Just like the rest of the world, last week’s bomb that blasted Boston during the world’s most famous marathon shook me at my core. Again? Terrorism? A bomb? For the most part I avoided television beyond the initial day and opted to read numerous reports from national news affiliates.
On the third day, I decided to write. I was tremendously moved and saddended by the death of eight-year-old Martin Richard. I am a mother, a grandmother, a human being with compassion. So many of the details I read made the circumstances worse. No one was reporting (widely) about his sister who is now an amputee or his mother who endured surgery on her brain.
Since last week, reports have emerged regarding the brothers, white cap and black cap, both of whom have been named prime suspects in the bombing, a cowardly act of domestic terrorism with proported foreign terrorism links.
I refuse to glorify the two Chech brothers and further refuse to type their names. They have become the foremost subjects of the bombing as suspects. Less we forget who the real victims are. Eight-year-old Martin Richard was also a brother. An older brother. A younger brother. A son and a human being who deserved to live.
The following are my thoughts from last week’s writing which somehow emerged as both a blog and a poem…guess that makes it a plog or a boem.
Eight-Year-Old Wins Boston Marathon
dedicated to Martin Richard
Two days ago, a bomb blasted Boston.
Two twin booms, 12 seconds apart startled the tension of trained marathon runners.
Pre-race worries were simply the strength of their Achilles.
Airborne limbs have left the innocent labeled amputees and
once again a young dreamer named Martin has lost his life.
Eight-years-old and already a symbol for peace;
a pint-sized recipient of a headstone he didn’t earn.
Pressure cookers were believed the suspected culprit.
Pressure cookers were believed to be smuggled in duffel bags ─ dark and heavy ─ like gathered skin sagging beneath a coward’s eyes.
According to the White House, President Barack Obama betrayed no emotion in offering his statement to the press:
“Any event with multiple explosive devices ─ as this appears to be ─ is clearly an act of terror.”
This can only mean one Commander-in-chief thing: It’s ON!
The city of Boston has been blasted.
The remnants have birthed blame and the young, late Martin Richard’s mother can’t sleep. Her baby boy is dead. She, too, was damaged by the bomb ─ surgeons’ saved her brain. Oddly, God protected her maternal psyche.
His sister lost her leg and a husband and father is simply left to mourn.
America joins him.
I, too, am a woman losing sleep over life. This bomb attempted to erase my memories. Boston was the city of popular frequent during my Lesley University graduate school days. Cambridge and Harvard Square were neck-tie nice and summer-stroll cool but,
Boston’s where you trekked to feel good noise.
Everybody thinks they know Boston for baked beans, clam chowder, and the Sock-it-to me Red Sox, but the bookstores (baby), the massive museums, the jazz and that Baaahhston dialect that slips through lips as though syllables were birthed to yawn.
There’s something kindred about a bomb at the footstool of folks you knew and still know. Lives were lost; bodies were injured and hurled down streets I casually walked. It feels like a domestic or foreign visitor roamed the same asphalt and spit in patriotic wind.
Boston belongs to everybody because we were 6th grade history, massacre-forced and double s – double t drilled to spell Massachusetts. But I Phyllis Wheatley, Henry Louis Gates, Jr. know Boston.
I former flight attendant ─ Logan Airport remember Boston before the blast. Frankly, I’m feeling all “What the hell?” and 911 pissed all over again. A bomb has killed a beautiful young boy?
While blogging, I’m pumping Quincy Jones’ “Back on the Block” album from way back when.
Big Daddy Kane kicked it off with rhyme;
Birdland has blared;
Sarah Vaughn screamed a sassy scat;
And now Take 6 is acapella acting out.
I’m waiting for Maestro Jones to bless Boston with the reason I’ve always loved Track 12:
Tomorrow ─ (A Better you, a Better me)” featuring Tevin Campbell
“I hope tomorrow will bring, a better you, a better me.
I know that we’ll show this world we got more we could be
So you should never give up on your hopes and your dreams
You gotta get up, get out, get into it, get it on to be strong…”
Martin Richards will never see another tomorrow, feel his mother’s warm embrace, or spike chicken nuggets in ketchup during lunch with his third grade classmates. Martin’s race is over; he crossed the Boston Marathon finish line first.
We are a strong America. We get up, get out, get into it, and get it on.
We keep it movin’ and
We are not deterred by terrorism.
I hope tomorrow will bring a better you, a better me…
I hope tomorrow will bring a better world.
This was the dream of two Martins.
Penny Dickerson 2013