It's the new black.
I know, I know, we’ve been terrible and delinquent for months on end now. But with one editor completing a monumental thesis, and the other settling her graduate school plans (more as these stories continue) we’ve been barely treading water in our other lives. This ends today. This is too important, and too much fun not to keep up. No joke. Furthermore, you all (and by “you all” I mean the three people still reading—hi mom) should know that this “comeback” post was meant to be an intellectual view of Suzy Lee Weiss’ recent article (read it here) and how I was once there and thought I should have gotten into Brown and didn’t because of a one-legged Eskimo and then I grew up and realized how entitled that actually sounded, so maybe we shouldn’t let 18-year-olds publish stupid things like that…it just isn’t appropriate anymore. So instead, if you’ll forgive the interlude before we get back to business, I’d like to just leave this picture here, as an ode to Boston. An elegy for those who died, but not for the city herself; she will live and thrive and move forward as the people move forward. So if you’ll indulge me for a bit, then we’ll get back to what we do best; sharing the cultural news and finding the integrity in the media elite. This was taken around noon in Wellesley. Keep running the race, fighting the good fight.
Mile 12, Wellesley College, 15 April 2013 at 11:56
In 1992, my parents moved from our North Shore hamlet to the MetroWest cluster of Massachusetts, and most of my life has been spent within that 20-mile radius of Boston. I went to Wellesley College and stayed well after graduation in part because I couldn’t really imagine settling anywhere else for the time being. I’m a die-hard Red Sox fan, I love the Brattle Theatre’s Classic Cinema series, and most people know that they way to my heart involves a trip to the Gardner and a picnic on the Commons. The city’s traditions and landmarks became ingrained in me like any cultural rituals or iconographies: the Freedom Trail, the Swan Boats, reenactments of Lexington and Concord, followed by the great Boston marathon. I’ve watched this race for 21 years straight, and this was to be my last year for a while; moving away from home, however exciting the new adventure may be, has its consequences. Boston is, in effect, my third parent. Today felts like an unspeakable role reversal, where you watched in horror as something beyond your control, reach, or comprehension starts to attack that which you once thought invincible. Things could happen to cities elsewhere—from New York to Newtown to New Orleans to London to Bangladesh to Mumbai—but to Boston? The Cradle of the Liberty, who was celebrating her mark as the hotbed of the American Revolution? Things can happen to your city, but to mine?
And then it does. And then it did.
We know little about the cause or effect of this event. The only thing I know is what I gather from scattered text messages, the barrage of news reports on CNN, and whatever I can glean from refreshing my twitter feed every twelve seconds. I also know this: first responders didn’t hesitate before they ran towards the explosion, towards the wounded, towards the chaos. And runners kept running to the hospitals to give blood. Boston residents welcomed marathoners into their homes for tea, warmth, comfort, and commiseration. There are no strangers in Boston. And when she starts to falter, her children are there to carry the torch.
We’re praying for you, Boston—for the city, the injured, the devastated, the torn, and for ourselves—and we look to tomorrow.