Boston

Sandy Hook hit me hard. T was six -- almost seven -- on that day, in first grade -- just like the children who were mowed down there. The idea that I could send my child off to school and never see him -- or any of his classmates -- again just rocked me to the core. I struggled with my own internal aftermath for months. At party after party of children turning seven, I would look around and think, "This could have been them. Someone could have walked into their classroom, looked into these innocent eyes, and just callously blown them away." I just kept seeing the innocence turning to terror in the eyes of the Newtown children as they watched the hail of bullets coming their way.

I realized on April 14th that I have been going to birthday parties recently and not thinking those thoughts. I've been coming out of the woods on that one.

And then came April 15th's running of the Boston Marathon.

I am a runner. I  have never run a marathon because my body has failed me on that count, but I have the heart of a marathoner. And this race, the Boston Marathon, it is the marathoner's marathon. There are bigger races with faster times: New York, Chicago, and London all quickly come to mind, but running Boston...that's the one every marathoner aspires to.

The Patriot's Day race is the one sporting event I stream while working. And I watch it live every year. It's been even more fun in recent years, cheering on the Ethiopians. Between the men and the women, "we" took home a first, second, and third place finish this year.

So it was a happy day for me on that Monday.

Until my niece who lives near the Allston stop on the green line texted me shortly after 3:00 on Monday. "Explosion in Boston. We're okay."

"Yikes," I thought, "And the marathon is going on."

And then the light bulb.

"Holy crap, someone set off a bomb at the marathon!"

I jumped on the internet and saw the first reports coming in. I ran downstairs and turned on the television. I switched back and forth between the TV and the internet. I tried to finish up work. It was hopeless. I logged my hours and logged out.

What I didn't realize at the time was that my niece was a spectator at the race, only four blocks away from the explosion. What I didn't know at the time was who I knew in the race or who was there cheering them on. In any given year, I know at least a half a dozen people who are running Boston. As it turns out, everyone I know who was there is okay. Many narrowly missed being in the immediate vicinity of the bombs.

This act of violence has also left me reeling, although not so viscerally as Sandy Hook. That event struck me to the core; the bombing of the Boston Marathon has taken more processing to settle into my bones -- maybe because of the length of time of unknowing the who and the why. My emotions have run the gamut from fear to anger to sadness and back again.

First of all, I am a runner. Running is about going up against your demons and overcoming them. It's about hitting the wall and continuing on. It's about the triumph of the human spirit. For someone to take a day of dreams realized and turn into a nightmare defies comprehension by a sane mind.

Second, I am a resident of the state of New York. But I am a New Englander first. My ancestors settled in the Boston area in the 17th century. Only a few boats behind the Pilgrims, I like to say. My mother was born in Boston. I was born in the Berkshire mountains of Western Mass -- and spent my first 11 years there. When the Red Sox are going up against the Yankees, it's a tough day for me. I feel like my son, one foot planted here and one foot planted there.

But Massachusetts will be my final home. I will be buried in the family plot outside of Boston in a town that was once a long day's carriage ride into the city and is now a Beantown bedroom community. I will be spending eternity with my mother and father, and my mother's mother and father, and my mother's mother's mother and father. Walk around the the original center of town and you see streets named with the surnames of my ancestors.

So in the end, I am Red Sox Nation. You mess with Boston, you mess with me.

Third, I am a race official. I have volunteered at the finish line of maybe as many races as I have run. I have helped runners through the chute, held the finish line tape, kept runners in order back in the old days before chips, clipped chips back in the old days before the chips were in the bibs, timed, handed out refreshments, and race announced. I have also recruited and trained volunteers -- and disaster planning has never been part of that duty. "Put this orange bib on, take this flag, go to this intersection, and don't let any cars out while the runners are on the course." Or, "Go to the finish line and hand out bottles of water to the runners as they cross the line."

