Boston.
As a child, I called Boston home because that is where my parents told me I came from. Never having lived there, except for a few months out of the year during Christmas and Summer vacations, I struggled to call myself a true Bostonian growing up. I struggled calling myself "an American" growing up. Being born and raised overseas was an extraordinary childhood experience. I developed a keen interest, passion and curiosity about the world at large and, though sheltered, was exposed to a great deal of humankind's inherent evils and beauties at a young and impressionable age. Yet, a part of me always felt incomplete and disconnected because regardless of how well I could blend into various global communities, I never felt as though any place was ever truly "home".
I moved to Boston at the age of eighteen to attend Wellesley College. Wellesley, Massachusetts is a beautiful affluent suburb approximately twelve miles outside of Boston proper. Though I lived and worked and learned in Wellesley, I went into the city every chance I got. Within a few months I felt like a local. I knew the T (public train) system inside and out and could accurately give helpful directions to strangers. After surviving my first winter there, I finally started to feel comfortable calling myself a Bostonian. For six years, Boston was my home. It is where I fell in love, where I found my dream, where I broke down and rebuilt myself, where I was pushed and challenged, where I achieved success and where I realized what my purpose was going to be in life.
I spent so many hours of my life walking the streets of Boston. Flashes of memories of walking to auditions, cafe's, yoga studios, friend's apartments, bookstores, shops, restaurants, concerts, sports games and parks all across the city merge into one continuous stream of travel. Visions of myself nestled up in little cafe's in Cambridge, Somerville, and Newbury Street doing course work or writing in my journal about the ways in which my life was changing, feel so vibrant and fresh.
I lived in Boston during a very poignant time in my life -- when everything felt possible and nothing seemed out of reach. It is in Boston that I dreamed my greatest dreams and began taking those initial steps to making them become a reality.
Since hearing about the Boston Marathon attacks on Tuesday morning (I was ignorantly asleep in Riyadh on Monday when the bombings actually took place) I have not been able to get Boston out of my mind. No one I knew was hurt or injured or even suffered any personal losses on that day (a miraculous fact considering how many friends and family members I have in Boston) but we were all affected by it: Bostonians and all humans alike. I feel sad, but this tragedy has also stirred up feelings of nostalgia within me. Nostalgia for the good old days of Boston. The days of carelessness, of freedom and independence. Nostalgia for the days of walking down Boylston street without a fear in the world except for whether or not I would miss my bus if I went into one more store...
Whenever I start to get too sad I think about my favorite things in Boston: going to Red Sox games and devouring a Fenway frank even though I don't even like hot dogs; wandering through Harvard square pretending that I am a famous writer and actress; cutting through Boston Commons on my way to the movies or Chinatown; sitting in cafes on Newbury street; running and biking along the Charles...the list goes on and on.
I know that I will get over this.
I know that our city will get over this.
But I don't know if things will ever be able to go back to the way they were.
As a child, I called Boston home because that is where my parents told me I came from. Never having lived there, except for a few months out of the year during Christmas and Summer vacations, I struggled to call myself a true Bostonian growing up. I struggled calling myself "an American" growing up. Being born and raised overseas was an extraordinary childhood experience. I developed a keen interest, passion and curiosity about the world at large and, though sheltered, was exposed to a great deal of humankind's inherent evils and beauties at a young and impressionable age. Yet, a part of me always felt incomplete and disconnected because regardless of how well I could blend into various global communities, I never felt as though any place was ever truly "home".
I moved to Boston at the age of eighteen to attend Wellesley College. Wellesley, Massachusetts is a beautiful affluent suburb approximately twelve miles outside of Boston proper. Though I lived and worked and learned in Wellesley, I went into the city every chance I got. Within a few months I felt like a local. I knew the T (public train) system inside and out and could accurately give helpful directions to strangers. After surviving my first winter there, I finally started to feel comfortable calling myself a Bostonian. For six years, Boston was my home. It is where I fell in love, where I found my dream, where I broke down and rebuilt myself, where I was pushed and challenged, where I achieved success and where I realized what my purpose was going to be in life.
I spent so many hours of my life walking the streets of Boston. Flashes of memories of walking to auditions, cafe's, yoga studios, friend's apartments, bookstores, shops, restaurants, concerts, sports games and parks all across the city merge into one continuous stream of travel. Visions of myself nestled up in little cafe's in Cambridge, Somerville, and Newbury Street doing course work or writing in my journal about the ways in which my life was changing, feel so vibrant and fresh.
I lived in Boston during a very poignant time in my life -- when everything felt possible and nothing seemed out of reach. It is in Boston that I dreamed my greatest dreams and began taking those initial steps to making them become a reality.
Since hearing about the Boston Marathon attacks on Tuesday morning (I was ignorantly asleep in Riyadh on Monday when the bombings actually took place) I have not been able to get Boston out of my mind. No one I knew was hurt or injured or even suffered any personal losses on that day (a miraculous fact considering how many friends and family members I have in Boston) but we were all affected by it: Bostonians and all humans alike. I feel sad, but this tragedy has also stirred up feelings of nostalgia within me. Nostalgia for the good old days of Boston. The days of carelessness, of freedom and independence. Nostalgia for the days of walking down Boylston street without a fear in the world except for whether or not I would miss my bus if I went into one more store...
Whenever I start to get too sad I think about my favorite things in Boston: going to Red Sox games and devouring a Fenway frank even though I don't even like hot dogs; wandering through Harvard square pretending that I am a famous writer and actress; cutting through Boston Commons on my way to the movies or Chinatown; sitting in cafes on Newbury street; running and biking along the Charles...the list goes on and on.
I know that I will get over this.
I know that our city will get over this.
But I don't know if things will ever be able to go back to the way they were.
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