Cut and Run

I recently read a reaction to a Telegram post about the mandatory vaccine implementation for the city of Boston’s businesses. It went something like this:
 
 “Get the hell out of that commie city while you still can.”
 
I understand the sentiment, which I consider a rational view worth considering, but I have recently begun to rethink that idea.
 
Perhaps because I am starting to see a light at the end of a tunnel in regard to this “plandemic” madness (despite this last gasping attempt at control by Boston’s commie Mayor Wu), I now think that remaining in the city is a better choice. Why?
 
Let me first explain that my husband and I grew up in a very small town of about 2000 residents in central Maine. The nearest city was Bangor—the Queen City—a small, bowl-shaped cluster of five story buildings nestled along the Penobscot river. The next closest city was Portland, a two-hour drive south on I-95. We both attended the University of Maine at Orono—a half-hour’s drive north of Bangor—and married soon after graduation, then settled into our first apartment in the Queen City.
 
Two years later, with a newborn son in tow, we moved to Columbia, MD for my husband’s new government job. Columbia is a planned community that, at the time, had a population of 88,000. This was a real “big city” move to us, although the layout of the city was more like a cluster of suburban villages. We lived there for ten years, adding two more children, until the housing market and my husband’s job change allowed us to move closer (but not too close) to family back in New England.
 
We settled in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, an idyllic suburban town of about 11,000 residents, where we lived for 17 years (yes, 17). My husband changed jobs again, and began commuting 50 miles to Boston every day, which took 2 hours each way, on average. A total commute time of 4 hours…every day. He did this for three years.
 
When our youngest went off to college, we saw it as an opportunity to improve our quality of life by cutting the commute and moving to Boston, a real “big city”. We had paid off our mortgage and had no other debt (thanks to my husband’s hard work and lucrative career) so we decided to keep the house and give city living a try. I looked forward to all that Boston had to offer—the museums, the history, the libraries, the endless choices of walking routes. Although I was hesitant about being surrounded by gobs of leftists, I’ve always been a solitary person, never needing a “squad” to keep me company.
 
We moved to downtown Boston in September of 2019. Any worry I had about not taking to city life disappeared immediately. Everything was new and exciting. The restaurants, the shops, the history! I enjoyed hearing snippets of conversations in so many different languages as I walked down the street. This small-town-girl was having the time of her life.
 
We enjoyed five full months in Boston before everything shut down because of the “Virus”. Suddenly, everything was hushed and empty. But somehow, the city was still beautiful to me. Unlike most Boston residents, we were never afraid to go outside. We basically had the city to ourselves, save a smattering of other daring souls. We ate at whatever establishments remained open, never needing a reservation. We walked alone through the parks and along the Charles River. Sure, the museums were closed and shopping was only for groceries, but I never liked shopping anyway. Boston was abandoned, ghostly, enchanted.
 
Then came the “George Floyd Riots” at the end of May. We watched the street violence from our 16th floor window all night as fires burned, helicopters churned, and mobs of rioters and looters destroyed clustered blocks of the city. We compared reports from the police scanner and the tv news to what we actually witnessed. Discrepancies abounded. Fortunately, I never felt threatened in our secure building. As a person who grew up around cows, it was fascinating to watch.
 
We took a walk the next morning to survey the damage. Downtown Crossing was destroyed and abandoned. It really felt like I was walking through the set of a post-apocalyptic movie. My heart broke for all the business owners. Riots on top of lockdowns did not bode well for the future of the city.
 
I had no idea that two years later, this ridiculous fake pandemic scenario would still be in play. Some businesses have returned, many have not. Those who have chosen to stick it out have been rewarded with a loyal customer base. But the city is doing it’s best to make sure visitors and tourists stay away, with all the mask mandates and now the vaccine mandate.
 
Boston is hurting. Despite the thin veil of normalcy displayed on sidewalk placards and window signs, I feel the shaky breath of a city barely holding on to its once honorable place in American history. Every step I take on the Freedom Trail feels like a lie. A ghost of what used to be. A shameful reminder that the Patriots who fought for freedom are long, long gone. I can almost hear them crying out “What have you done? What are you doing?”
 
I am not an outwardly social person. I don’t speak out or wave signs at the protests I attend. But I do stand alongside those with louder voices. I do march beside my fellow Patriots in quiet, resolute support. And I am far too stubborn to abandon this birthplace of the American Revolution to the evil tyrants trying to erase history by destroying it.
 
On my walks, I often pass by Liberty Tree Square. I always look up to the bas relief on the brick building where the tree once stood and imagine the Sons of Liberty plotting their resistance to the Crown. I think about Paul Revere racing on horseback as I pass his house and then the Old North Church and its famous bell tower. And in the distance, I see the monument on Bunker Hill, a reminder of all those brave souls who fought and died for freedom.
 
No, I won’t let them beat me. I won’t let them chase me out before I have had a chance to experience Boston the way it should be. I won’t cut and run. I must see Boston through the madness, if only to be one more person who appreciates and honors its history. I may not loudly orate on the steps of Faneuil Hall, but I can quietly represent the American people who owe so much to the young revolutionaries who started it all. So, I will stubbornly remain until the birthplace of freedom is returned to its rightful glory.