldnt accurately depict how I felt. Hours went by and I was still glued to my computer, still watching live streams of news stations, videos of the attacks, and photos of the aftermath. It wasnt long until articles started popping up that reminded me of why I loved my city so much. A handful of articles depicting acts of heroism and kindness in the wake of the attacks began to spill across my Twitter timeline. They showed an array of acts; from first responders carrying out injured children, to couples being reunited, and even a picture of a former New England Patriot carrying an injured woman to safety. I saw other articles of people offering to house and feed those who may have been stranded because of the attack, and another one detailing how marathon runners who had finished the race ran directly to Mass General to give blood. There was even reports of local restaurants offering people free food and drink, places to sit and escape from the madness and charge their phones or contact their loved ones. I watched another video of the first bomb going off and noticed something I hadnt noticed before. Instead of fleeing the scene or retreating to safety after the bomb went off, the first responders and other uninjured bystanders ran directly towards the site

of the attack, seemingly without hesitation, and immediately began helping people. Theres a Fred Rogers quote making its way around the Internet that says to always look for the helpers in times of crisis and terror. Thats exactly what I saw from my city. Without hesitation everyone who was able to leapt into action to lend a helping hand. It was an instinct. As more and more reports of these acts of kindness make their way onto the Internet, Im reminded of why I love my city so much. Boston may not be the biggest of cities, but it has the biggest of hearts. There is an overwhelming sense of community that always makes itself felt when it is needed the most, and this was exemplified best in the wake of yesterdays attacks. Despite the trials we are put through and despite what terrors our enemies may try to inflict upon us, the people of Boston refuse to admit defeat. We are more than just a city. We are a community, united as one. We are strong. Boston Strong.