(she said) i’ve been to boston before

On Sunday, April 14th, 2013, I stood in my kitchen and told my husband that I wanted to start running seriously again.

The next day, when I was serving jury duty, I glanced at my phone during a break.  My cousin, who lives in Roslindale, posted: “Explosions in Boston at marathon finish.”  Because he’s a runner and I’m an English teacher, I thought he was speaking figuratively.  Like there was some kind of upset or underdog winner.  I didn’t think he meant explosions that actually explode.

But then there was a text:  Did you hear about Boston?

And so, when it was lunchtime, I traveled down the four floors of the courthouse to my husband’s office.  ”What happened at the marathon?” I asked, rather casually, because there’s this strangely idealistic part of me that doesn’t ever think the worst. The receptionist turned to my husband and my husband turned to me, and there was that look again.  The one that says without words, “I’m going to tell you something sad.  Really, really sad.”  I’ve seen it a few times before.  And it always makes me feel worse for the person telling me than it does for myself.  Because they have the information, and they’re somehow obliged to impart it.  And that one moment when they know and I don’t, that one moment just before they tell me, that moment must be torturous.

“Somebody tried to blow up the finish line,” he said.  He followed it quickly with, “But Anna’s okay,” as if he knew, already what my brain was doing. That afternoon, I sat in his office as someone at a desk nearby played the video over and over again.  ”Watch!  You have to see this!”  She said to anyone walking by.  I kept hearing it: explosion one, explosion two.     Explosion one, explosion two.

I moved to Massachusetts before I turned two, and grew up in a suburb twenty-five miles south of the city.  I went to Emerson.  My first teaching job was in Charlestown, at a tiny school toward the top of Bunker Hill.  I have done my fair share of Friday afternoon (and well into the evening) drinking at the Warren Street Tavern, Sissy K’s and Sidebar.

But my Facebook feed was flooded with posts from friends back home, and I felt like a phony.  My hurt was on my sleeve, but it didn’t feel justified; I had left in May of 2004 (of all years, right?), and they were still there.  They would stay there.

It’s a difficult thing to be so far away when catastrophe strikes. I felt untethered.  I wanted my world to stop, for just a few minutes, so that I could catch my breath.  I wanted to be near the other Bostonians at my work (there are four of us, including one student).  I realized that there was some part of me still rooted in that place, too deep to be dug up.

I remembered what I had said to my husband the day before.  And so on Tuesday, I ran.  And on Wednesday, the kids and I made a Run For Boston sign and I ran again.  It’s what made sense.  And I started with three miles.  I couldn’t run the whole thing at once.  But now I can finish in twenty-seven minutes.  A nine-minute mile is fast for me. And I’ve even added more miles. (The last time I ran five miles successfully without stopping was when we lived in Quincy and we ran the Harpoon 5-miler in 2003 — my favorite part was running through South Boston while someone on the third floor of a duplex blared “Eye of the Tiger” from a boombox in his bedroom window — and the reward was the two free beers at the end.  It turns out that one can get pretty drunk off two beers after running five miles.) I’ve gone 58.82 miles since Tuesday, April 16th.  I’m up to more than six miles on Saturdays, and anywhere between three and five miles at least three times during the week.  I can’t seem to stop myself.

I don’t do it to lose weight.  I don’t do it believing that I will someday run a marathon (though I do like the idea).  I do it because it makes me feel strong.  I do it because it’s a tiny piece of my world I can control.

I do it because there are people who can’t, people who wish they could.

you’re aging well (to my daughter, in her eighth year)

Dear Georgia,

Yesterday, I looked at you and knew that you had changed.  And it wasn’t just the number of freckles or the freshly-pierced ears or the first pair of shorts that didn’t reach all the way to your knees.

You’re getting older.

You act differently when there’s a boy in the room (even if he is your cousin).  Sometimes you cry in the evening and you won’t tell me exactly why.  ”I just want everyone to stop asking me questions,” you say.  You wear perfume.  You don’t wear the jeans with the patches because you think you’ll look silly.

So this is when it happens, when you start to learn that world is not quite as perfect as you first thought.  That life is not always easy.  STEM classes don’t have recess.  You hate to compete with your friends, but sometimes you can’t help it.  People that we love die and the explanation is not good enough.

When you draw pictures of our family, you and I always look exactly alike; I’m just a little bit taller.  We wear the same triangle dress.  Our red hair falls along the same diagonal. The same blue colors our eyes.  And I wonder if, when you look at me, you see you.

