Patriots’
Day is a state holiday, which my employer honored until this year,
having been purchased by a company in Las Vegas that doesn’t think
particularly much of Massachusetts’ Revolutionary War history.
The Boston
Marathon, which takes place on that day, finishes a block—150
yards—from my condo. Between setup, tear-down, and cleanup, it
royally screws up transportation for most of a week. Street closures
bring most of the neighborhood to a standstill. They close my MBTA station (Copley) and you physically
cannot cross Boylston Street
without going a mile out of your way.
Since I would be unable to get to work (or back), I chose to work
from home on this year’s Patriots’ Day. In the evening, I
also had an appointment to pick up my new bike and do a full fitting,
although I didn’t know whether I’d be able to get through
the crowds to get to the bike shop!
For most of the day, I ignored the race. Public events are common
where I live, whether it’s the Walk for Hunger or a pride parade
or a Critical Mass ride or a sports team celebrating a championship or a
free concert or a political rally or the Santa Speedo Run or whatever. I
mostly tuned out the race’s PA announcer, the shouting vendors,
and the partying revelers. Once or twice I looked out my window to see
the crowds of exhausted runners walking down Boylston Street, having
just crossed the finish line.
Just before 3pm I heard a loud boom. Yes, it might have sounded like
a canon, but the first thing I thought of was that someone had taken a
huge dump truck and dropped it from 20 feet up. It was an echoing heavy
metal sound, like a big truck carrying steel I-beams hitting a wall.
Except the concussion was a lot stronger than that. My building was
rocked, and a dozen building and car alarms were going off.
Twelve seconds later, as I wondered what was up, I heard the second
blast. It was further away from me, but still didn’t sound normal.
I got up and went to the window and saw hundreds of panicked runners,
spectators, and volunteers streaming out of Copley Square, running down
Dartmouth Street toward me. (That’s my condo in the news photo at right.)
Something very bad had obviously happened in the square. I looked for
the smoke that would be the tell-tale sign of an explosion, but there
was none that I could see above the single row of five-story brownstones
between me and the finish line.
My first instinct was to share the news. I went to Facebook and
entered what I knew:
Something bad at the marathon…
People running all over. Two huge booms, whole building shook, emergency
vehicles all over the place.
My next instinct was that this was going to be national news, and I
should reach out to friends and family who might wonder if I was
injured, so that was my next task.
After that, there was just a whole lot of news watching, and checking
out my window as runners, volunteers, and spectators fled the area,
rescue vehicles swarmed in to assist the injured, and law enforcement
units sealed off the neighborhood.
As it turned out, the first bomb blast was a block from me (see the map), right
near my bank and across the street from the Boston Public
Library. The second was a block further up, across from Lord &
Taylor and my walking route to my neighborhood grocery store.
Although cell service was initially flooded—and despite
persistent reports that the police had intentionally terminated cell
phone service city-wide—service freed up as people gradually left
the neighborhood. I spent the next couple hours fielding inquiries from
friends via cell phone, Facebook, instant messaging, and text
messages.
Despite all the chaos, I still thought that I could make my bike
fitting appointment across town, and brought my old bike down to the
lobby. On the way out the door I heard another muffled boom which
apparently was a controlled detonation of an abandoned bag that wound up
being completely innocuous.
On the street, thousands of people were milling around aimlessly, and
the cops had cordoned Dartmouth street off at Commonwealth
Avenue. What that meant is that my building was squarely on the edge
of the lockdown zone; We could go in and out the main (north) entry, but
the side (east) and rear (south) doors were off limits.
I biked off through streets that were largely empty of cars, but with
a large number of pedestrians walking around obliviously. Once I got to
the bike shop, I saw the “closed early” sign and turned
around and made my way home. Knowing Comm Ave would be a mess due to the
marathon, I took my only other alternative: the Charles
River bike path.
While crossing the Dartmouth Street footbridge over Storrow Drive, one
matronly lady headed in the other direction yelled at me,
“Don’t go there! The police are there!” to which I, of
course, responded, “I live there.”
