Elizabeth Ann

Last week, my apartment flooded. I came home to sopping wet floors, a smelly couch and a ruined iPad. I cried, then I called my landlord, confronted my upstairs neighbor and called my boyfriend. Hundreds of paper towels and a few more tears later, things were mostly back to normal, and I realized there was a new order: my dad was no longer my first responder.

Not that I don’t want him to be. He just can’t be anymore. He lives 1,248 miles away, and besides, I have to learn how to call my landlord myself. Turns out, he’s actually pretty nice. I see my dad once or twice a year, and we talk. Well, we text more than talk. At the moment, I have about nine unreturned texts from him about renter’s insurance, state laws and how to take action against your landlord. (Sorry for not responding yet, Dad. I was at work.) Mr. Answer Man. Maybe I should have called him first after all.

Just because things have changed doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate Father’s Day. I’ve always tried to keep Father’s Day gifts simple. My dad isn’t the type of guy who fits into the internet’s “Father’s Day Gift Guides”. He’s not fully fashionable, classical or gadgety. He’s not into golf or whiskey or boating. He’s at the age where he doesn’t really want ‘stuff’, unless ‘stuff’ is practical, like a windup flashlight. You can’t put a label on him, because he’s a little bit of everything, because he’s the best. So what do you get the unclassifiable dad?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve gotten him a t-shirt for Father’s Day. Last year it was a Boston Red Sox shirt, the year before it was a Dallas Mavericks championship shirt (he’s usually subject to repping where I live at the time). Memorable past shirts include John Deere from the lake and Grumpy from Disney World. This year, I’m getting him something different.

I’m writing to tell the world about how great he is! And making sure he knows that no matter how many people I call before him in a crisis (read: my iPad is not working), he’s still the one I trust most to clean up the mess. You’ll always be my guy, Dad, so thanks for reading. This post, and every post. It’s hard to celebrate someone so awesome all the time on just one day of the year. Sorry that we aren’t doing something cool in person, like going to the Cardinals game. I love you. Happy Father’s Day!

How do you know when a friendship is over? Maybe it’s when you graduate and stop running into each other at frat parties. Maybe it’s when one of your moves to a different city and you both know there’s no chance your friendship will survive returned calls. Or maybe, it’s when national tragedy strikes in your city and everyone you know checks in to see if you’re okay – except for that one person.

It’s hard to accept that a friendship is truly over because of something shitty you did. Should you say something? Should you apologize? Should you send a letter, or a heartfelt Facebook message? You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t: any action seems artificial and forced no matter how much you mean it, but giving the person space suddenly means you don’t care. You want to really mean your apology, and you want them to know it. And you want to allow them time to cool off first. But can they? What if they’re already done with you, and just go on not caring? Well, they obviously already are, if they know you live in Boston and that you could have been blown to smithereens during the Marathon Bombings, but they didn’t say a word to you. I think that means it’s over.

They’re mad. They’re upset. They feel betrayed, more betrayed than you’re willing to admit to yourself that you’re capable of. But don’t you reach a point where if they don’t forgive you, or aren’t even willing to give you the time of day to think about it – there’s nothing else you can do? As insincere as it may sound, after “I’m sorry”, it’s time to move on. There’s no sense in beating yourself up if the other person isn’t losing sleep over it. Maybe the most adult thing you can do is recognize what happened, learn from it and carry on with your life. If they come around, you can reopen the worm can then.

Something happens every time the T passes through Copley station. The driver announces that Copley is still closed, and the train will not be stopping there. It’s essentially a courtesy to tourists, I suppose, or anyone in the city of Boston who lives under a rock. But the train, innocent and ignorant to what happened one week ago some 25 feet above, announces “Next stop: Copley”. And everyone awkwardly pulls out their phones, or does something different with their hands, and thinks about it. About how Copley is closed because Boylston Street remains a crime scene, because of the bombings at the Boston Marathon. When the train passes through Copley and continues on, nobody wants to be caught looking out the window at the passing deserted station, but everyone wants to see what’s there. What is there? Nothing. Soon, it will be filled with people going to work and school and dinner and yoga, but we won’t soon descend those stairs and forget the time when the next stop was, in fact, Arlington.

