The better angels of our nature

20

Author: Henry Dickmeyer

The word “marathon” dates back to 490 B.C. Legend has it that after the Athenians trumped the Persian army following the Battle of Marathon, the Athenians sent a messenger, Pheidippides, to inform the citizens of Athens about their recent triumph. According to Plutarch, Pheidippides ran nonstop from Marathon to Athens, burst through the Athenian assembly and pronounced to his people – at the top of his lungs – “we won,” before falling to his death.

The marathon, as we know it, has always been a testament to the strength, endurance and focus of the human spirit. And the finish line – especially at the Boston Marathon, which saw competitors from all 50 states and over 90 countries this year – is where it all ends; where muscles, torn and repaired, cathartically and collectively push individuals into a state of release only to have friends and loved ones shower them with warm embrace.

But on an overcast Patriots’ Day in Massachusetts, 27,000 competitors didn’t find water bottles, bagels or ovations on the other side of the finish line. Instead, runners were greeted by two explosions along Boylston Street that left an eight year-old boy and two more dead, 17 critically wounded and over 100 injured.

First came the news notifications: a small blurb that scrolled across smart phones, televisions and web pages that said something like, “Explosion reported near Boston Marathon finish line.” Today’s age of instant notification about violence may have left students (and others) desensitized to the news; that it would take concrete imagery for the full effect of the incident to set in. But as the footage of the explosions surfaced – with bodies sprinting towards the finish line, only to go limp once debris and shattered ear drums stopped them in their tracks – students reacted. Some went on Twitter to follow every triple-confirmation of casualty tolls; others called their relatives to make sure they were safe; and most simply stopped and watched the chaos unfold, which slowly started to look like a deleted scene from “The Dark Knight Rises.”

“Terror” was thrown around by every news source on the block within the hour, and the incident grew reminiscent of 9/11 (and for those old enough, Oklahoma City). But with every attack, bombing, shooting or hostage situation, there are two different perspectives from which we can react to an incident. We can choose the path of pessimism and remorse, breaking down under the wave of tragedy that has swept us up. We can feel helpless and hurt, cowered and collapsed. Or we can choose to view the human spirit as unbreakable: that when faced with tragedy, people naturally come together to harness a sense of energy, of purpose, of passion.

The trick, however, isn’t to choose one path over the other, deliberately electing to either put out or ignore the fire and chaos that is in front of us. The true test of the human spirit is the ability to run towards the fire with open arms, fragile tears and the instinct to help.

It is someone who gives their folks a long-distance call across the country, telling them that they are loved. It is the way ten random citizens lifted 100 pounds of fencing from above a crowd of crushed competitors’ friends and families, innately collaborating to help those in need. It is the last leg of competitors, running straight from the finish line to Mass General Hospital to donate every drop of blood that they could from their bodies.

And most importantly, running towards the fire means letting oneself go. Because our true test of fortitude isn’t repairing our wounds or wiping away our tears. Pure strength is the third-degree burn we receive when we run back into the fire; when we see evil, fear or anxiety and we conquer it with conviction and sympathy. We will keep running and with every hurdle – every Lee Harvey Oswald, every Oklahoma City, every Newtown – we can grow to make others stronger.

Today, we are Pheidippides – running to tell our people that we’ve won; that we are safe and secure because fire, in the end, will wane. And that’s when we start building again, one step at a time.

Henry Dickmeyer is a sophomore economics major. He can be reached at dickmeyer@oxy.edu.

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