A few minutes after I got settled back into my apartment, our fire
alarm started going off. I assumed the cops had decided to evacuate us,
but I checked the hallway and actually smelled smoke. So I started going
through the handy list of evacuation tasks I keep by the door.
Grady the cat, who
up until now had shown absolutely no evidence of concern, was
(justifiably) spooked by the blaring fire alarm and it took me a while
to corner him and get him into his carrier.
As it turned out, one of the residents had burned dinner. What an
irresponsible thing to do, given all the other stuff going on in the
neighborhood that needed the fire department’s attention! After a
bit of fresh air, the residents were let back inside to soothe our now
doubly-jangled nerves.
As night fell, outside my window Newbury
Street—which was within the lockdown zone—was absolutely
deserted except for cops and military personnel. Absolutely no one was
allowed into or out of most of the Back Bay. Huge situation response trucks
took up station as the police began to comb through what they termed a
“crime scene” that was several square miles in area.
I had planned to take the next day (Tuesday) off to ride my new bike.
Despite not having the bike, with the entire neighborhood sealed off
there was very little point in trying to get to work, so I took it as a
vacation day. And if I could get out and pick up the bike, then
I’d take it for a bit of a shakedown cruise.
That morning, one positive development was that the cops opened up
Newbury Street to traffic, reducing the lockdown zone a bit and ensuring
that my building, at least, would be accessible.
I wasn’t home for much of the day, tho. It was an amazingly
stressful and hectic day, made worse by the continuing closure of the
Copley MBTA station. At a high level, it went like this…
Walk half a mile to Hynes station. Get past National Guard
troops. Take the trolley to the bike shop in Brighton. Take the new bike
for a 16-mile test ride outside of the city. Take the trolley back to
Boston. Walk half a mile home from Arlington station. Have a Pop-Tart
and a glass of juice. Ride the old bike two miles back out to the bike
shop. Have an abbreviated fitting done. Ride the old bike two miles back
home. Walk half a mile to Arlington station. Take the trolley back out
to the bike shop (don’t forget all the National Guard watching
this). Ride the new bike two miles home. Turn around and walk half a
mile back to Hynes. Hop an MBTA bus to Central Square in Cambridge.
Inhale a burrito. Walk to my meditation center for my Tuesday night
practice group. Meditate for an hour, then socialize a bit. Walk back to
Central and hop the MBTA bus back to Hynes. Walk down to the Fenway
Whole Foods, since the two grocery stores that are nearer to me are in
the lockdown zone. Too late; they’re closed, so buy milk and OJ at
a nearby CVS. Shlep those another mile back home.
Collapse.
After just five hours’ sleep, Wednesday I went back to work.
The lockdown zone shrank a bit more—down from 17 blocks to
12—freeing up Hereford, Berkeley, and Clarendon. Investigators
concluded that the bombs had been constructed of pressure cookers,
nails, and metal pellets, and announced that they had obtained
surveillance video evidence showing a suspect.
Thursday President Obama (and many others) came to town for an
inter-faith ceremony. That night the FBI released photographs of the two
suspects.
Friday I was going to bike to work, because it was going to be the
warmest day in more than six months, but that plan came to a crashing
halt when I learned that shortly after the photos had been released, the
bombers had engaged the police in firefights in Cambridge and Watertown,
and one of them had been killed. The police had most of eastern
Massachusetts completely locked down: no Amtrak, no MBTA, no commuter
rail, no cabs, all businesses closed, and residents were told to stay
indoors all day.
Despite live news broadcasts all day long, literally nothing
happened in the 18 hours after the firefight. After a fruitless search
of the neighborhood in Watertown where the surviving suspect was last
seen, the police gave a press conference wherein they lifted the
stay-put order. On the good side, that meant that the Amtrak would be
running Saturday morning, when I had plans to travel to Maine.
But going outside sounded like the height of folly to me, because the
second suspect was still armed and on the run. I guess the cops were
probably hoping that he’d just turn up somewhere.
