I would be heartbroken if yesterday’s bombing had happened in Boise or Birmingham. But to have it happen in Boston is like breaking my heart and then stomping on it.
I grew up believing that I was incredibly lucky to be born an American and especially to be born a Bostonian.
If you were a bookish child in the 50’s and 60’s, especially a girl, Boston was a welcoming place to be. Give us your near-sighted, your uncoordinated, your always-picked-last-for-sports…
I grew up not just in Boston, but in Dorchester, where Martin Richard was from. It didn’t matter that I was poor because I knew that when I grew up, I would never again live in an apartment like my parents’.
When I passed through the doors of the Boston Public Library in Copley Square, where I spent many Saturdays between 7th and 12th grades, I wasn’t just on my way to whatever research I was doing that day, I was on my way to my future life. Boylston Street was my yellow brick road.
At the library, I did the research and analysis and writing that didn’t just get me into Wellesley and then Yale when it went co-ed, but also made it easy to excel once I got there. I was a student at Girls’ Latin School, but I became a scholar at that library, learning to use and value original sources, learning to think critically and draw my own conclusions.
To see death and blood and severed limbs right outside my library, this home to all the wisdom men and women have achieved, this sanctuary where the poorest of the city can enjoy the same resources as the richest, is unbearable to me. My brain and body ache.