It is your first time being seven.  It is my first time being the mother of a seven-year-old. We walk the line:  you, between self-consciousness and self-confidence, and I, between overprotection and overexposure.  And we both falter.

For right now, you still believe in Santa.  You’re pretty convinced you saw the fairy’s wings when you lost your second tooth.  You see a book on the table called Adam’s Return and you say, “It says ‘Adam’s return.’  I thought that maybe . . . ”  And even though you don’t say it, I know what you thought.  I know what you believed, what you want to believe, even if it’s just for this minute.  (After all, Easter just passed, and Jesus did it, so why not?)

Someday, you won’t believe these things.  But someday is not right now.

Right now, this is what I know: when I look at you, I see something more beautiful than I could ever possibly be.

this word is not okay.

I have had the honor of teaching Nathaniel Charles for three out of the last four years. Today, he stood in front of his entire senior class and delivered the following speech. Saying that I couldn’t be more proud is not enough.  Saying anything is not enough.

This Word is Not Okay

(writes ‘nigger’ on board)

This word is not okay. Do not say this word to me, near me, or about me in any way.

(erases ‘er,’ adds ‘a’)

This word is not an acceptable substitute.

I laugh at the jokes you guys make about Black people. I used to make them too, and we all laughed. But they’re not funny anymore. They haven’t been for a long time. Years. So I stopped making the jokes. But I didn’t stop laughing at them. I kept laughing because I had barely told anyone that it wasn’t funny. I kept laughing because it was my fault, not yours, that these jokes were still being made. I couldn’t expect anyone to just know how I was feeling. So I kept laughing, because . . . what else could I do?

Here’s the thing. If someone asks me to pick up the pencil they dropped, and I say, “I’m not your slave,” there doesn’t need to be an awkward silence. Black people haven’t been the only slaves in the past 14 billion years. React the same way you would if an Indian person had said it. Likewise, if I’m doing you a favor and you pretend to whip me, it can still be an equally funny joke. However, once you add, “It’s funny ‘cause you’re Black,” not only is it no longer funny, but it is outrageously rude and wildly unnecessary.

My favorite part, though, is when people make these jokes around me and then they say, “Oh it’s okay, he’s not even Black.” I can’t help but check myself after someone says that. I have to give them the benefit of the doubt; maybe I turned White or Hispanic without realizing it. Because the thing is, I am Black. I am not African-American, but I am Black Caribbean. I know what you mean when you say that I’m not Black. You’re saying that I’m not a stereotypical Black person. You’re saying that I don’t like rap music, that I’m intellectual, that I haven’t fathered kids that I’ve abandoned or that I don’t know about. But that’s not what makes someone Black, or White, or Asian. You get your skin color and your heritage from your parents. Likes, dislikes, attitudes, and patterns of behavior—all of those are shaped by the world around an individual. Lots of Black people have grown up under unfortunate circumstances and haven’t been able to overcome them, leading to stereotypes we see today. But the same is true for every race. What is it that makes it more likely for the Black man to have stolen your car than the White man?

The truth is that I like fried chicken, I like watermelon, I can’t swim, and I borderline hate dogs. But why does that make you laugh or smile? Millions of people enjoy fried chicken, and they are not all Black people. Those are just four facts about me that have 0% to do with my race. I’m not Black because of those things, and those things aren’t true just because I’m Black. There is no correlation. The only thing that defines a “true Black person” is the color of their skin. That’s it.

I’m not asking for any apologies. I’m just as guilty of it, if not more so, as any person in this room. And I know that I’ll slip up sometimes, same as you. And that’s okay. But we have a month left together, and I didn’t want to go without you knowing how I feel about this. And it’s not solely for my peace of mind, but for your sake as well. You’ll meet people in college of all different races, and you’ll hear thousands of jokes about every person of every color of the rainbow. And maybe the people laughing at themselves aren’t tired of it yet, like I wasn’t freshman year. But I can personally give you a 100% guarantee that it will get really old to them, really quickly.

I’m not a member of a low-income family because I’m Black. I didn’t get into great universities because I’m Black. But the reason I care, why I’m bothering to share any of this with you right now, why it matters to me that you know? It’s because I know how crappy it feels. It’s because I don’t want anyone else to hurt the way I have. When it comes down to it . . . it’s because I’m Black.

                                                                                — Nathaniel Charles, 2013