Most certainly not, "If a bomb goes off, knocking down runners and killing and maiming race spectators, do xyz."There are generally some more experienced finish line coordinators who know what to do with a puking runner and which finishers need to be walked over to the first aid tent. After that, it is left up to the medical professionals to handle the situation.

But the photos of Boston after the explosions all show blue- and yellow-shirted finish line officials standing side by side with the police and armed forces personnel, tearing down barriers to get at the victims, carrying the wounded to the first aid station and waiting ambulances, wrapping their arms around survivors at the scene -- consoling them in the darkest hour. I have every admiration for Boston's finest who can be seen in the videos running toward the explosions while most others were running away. But the men and women in the blue and yellow T-shirts and jackets also ran toward danger, even though many of them were volunteers, and, for those who were paid staff, running toward exploding bombs was not in their job descriptions.

And I think, "What would I have done if I were a race official in that finish area? What would I do if a bomb was detonated at a race I was volunteering at?" I would like to think I would be right there in the mix, doing what needed to be done, but we never really know until we're faced with that situation.

Fourth, as I watched this year's race and the success of the Ethiopians, I had the idle thought, "Next year I'm taking this day off and I'm taking T to Boston and he's going to watch this race. Because someday he is going to run this race and I want him to understand what a big deal it is." Next year he will be eight years old. The same age as Martin Richard, who was there to watch his father run, and who died watching one of the greatest road races in the world, because a couple of idiots thought killing eight-year-old boys who just want a chance to yell, "Go, Daddy!" was a way to get a point across.

Now I have to reconsider. Maybe I'll take him, but maybe not next year and maybe we won't shoot for a coveted finish line spot. That just really sucks. That you have to worry about your safety and the safety of your family who are standing at a race finish line to cheer you on. This wasn't a military parade. These were just people, ordinary people, trying to accomplish an extraordinary feat -- and the friends and family who were there to applaud their efforts.

Yesterday I stood behind the barrier at the finish line of a local race waiting for T to come into view. Suddenly I realized I was in the same position as Martin Richard. A front row spectator with my back to everything going on behind me.

I actually turned around. There was a man behind me, talking on his cell phone, with a backpack resting against his leg. I turned around several more times until he was gone, and I made sure his backpack had gone with him. "We're still here and we're not going away!" announced the starter of the race as he led us in a group sing of the national anthem. This is true, but we're also looking behind us and wondering if someone is up to no good. Innocence lost.

Finally, my ties to Boston span family, work, and friends. I've been to Boston more than any other major American city. I know Cambridge and Boston well enough to tell the cabbies how to get me to where I need to go. "Stay off of Storrow Drive; it's too busy at this time of day. Take the turnpike. Take this street to the Whole Foods store and take the left at the light there."

I have my favorite Indian and now Ethiopian restaurants. I learned to take get off the T at Central Square to avoid having to walk by all the panhandlers in Harvard Square. I carry a Charlie card in my wallet. Because I need it often enough to keep it handy.

The adoption agency we used is located just outside of Boston. I probably know at least a hundred people who were caught up in the lockdown -- including my niece who was at the marathon. The division I work for is located in Cambridge. My office was closed. That was sobering. We've weathered hurricanes and snowstorms with names. But for this -- a stay home order. It was an anxious day for me, worried for the safety of so many.

In the aftermath of all this, the Boston Marathon has spiked as the marathon most runners aspire to run in 2014. Back in 1770 there was a little incident called the Boston Massacre in which the British killed five civilians and wounded six others. Here's where people underestimate the American spirit. Like siblings, we might squabble a lot, but when you go up against us, we come together -- and we're a stubborn lot who don't back down easily. The Boston Massacre didn't sit too well with us and lit a spark that started a revolution.

Bomb our marathon and we will return in double the numbers.

Running it is not likely in my cards for me. But I have looked into volunteering. Even though 95 percent of the slots are filled by people who come back year after year, that won't stop me from trying. I don't know yet if I'll be there as a spectator or as a volunteer. But I will be there.

Because I am Boston Strong.