Boston

I have been struggling with how to summarize (or even organize or comprehend) my thoughts and feelings and heartbreak over yesterday's devastating events at the Great Boston Marathon -- not for anyone else, just struggling to process it for myself. Sometimes writing helps.

My emotions are tangled in so many complex corners of grasping what happened, and why it evokes such raw pathos for me. I don't think I will be able to break them all down. I can't yet put to words my feelings about the coward or cowards who executed this tragedy; I can't yet put to words my feelings about the victims; I can't yet put to words my feelings for the unsung heroes we keep seeing and reading about; I can't yet put to words my feelings about my fears regarding this strange and fragile new world into which I brought my innocent nine-month old daughter; I can't yet even find words for my feelings about bravery, pain, sorrow. There certainly aren't words for the empty, violent hole that formed instantly in my belly as I started seeing "Prayers for Boston" and similar vague posts appear on my Facebook and Twitter feeds yesterday before I began to understand that something had happened. In my Boston? Every new incident of tragedy we continue to experience as a community, a country, a world shakes me to the core. But the nausea that accompanied my uncovering of what happened yesterday was different. My Boston.

The Boston Marathon represents everything that is great about sport. Its history and symbolism in the world of international running go without saying, I think. And what Boston means to runners, especially marathoners (neither of which I can claim to be, though I *can* run...), is BIG. It's more than raising money or winning a lottery bib. It's The Accomplishment. It's the feather in your running cap. It's The Goal. You qualified. You are fast. You are a Runner with a capital 'R.'

But the Boston Marathon represents something else entirely more than that for those of us who will always call Massachusetts (and Boston) home, even if we no longer actually live there. There is an energy of childhood for even the oldest Massachusetts-bred spectator each year, whether standing on the sidelines directly, or virtually, thanks to television and the Internet. There is a giddy, pure, joy - there just is. It's corny to almost any non-New Englander/non-Massachusetts-er. My husband, a Chicagoan who lived in Boston for several years, will attest to that. As exciting as the race can be for anyone, he just never wholly understood why I woke up early to bring our kitchen chairs down to the empty sidewalk to save a a perfect spot outside the door of our Hereford Street apartment for my father's and my viewing, on the last block before the turn to the Boylston finish. He certainly couldn't understand why my father would wake up at the crack of dawn to drive two hours east to sit in rain or intense heat or other weather all day with me and cheer on the runners as though each of them was our dearest relative.

The Boston Marathon is an institution. It's a holiday. It's a party. It's in the fabric of Boston's great, boisterous, unflappable personality. It is my childhood, and it evokes something in me that almost nothing else does (except some other Boston icons like the Citgo sign or a shot of the State House in a movie, or the first glimpse of the Pru from a tiny airplane window...). Again, my husband appreciates but doesn't understand why a segment on the local news on Patriot's Day each year (it's still Patriot's Day to me, even if my new state doesn't know that) in the seven since we left Boston simultaneously brings an enormous grin to my face and tears to my eyes. But it does. The same way a great Boston accent conjures a family member and just warms me right to the soul.

In sixth grade, my class made news state-wide as we trained for months to walk the Marathon as a group. On Marathon Monday 1992, we left Hopkinton hours before the runners so that we could high-five them from our lunch break along the route. News crews followed and interviewed us. I wore boxer shorts with runners on them (over spandex shorts -- how very 1992 of me!) as my "uniform." The excitement of that incredible weekend in many ways has never left me. I can feel my thrill right now if I close my eyes to see my 12-year old self crossing that iconic, beautiful finish line, holding hands with my best friends as we sang the Chariots of Fire music and slow-motion ran over the painted stripe on Boylston Street. I can think of little else from my childhood to compare to that extraordinary experience, but, I guess it speaks to some of that "something entirely else" that the Great Boston Marathon is to me and to Boston and to Massachusetts, to home.

Yesterday morning my father fulfilled one of a number of nostalgic dreams he's long talked about by riding his bike with two friends along the Marathon route into Boston, and then back out against the runner traffic to watch the race among the community of the spectator supporters out in the suburbs before heading home. (For the record, my dad is probably one of the Boston Marathon's greatest fans ever.) Here's the photo he sent to my brother and me a few hours before this day took the terrible turn that it did:

(that's Dad on the right in neon, with his buddy Bill; their other buddy, Bob, is behind the camera)

Eerie and haunting now, but this photo captures that untainted joy of Marathon Monday to which so many can relate. And even in my confusion and my sadness and my anger and, again, my simply deep, deep heartbreak, I love that that untainted joy is forever captured here.