In the days following 9/11, it wasn’t yet called 9/11. We just referred to it as “the unfortunate events that took place at the World Trade Center towers”. Fast forward to now, in the days following Marathon Monday. We could still call the day this past Monday, or Patriot’s Day, or the bombings at the 2013 Boston Marathon. Eventually, it will have a name, for movies’ and schoolbooks’ sake. But for now, it’s “the unfortunate events that took place at the 2013 Boston Marathon”. How proper of us.

To say that my life has changed in the last few days is an understatement. I don’t know any of the victims, and my group of friends remains unharmed. But I do live four blocks from the Boston Marathon finish line, and my city is a different place. There are policemen on my corner, army men at my T stop and I have to show ID to walk by my favorite Dunks. The last two nights, I’ve had dreams there was a picture on my phone the police needed as evidence. It’s hard to ignore.

I’d never thought twice about reaching into my purse for my cell phone until yesterday. On my way home from work, I was living a round of Call of Duty. Around Copley, around the Pru, around that sushi place I’ve been meaning to try, around King’s, and down a deserted alley that felt like a scene from The Hurt Locker. There were men in uniforms I’d never seen before, guns with no safeties and helmets I probably needed. My phone buzzed, but I didn’t dare make any sudden movements to check it, for fear of them turning on me. All of this, one block from Little Stevie’s, with people inside eating like this is all normal. I could have cried. But I couldn’t run. I just had to keep walking, like nothing was wrong.

I didn’t feel much about 9/11 at the time. I figured I didn’t live in New York, and I had no reason to be upset. I was also 13 years old and didn’t really know what the World Trade Center towers were until after they were gone, so my innocence and ignorance were big factors there. But at the time, I never felt like I had much right to be sad: it wasn’t my city, and it didn’t feel right to grieve over something I didn’t know about. Now, I know I was wrong. This may have happened in Boston, but it happened to all of us.

Things I’ve Learned From The Unfortunate Events That Took Place At The 2013 Boston Marathon

People care for other people deeply. Whether first responders or volunteers or people I haven’t heard from in two years checking in to see if I’m safe. I quickly perfected my “Yes, and we got in touch with our friend who was running, thanks for checking in” response.

Facebook is an amazing first response tool. Cell service cut out quickly, so the masses turned to Facebook to tell our loved ones we were alright.

Everyone copes with tragedy differently. I haven’t spoken three words at work this week; some of my colleagues won’t shut up. Everyone has their ways.

Policemen, army men, SWAT team members, etc are incredibly nice. Earlier in the day on Marathon Monday, swarms of cops were standing around, chatting and seemingly doing nothing. I muttered a few comments, and I take them all back now. Thank you all for being there, and thank you all for your bravery. I see you everywhere I go now, which is both comforting and terrifying. For now, I feel safer knowing you are there.

They also make me incredibly nervous and I fumble my words around them. “Where does Boylston open back up?” becomes alphabet soup.

Everyone wants to feel connected to big events. This is scary for everyone on a different level. From a monetary donation to donating blood to posting all kinds of social media statuses, everyone reacts differently. The good news is, they’re all doing it with Boston in mind.

Nobody wants to talk about “it”. But when you don’t, you’re frustrated that nobody’s saying anything. I’m struggling with how my office handled everything. We work in a generally relaxed environment, where working from home is not unheard of. Not only was working from home not even offered as an option the day after the Marathon, we still have yet to receive any kind of communication formally addressing what happened. Nothing to put us at ease. Nothing to remind us that the company cares. It’s hard, and it makes getting work done harder.

Boston Strong. Run for Boston. Prayers for Boston. We Remember Boston. In the time I’ve taken to write this, I’ve lost track of how many sirens have passed my window, there have been false reports of an arrest and there’s been a bomb scare at our courthouse. Just another day in Boston, these days. I know we’ll have answers soon, but please stand together and be kind to each other until then. On the plus side, I haven’t heard a single cabbie honk all week.