Which, as it turns out, was exactly what happened. A man just outside
the cordoned-off part of Watertown found the remaining fugitive injured
and semi-conscious, hidden in a shrink-wrapped yacht in his backyard,
and the police came and took him into custody.
With the second suspect on the way to the hospital, the whole area
burst out in celebrations. Of course, even despite the all-clear and the
police high-fiving one another and the T being opened, Copley Square
MBTA station remained closed, and the entire 12-block area around my
apartment was still off-limits to the public.
That pretty much killed the day Friday.
On Saturday I did manage to get out of town on the Downeaster, and returned
again on Sunday night. Copley and my neighborhood still off limits.
Monday. Still off limits. On the way home from work, I stopped at the
grocery store, then lugged my provisions a mile and a half home. But the
FBI turned the site back over to the city of Boston.
Tuesday. Still off limits. CIMC had a special evening
gathering, led by the three guiding teachers.
Finally, on Wednesday morning they opened things up. After nine days
of being unable to use my MBTA station or cross my neighborhood, the
marathon (in both senses of that word) was finally over!
So that’s what happened. Now for a few thoughts…
One oddity is that I remember having the thought—sometime in
the week leading up to the marathon—that we hadn’t had any
major national emergencies in a long time, and that we were probably
due. I don’t recall what prompted that thought, but I am certain
it happened.
Although thinking back on it, Back Bay has been through a lot lately.
We just got through a region-wide road closure due to a massive
blizzard, but before that we spent 48 hours without power after a
substation failure, and a week without drinking water when a 10-foot
water main broke out in Weston. And then there were hurricanes Sandy and
Irene.
I’m disappointed that I didn’t do more to help other
people over the past week, to put my compassion practice into action.
While I was probably right in telling myself that I wasn’t needed
at the bomb scene, I probably could have helped stranded runners or
traumatized spectators. But I guess there’s something to learn
from my inaction, and hopefully I’ll do a better job next
time.
On the other hand, one close friend said it was unexpectedly
thoughtful of me to let people know that I was okay. And another friend
used the word “compassion” as one of the three things that
she thought I epitomized. So that was mildly reassuring.
Speaking of compassion and first responders, I saw an interesting
reaction to the bombing that spoke eloquently to me about how
men’s manifestations of love and compassion go unseen and
unacknowledged. Here:
I had an amazing insight about men. This one insight seems
life-changing to me: “Acts of heroism are acts of love.”
Why is this life changing? Because I don’t think
the narrative out there right now is that men are constantly involved in
deep, fundamentally good, acts of love. All the time. Men are not talked
about, as a group, as being demonstrative of their love. Of being
ongoing catalysts for acts of goodness. And yet they do that all the
time. I think the narrative is that men take heroic actions because they
are told it’s a role they must play, because men are
“supposed” to be strong, supposed to be brave. Because they
are “manning up” the way they were taught to. If love is
talked about with men, it is in the context of sexuality. When men are
called “lovers”, it is often code for
“womanizers”. But men act in love, and show that love, all
the time. For some unfathomable reason, we call it something else.
I don’t think men get enough credit for
love.
I think my meditation practice really helped me deal with a situation
that would otherwise produce a lot of anxiety and emotional discomfort.
While I saw and acknowledged my own emotions, I was much more intrigued
by the reactions of the people around me.
For several days, the main question on people’s minds was the
search for “who”: who did it?
Lots of people either undertook their own search for the culprit
based on photographs that had been posted or formulated their own
opinions based on little to no data. But realistically, no private
citizen was going to identify the bomber; that’s what we pay our
law enforcement agencies for. Get out of the way and let them do their
job!
As my teacher pointed out, this compulsion comes entirely from mental
discomfort, because the identity of the bomber has absolutely no
relevance for most of us. In fact, if the bomber had never been found,
it would have made absolutely no material difference in most
people’s lives. So why did they spend so much mental energy and
anguish trying to answer this question? That kind of desperate,
undisciplined thought is the symptom of someone with an undeveloped
sense of self-awareness.
