Many aspects of Tufts' student life have changed since I first arrived here in the fall of 2010. I can no longer study at the REZQuad Caf? behind Miller, and my freshmen from Tufts Wilderness Orientation can only imagine the spectacle that was NQR. Our president is different, our gym is different and how Lewis Hall was not featured in an episode of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" (2003-2012) surprises me to this day. As the proverbial book of my undergraduate career comes to a close, I am once again reminded just how fortunate I am: fortunate to be surrounded by my friends and my family; fortunate to have been given another opportunity to learn; and fortunate to have called this campus home for the past four years. In this home, one thing has certainly not changed, and that is the strength of our community. What comes next is a disjointed attempt to explain exactly why I feel so.
Hitching a ride with fellow runners back to Tufts after the events of last year's Marathon Monday, I kept quiet. The entire trip, I cannot recall even uttering a sound as I solemnly stared out the window. It had nothing to do with the atrocity that had just occurred at the finish line, nor was it attributed to the incomparable pain coursing through my inexperienced upper thighs. I had not finished the race. There were no friends drenching me in champagne or volunteers eagerly waiting to wrap me in a runner's blanket. Two individuals had not only put so many peoples' lives in jeopardy, but had also doused the dreams of so many like me. Letting the impulsive side in me run free meant running the risk of appearing incredibly selfish as I vented my frustration. So, I kept quiet. As we drove down College Ave., my friend, Riley, requested to be dropped off by the track. Having just run as far as I had, he turned to me and asked if I wanted to finish the final half-mile with him.
The corners of my mouth, prompted by this pleasant surprise, gently curved upwards as if to say “yes,” and we made our way over to what was the only form of closure available to us that day. Arms held high, I finished my second lap around the track, ending with an embrace in Riley's arms. How could this all have happened? Why did I feel the way I did? Even a year later, I struggle to fully immerse myself back to that April morning because on a day where I was fortunate to be alive and well, I was nothing but thankless. I knew how lucky I was to be safe, but this wasn't the ending I had envisioned. A day supposedly highlighted by the triumph over physical and mental adversity had become tainted with self-interest and egotism.
But on that same day, where a runner felt more shame than pride, a community absolved him without hesitation. This community cared for all of its members, from the fellow runners who began that crisp Monday morning in Hopkinton to the concerned onlookers updating their Twitter feeds in Tisch. In those following weeks, there was no place in the world I would have rather been at than my home away from home. When I felt alone in my feelings following the race, I found companionship in the similar internal conflicts of other runners. When I struggled to walk down a flight of stairs without looking like a fool, I found an outstretched hand from a random student. That hand meant more to me than the combined feeling of crossing more than a thousand Boston Marathon finish lines.
Maybe in my desperate struggle to prove something to that out-of-shape boy who could barely run a mile a year earlier, I got caught up in the notion that I had done this all on my own. In reality, there had always been someone right beside me, pushing me to continue on. If you ever asked me how my morning run went, you were that person. If I ever saw you on the street and ran a bit harder to impress you, you were that person. And if you ever pushed yourself to do something you never thought you could do before, you were that person. Borrowing words from Christopher McDougall of "Born to Run" (2009): "The reason we race isn't so much to beat each other, ... but to be with each other." When I line up in Hopkinton this coming Monday, I'll look down at my bib number. The number will be different, and so will the shirt that I'll be wearing. My anxiety won't be as high as it was last year, and I will be better trained. But I know what will remain constant, and that is the strength of the community I'll be running home to.
I will finish the race this year. A part of it is for myself — for my closure. But the other part is for a community that saw me through a journey, one that transcended asphalt and gravel. So, here I am now. Fortunate to be cared for. Fortunate to be running again. Fortunate to be a Jumbo.
John Kwon is a senior majoring in economics. He can be reached at John.Kwon@tufts.edu.
