While I am a Cape Codder through and through, I was born in Boston and spent the first three years of my life there. My parents were also raised in the city. In the wake of this week's events, here are my love letters to my hometown, years in the making.
Dear Boston Doctors,
When you weren't delivering dozens of Papapietro/MacLean babies through the years, you skillfully removed a ruptured appendix. You trudged with us through four arduous cancer journeys, each a long road so unending that they distorted my vision and completely and forcefully dissolved my many expectations of the future. Chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries...you were there. There is a reason you are respected by so many worldwide. You didn't just treat us. You
knew us. And I say "us" because spirits can need treating, too. You gave us personalized tours of the equipment to ease our anxieties. You sent cards and flowers. When you couldn't save him, you cried too. Because he wasn't just your patient - he was your friend. You paid personal visits in those last months (even though the nurses said that your rituals were unprecedented because of how many people you treat). But you insisted that you loved the man you treated for over twenty years, that he taught you lessons that you will never forget. But we loved you bigger. There is a major distinction between doctors and healers. And you are the healing kind. In my family's eyes, you are and always will be our heroes.
Love,
An Eternally Grateful Daughter of a Patient
Dear Fenway Park and the Boston Redsox,
I've written before about the priceless memories you've given me. I'll let that post do the talking. Thank you for a team to believe in. Thank you for one of the most important lessons I've ever learned: It's never about the final outcome. It's about spirit. It's about determination. When it comes down to it, life is really just unending faith. It's about hiding in the bathroom, praying as you wait for that final out of the 2004 World Series. You all sure know how to rally. Sweet Caroline never sounded
so good, so good, so good.
Love,
A Die-Hard Fan Who Would Go To A Game with Double Pneumonia To Cheer For You
Dear East Boston,
If you had a face, it would feature a luminous smile and wrinkles. The smile because you are the definition of a welcoming community, and the wrinkles because you have lived a lot of life. The grit, the sweat, the tears. You provided a young boy with friends of all races and backgrounds, and this boy would grow up and teach his daughter about tolerance. Because who can witness the violence of forced bussing and not want to change something? You have loyalty in your soul. Loyalty that would keep friends together through the shenanigans of childhood and adolescence, including sledding runs down a mountainous hill into oncoming traffic (you are so ballsy). I want your guts. You would keep a young boy of eight under your watchful eye as he voluntary trekked to the racetrack every day after school, selling newspapers to support his dreams. How many kids do that? You are sacrifice and contribution. You are the start of so many family tapestries, the strings that hold generations of secrets and hopes together as you weave them through your solid hands.
Love,
A Wannabe Badass
Dear North End,
I took my redheaded Irish friend to the Saint Anthony's Feast when we were fourteen, and watching her mildly stupefied expressions made me realize that she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. But I knew you. I was confident that my Italian neighborhood would come through in all of your overwhelming, hospitable glory. In a blow as powerful as the Vespa that nearly ran me over on the streets of Naples last spring, you swept me off my feet like a forceful ocean wave. Hail Marys on the street? The rise and fall of my family's native chatter as it engulfed me? You are the sounds of home. Because of you and this feast, I
recognize home. Because of you, I've had a window into my rich culture since I was old enough to say "
aspetta!" (And I heard that one a lot growing up). I've learned to understand my roots, and, by extension, myself.
(And those cannoli won't eat themselves.)
Love,
Una Bambina Italiana
Dear Logan Airport,
I've written about you before also. If you were any other airport, I would probably want to spit on you. But how could I despise the gateway to so many of my comings and goings? You are a portal, a portal that I once entered lost and confused and returned having learned how to live again. How could I not love your view from the air as I watched, brimming with new realizations and dreams, as the sun mirrored my renewed spirit, its rays sprouting down to touch the sparkling harbor? I could just disappear into that shade of blue. Life is about both departures and arrivals. You are always my first set of outstretched arms, the gentle whisper ushering me across the skies to new adventures. You are the reflection of a cherished truth: Just because I leave to go exploring, that does not mean I will not find my way back home.
Love,
A Passport Junkie Who Just Wants to See Things
Dear Boston,
Dorothy said there's no place like home. And boy, do your rivers run deep. Expansive enough to reach me on the streets of Rome, where a man nodded at my Sox shirt, pointed to his hat with a stitched "B," and smiled. But I wasn't shocked. Because people fall in love with you. You don't only represent the beginning of this country. You are
my beginning. You built me. You made me "Boston Strong."
I will always love that dirty water.
Love,
Maria
