I’ve been walking into walls the past few days, trying to make
myself believe that Boston was a target of terrorism — is a target of
terrorism. I had to watch that video 20 times for it to sink in: The plume of
white smoke, the screams, the second explosion, the heroic rush to rescue.
Two days later, Commonwealth Avenue in Newton was swept clean of
paper cups and orange peels. The trees are budding. The beauty of this spring
feels like an affront to the dead, the wounded, the mourners, and all the rest
of us who find ourselves walking into walls as we put one foot in front of the
other.
On Wednesday night, I took my “little” girl to the Big Apple
Circus. Emilia is 27-years-old and has two inches on me but this was our family
tradition throughout her childhood and it was planned as a celebration of her
move back to Boston after five years in the diaspora. I bought the tickets in
February.
On her way downtown on the T, she was reminded at every stop to
be vigilant. Passing Massachusetts General Hospital, my husband and I thought
about lost limbs and broken hearts.
We were reassured by the K-9 patrol and state troopers posted
outside the big top. We were happy to be part of a big crowd of families and
children, gasping and giggling at the performance, terror-free for a couple of
hours. After the show, we passed a local camera crew interviewing a dad who
said something about how we can’t stop living and that’s what we were doing at
the circus.
Not that we’re going to forget. There will be vigils and prayer
services and moments of silence; plaques and bronze statues in memorium;
charities and foundations funded to help and heal. All good. But it’s all still
raw.
Before the circus, we took a walk around Boston Common. I wanted
to see the gazebo and one of the temporary, do-it-yourself, shrines that now
dot our city. Made of candle wax, roses, notes and posters, they serve as
temporary memorials to the dead. And though God’s name is invoked, along with
quotes from sermons and scripture, these offerings are more civic than
religious.
Pop-up memorials owe their meaning and their random beauty to
the efforts of a community of neighbors — and strangers. They express the
emotional connection and commitment that comes with being a citizen — of
Boston, the USA, the human race. They affirm the consolation of solidarity. All
are welcome.
We are much too familiar with these heart-breaking shrines.
Oklahoma City, 9/11, Tucson, Sandy Hook; I hate seeing Boston added to the
list. I hate the list.
But it can’t end with hate. I add a few words to the local
colloquy about who we are, I sign up to give blood, and I promise not to
surrender to the lie that we are helpless to stop this madness.
This post also appears on WBUR's Cognoscenti
http://cognoscenti.wbur.org/2013/04/19/new-landmarks-of-consolation-and-solidarity
