2013 Boston Marathon | The Memories We Choose
Yes, terror and chaos came to the finish line of the Boston Marathon. But what came after can also be remembered forever as a time when bravery and kindness brought people together.
We can choose to remember the few seconds before 2:50 p.m. at the finish line of the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013, this way: three young people dead, more than 270 injured, many with the types of terrible wounds seen during wartime. We can choose to remember the worst of humankind: terrorists who placed two pressure-cooker bombs packed with shrapnel close to the finish line, bombs whose only purpose was to kill and maim runners and those who came to cheer them on at the moment of their joy. We can choose to believe that the brothers Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev forever changed the Boston Marathon—that their scar of hate and pain and blood will be imprinted on a race that since 1897 has celebrated endurance and the spirit of human perseverance. We can choose to believe that during this year’s race on April 21, we will still feel their awful presence, that their names will be on our lips.
Or we can choose to forget their names, to not dignify their ever walking among us, an ill wind that came and blew out to sea, never to be seen again. And then we can remember this: that even during the frightening first moments, when nobody knew what had happened or whether there might not yet be another blast and another, so many people, strangers to those who lay hurt and in shock, found resources to run toward the chaos, toward the unknown, to pour out their hearts and offer help where they could. Can I help? Let me help became the words that the injured on the ground and the thousands of exhausted and scared runners heard in the first minutes after the explosions—words that continued to define that day and the days that followed.
Yes, history will record April 15, 2013, as a day when terror came to the Boston Marathon. But we each own our personal history, and we have this choice: We can remember the Boston Marathon as a place where lives were lost, but many more were saved; as a place where the best of humankind, demonstrating bravery and selflessness and kindness, will never be forgotten by anyone whose life was touched by a stranger saying, Can I help? Let me help.
JD Hale, Yankee’s vice president of sales, was working as a volunteer at the finish line, handing out warming blankets to drape over the runners’ shoulders, when the explosions went off. “The runners were in shock,” he wrote. “They had no idea what had happened. They were dazed, shivering uncontrollably (a sea breeze had kicked up), needing our blankets, and could barely talk. We reassured them. We hugged them. Many were very emotional—so we did all we could to take care of them, not knowing at all what many of them had witnessed …
“I headed in several directions with the blankets to find runners. It was the hardest, most difficult scene I have ever witnessed. I kept returning with armfuls of BAA [Boston Athletic Association] blankets. [The runners] were dazed in so many ways. And all we had were three simple things: a warming blanket, a hug, and words that all of us volunteers hoped were helpful. We were wrapping them up tight, often wrapping their legs, too, giving more hugs, giving words of assistance; some [runners] were very confused, didn’t speak English, didn’t know where to go, where to find their personal belongings and so on. It was windy. The sirens continued—the day was getting late. It was getting colder, too.”
A woman watching from her hotel overlooking Copley Square posted this impression on The Huffington Post: “To me, the image that sticks out is the yellow jackets. When I first got to the room and ran to the window, the scene below was still immediate chaos. Runners were literally sprinting through and around the finish area. It was an absolutely frantic scene, clouded over by bomb smoke and punctuated by sirens. But the yellow jackets—they stayed. They didn’t run. They tore up the finish line as quickly as they could. They carried runners in their arms and acted as human crutches. I saw runners collapse into their arms and they stood still and held them. They tore down fencing and scaffolding to open the area up to allow people to move more quickly. They were on the ground over broken and injured bodies. They ran back and forth from the medical tent, bringing bags of ice and supplies, pushing empty and full wheelchairs, doing whatever it was that needed to be done. They too had families to call. They too were in a dangerous and unsecured crime scene … For me, the enduring image of the Boston Marathon will forever be of the very first responders: the Boston Marathon volunteers, the yellow jackets who stared fear and evil in the eye and vowed that no matter what, they would not run.”
Here’s a memory to keep: a photograph. In the photo, one that has been seen over and over, Carlos Arredondo, a Costa Rican immigrant in his early fifties who settled in Massachusetts, sprints to an ambulance with the life of Jeff Bauman in the balance. The image of Arredondo’s white cowboy hat soon seeped into our lives: the good guy coming to the rescue, his face taut with urgency, Jeff Bauman’s face wreathed in pain and shock. Within hours we would learn more: how Arredondo had suffered the loss of two sons, one to war in Iraq, another whose grief at losing a brother led eventually to his taking his own life; how he had emerged from his own despair to become a peace activist and who was at the finish line to cheer on a member of the National Guard running to honor his sons, Alex and Brian.
“He was conscious,” Arredondo told a reporter that day about finding Bauman. “I let him know that the ambulance is on the way and he’s okay … [You’re] okay, stay with me, stay with me.”
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