Love that dirty water.

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

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Rest in peace, Mr. Sendak. You will be missed.

A Few Words on Rush/Kirk

Like many women people, I have found myself dismayed/offended/disgusted/angered/enraged/disheartened (shall I continue) with the dangerous and hateful words spewed under the guise of free speech in recent days by both Rush Limbaugh and Kirk Cameron. I am (all of those words above) every time I hear or read about such remarks, and such a misuse of that very basic freedom, but for some reason in the backlash to these two small-minded people's words this past week, I found myself having a stronger reaction. And though this blog is usually not such a forum for me, and I do try to keep it lighthearted, I felt it an appropriate outlet for the few words I'd like to proclaim in response. I was partially inspired by my own thoughts and partially by the words of actress Martha Plimpton, who tweeted the following:

"The word 'equality' shows up too much in our founding documents for anyone to pretend it's not the American way."

Kirk Cameron spoke to Piers Morgan in an episode that aired last Friday about his belief that homosexuality is "detrimental and destructive." Frankly, I'm not sure why Morgan's people would have Cameron on - he's entirely irrelevant and while HIS WORDS are more than detrimental and destructive and his way of thinking is small and ignorant, I have every confidence that he will find his way straight back into oblivion. We will hear even less of his name than we have in the last 20 years, and we'll be all the better for it. It's a shame that Mr. Cameron couldn't use his former star status to preach love and peace if he has to preach at all. But that's all I want to say about him, so I'm done.

Rush Limbaugh, on the other hand is a much bigger danger, in my opinion. He has *current* followers who hang on his words. He uses the airways and the privilege of the free speech our country affords to breath hate and ugliness into the world. While his words against Georgetown University law student Sandra Fluke are outrageous and inappropriate on every level, there is something even more offensive to me in his behavior than the utterance of little words like "bitch" or "slut." Yes, those words are uncalled for. But most women have had one or two of those or other choice monikers thrown their way once or twice in their lives, and if we're being honest, we've probably hurled them around once or twice at each other ourselves. They're terrible words to use against another person, but as the adage goes, "sticks and stones..." you know the rest. These are little blips. Let insecure, closed-minded men get their rocks off spitting those names out. Who cares? It's not okay to use them; don't confuse my response to Mr. Limbaugh's hate speech for approval. But to me, the worst part of what he said came after he called Ms. Fluke names. "So Miss Fluke," he said, "if we are going to ... pay for you to have sex, we want something for it. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch."

I'm sorry, WHAT?! Why aren't we talking more about the disgusting, horrifying, reproachful, disparaging, rude, despicable, hateful, infantile, and DANGEROUS implications of that statement. That takes name-calling to a whole new level, and essentially amounts to threats and a personal violation. What Ms. Fluke said or stands for or believes, no matter what you think of it, does not on any level or planet give ANY HUMAN BEING the right to dehumanize or humiliate her or any other woman in that way. To me, those sickening words amount to a crime, and a worse one than calling a woman a bitch. If you call me a bitch, I won't like it, and it'll likely hurt my feelings a bit, but I'll also think you're pathetic and intimidated by me. What Mr. Limbaugh did, on the other hand, amounts to a verbal assault, no matter which side of the birth control aisle you find yourself sitting on. And he should suffer consequences for such a pitiful and abject abuse of freedom of speech.

These are just my opinions. They represent only my own thoughts and views.

Think Good Thoughts!

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Exciting news prospect on the wires... Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has announced that a deal has been struck with Hamas for the release of St. Sgt. Gilad Shalit, held captive for over five years... According to the wires, Netanyahu says Shalit should be returned in days. Abducted at 19, little has been released or known of Shalit's fate or condition since 2006. This photo was released last week:

(via Google Images)

Shalit's captivity in Gaza has been a cause taken up by people all over the world, and vigils, marches and rallies have been held to draw attention to his case internationally. In 2010, tens of thousands of Israelis marched with the soldier's family over the course of 12 days to raise awareness and demand attention, and his parents have spent many days in a tent outside the gates of the prime minister's home. The government has been under pressure to arrange for Shalit's release, and deals have fallen through in the past. However, earlier today, Netanyahu apparently phoned his parents to announce he was making good on his promise to bring their son home.

Of course, until he is home, he is still a prisoner. So... please think good thoughts. Bring Gilad Home!

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(Disclaimer: all this copy is my own, based on my own knowledge following the case, and reading reports from news stories and wires online. I did no reporting - articles linked above are my sources for this post, which I do not consider an article. My concern for Shalit's safety is based on my compassion as a human being, not on any political position or national identification.)