To paraphrase President John F. Kennedy who, as of this writing, may or may not have had his presidential library hit by a terrorist bomb yesterday: “Ich bin ein Bostonian.”
Yesterday’s deadly attack on the Boston Marathon did something to me that eight years of living, writing and talking in this city couldn’t:
It made me a Bostonian. I mean a Bostonian all the way down in my gut.
When the reports of explosions at the Boston Marathon finish line first hit my Twitter stream (that’s how you found out about it, right?), I rolled my eyes. What — another manhole cover problem in the Back Bay? Some kids with firecrackers setting off a zero-tolerance-policy panic?
But when I saw the video of the explosions, saw the injured being carried away, the blood on the sidewalk outside Marathon Sports — it hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach.
That blood was on my street. In my town.
I got mad in a way I haven’t been mad since 9/11. It was personal then, too.
My country. My city. Under attack.
I’m not going to pretend to be a Marathon maven. I’m like most Boston-area residents, who view the marathon the same way people in D.C. view the Washington Monument: I’m glad it’s there, it’s kinda cool … but actually go? No, thanks.
Sure, I know people who run it, I’ve been to a few marathon parties. Why, a few years ago I hosted some runners at my home who came from Marathon, Greece, with a flame from the original torch to kick off the big run.
In fact, there’s an exorbitant number of normal folks who make the marathon happen.
The race itself may involve the most elite of athletes, but it’s fundamentally a community event. Most of the runners are regular people, cheered on by local friends and family.
All that’s missing is a young Mickey Rooney saying, “Hey, kids — let’s put on a 26.2 mile race!”
These bombs didn’t target athletes, they targeted us — the locals who head down to Back Bay for beers with an office buddy who just achieved a life goal; or faux-athletes buying drinks for sweaty women who just ran farther in four hours than we do in a year.
It was a personal attack on Boston at its civic heart. And I took it personally.
There are some hideous images of the injured out on the Web, stories of bystanders carrying to safety people who’d lost limbs.
But the image burned into my mind was a photo taken after the area was cleared, a simple shot of bloodstains left behind on Boylston Street.
Blood outside Abe Louie’s, where I take my out-of-town guests. Blood down the street from Towne, where I go for great bloody marys. Around the corner from my friend Sally who cuts hair at G2O Spa.
These are my places, under attack and spattered with blood. My friends, put in direct danger.
Yesterday morning, Boston was my address. It was the place I lived and worked.
Today, it’s my town.
Listen to Michael Graham noon to 3 p.m. weekdays on WCRN-AM (830). Follow him on Twitter @IAMMGraham or at www.michael graham.com.