Then, after it was learned that the suspects were pretty average
Cambridge kids, the next question everyone was asking was
“why”: why would someone do such a thing? This was prevalent
both in my family as well as from other practitioners at CIMC, and it
really surprised me.
I think the very question is indicative of cultural bias. While many
of us say that we respect and value other cultures—especially in a
highly educated, multi-cultural town like Cambridge—very few of us
understand what that means in practice. It’s frustrating that I
have to spell it out, but people from other cultures will have different
values! They won’t be the same as ours.
While a Buddhist might value non-harming above all other things, and
your average American Christian might value order and stability, someone
from a foreign culture might consider those less important than
individual freedom or cultural preservation or economic fairness. Why
would someone bomb innocent civilians? Because it’s important to
them within the framework of their values.
I don’t understand what is so mysterious about the fact that
other people might have different values than yourself. Why is that so
incomprehensible? But people really seem to operate on this unspoken
assumption that everyone shares their values. That’s not true even
within a family, never mind across vast ethnic, religious, geographic,
and political divisions!
I heard the phrase “I don’t
understand” so many times that I wanted to grab people and shake them.
Of course you don’t understand! You’re not *trying* to understand. A
criminal’s actions only make sense when viewed through *their* value
system; of course it doesn’t make sense if you insist on viewing it
through your very different values. That’s like wondering why birds
don’t save their energy and just drive south like the rest of us, rather
than fly. Of course it doesn’t make sense if you insist on
interpreting bird behavior using human norms and values!
But this question of “why” is even broader than that.
Sure, any seemingly “inexplicable” act (criminal or
otherwise) can be partially explained by understanding the values
espoused by the protagonist. But what about acts of nature or acts of
“god”? Aren’t people are just as prone to ask
“why” in response to a tsunami or a wildfire or a landslide
or a cancer diagnosis?
I find this baffling, because change is inevitable and life is very
fragile. These aren’t just platitudes to make you feel better (in
fact, they should make you feel quite insecure). But more importantly,
these are the incontrovertible base assumptions and conditions that we
live under! There doesn’t need to be a *reason* for something bad
to happen, because bad things are a part of life, an indisputable fact.
All this breast-beating and asking why they happen is like asking why
nitrogen happens or bemoaning the law of gravity. If you are asking why
it happened, you really need to reexamine the mistaken assumptions you
live by.
In contrast, I suppose I should point out something uplifting, too.
With so much focus on the bombers and their actions, consider the
correspondingly much greater number of people and acts of kindness and
compassion that took place over the past week. We should all be
heartened by the vastly larger outpouring of support for those
affected.
I want to particularly highlight two tweets that crossed my feed
shortly after the bombing. In the midst of the chaos and terror, many
people thought of giving blood to help the injured. But still, I was
amazed by this:
Red Cross reporting sufficient blood in banks at this time.
Some marathoners ran directly to MGH to donate after
blasts.
I can’t imagine finishing a marathon, running an extra mile,
and then having blood drawn. Simply amazing! Not especially smart, but
amazing.
But I really felt a deep pride in my city when I read the next tweet.
How does Boston respond to a terrorist attack? Like this:
I have no idea how we are supposed to react to something
like this, other than love each other more.
I’ve always loved this city. It’s a wonderful mix of
ambition and compassion, competitiveness and brotherhood,
pride of place and openness, history and
innovation, intelligence and grit, vibrant city culture and outdoor
activities for the athletically inclined. Boston isn’t perfect,
but it strives mightily to be the best. And contrary to the intentions
of these terrorist wannabes, the marathon bombing they undertook did
something very special: it provided us with a rare opportunity to
demonstrate love for our city and our fellow Bostonians, and it bound this great
community together more tightly than ever before.
I love that dirty water. Aw, Boston you’re my home.
Heck, I’m so moved I might even include Cambridge…
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