Editor’s word: My final staff editorial

Editors+word%3A+My+final+staff+editorial

Ethan M. Long

I was angry. In fact, I was livid. I was stuck in the middle of the crowd on Boylston Street just a few blocks down from Forum, a bar where RadioBDC, the Globe’s radio station featuring former staff members of WFNX, was co-sponsoring a benefit for the Joe Andruzzi Foundation. To make matters worse, I had followed the flow of families, students, and spectators down Newbury Street from the Hynes MBTA station right onto the wrong side of the street. This was my first Boston Marathon experience, and up until I arrived at Forum an hour after I stepped off the Green Line, I had convinced myself that this huge, mass-marketed event, with thousands of people wiggling their way through huge crowds, just validated my pre-determined annoyance of “Patriot’s Day.”

Twelve hours earlier, I had been hanging out in the alleys of Harvard Square before heading to the Sinclair to see the Pennsylvania-based band Pissed Jeans, a band which has consistently put on some great performances. I had been speaking to my friend Adric about Boston: I’ve been seriously thinking about moving to the west coast after visiting San Francisco with the Journal and being impressed. Oakland, in particular, had captured my imagination: what a perfect example of the type of community and solidarity between neighbors. “Planet Oakland,” as they called it, was the opposite of what Boston felt like at the time. The DIY music community was thriving, but eventually the law got in the way and forced what were once safe-spaces hosting friendly gatherings to shut down. Before Monday, this was on my mind more than anything else.

Once inside Forum, I decided to turn back around and hike up a block to Walgreens, where I purchased lens cleaner, cloth, and a pouch of pistachios. On the way back, I made quick eye contact with former Journal editor Derek Anderson, who was helping a runner’s family decide which Apple product to buy. I thought about finding him later in the afternoon, and as I walked back into the restaurant I ran into Adam XII, former-WFNX and current RadioBDC DJ. He greeted me smiling, asking how I was. I told him about the frustrations of navigating around the Marathon site, and he concurred, noting that a similar thing had happened to him a couple of years ago.

Then, I went to work. And, decided to smoke a cigarette five minutes later. Great work ethic, huh?

As we walked out the back door of the bar, I took out a Marlboro Red and raised it, touching my lips. Lighting it, I looked down both ends of Public Alley 441. It was pretty barren.

An hour before the blast, Alex Pearlman and I posed in the party booth machine.

When you take photos for an event, it can be trying getting everyone into the frame. I had asked four women if they’d like to be on RadioBDC.com, which they promptly gave positive reactions to. Sammy, the dog, was just lying in the window with her head down. Of course I got her seldom look in the photograph. I took down the four names, from left to right, and walked to the far end of the second floor, where I quickly snapped a picture of the runners on my phone from above, and tweeted it.

Seven minutes later, I stood by the front of the bar behind a table with mixing equipment on it. Alex Pearlman, also a former Journal editor and current employee for the Globe and RadioBDC, was nowhere to be seen. I peered down at my phone to lookup NBA news, as I hadn’t since the Mavericks went over .500 the night before.

A flash went off in the front of the restaurant. At least that’s what I thought; I hadn’t been the only photographer there. A second flash went off along with a huge boom.

“Get Down! There’s a gun!”

I couldn’t see, there was so much smoke. Glass blew by my face. A pretty heavy-set guy, I was the easiest target in the room. I had to get out. I couldn’t see Alex Pearlman anywhere, and in the pandemonium, I took the first chance I could to push the table forward and jolt out the back door. Those fifteen seconds or so have become a blur. I had never felt total hysteria before. Quite a sensation, it split my brain and my body, and without much processing, I felt my body move like I was jumping from one side of a mosh pit to the other, into a friend’s chest — but instead it was the side of the bar. I hadn’t even thought about the bag I left, the cherished lens I’d had since I was 16, or the ATM card I had just opened a tab with. It was survival or nothing.

Public Alley 441 was no longer the devoid strip of asphalt in dire need of repairs. Instead, it became a stream of runners without bibs, and instead with infants, fathers, partners, mothers, and just about any type of person you could think of. Thankfully, there was enough room to jolt down the street without having to crawl over another person, although I cannot say that for every other location. It was then that I realized this wasn’t a gunman — this was a widespread catastrophe in the Back Bay.

I began to shoot people running before I spotted Pearlman through my lens. Within a minute, we were racing around the corner and onto Boylston, into the action, to do the best we could at what we do, report the news.

“Something’s seriously wrong,” I thought to myself. “Your job is to find the facts, be skeptical, and do everything to not exploit the situation.” The Metro desk at the Globe picked up Pearlman’s phone call.

“What happened?” she asked, but the person on the other line could only ask her the same question. “A bomb went off at the marathon, at least one. People are running around crying, wondering where to go.” That was the first moment I realized that this was a terrorist attack. I quickly texted my mother that I was safe and turned off my phone to save battery.

The next ten minutes were spent taking as many photos of the scene as I could without getting in the way. That was the most important thing: do not, in any way, obstruct someone trying to help. The police were expanding the perimeter, and as I tried to tell them I was press, one officer told me to “F*** off, I don’t care who you’re with.” Of course, he was right — I should have never even asked. I told them that I respected what they were doing and that I’d do anything I could to be neither seen or heard while doing my job. The officer nodded and ran off to get the next barrier. This was a terrorist attack. I put the camera down and looked around. It hasn’t left my mind yet, the gruesome scene. It wouldn’t be right to try to describe other peoples’ condition in this editorial.

For the next twenty minutes, my phone was back on and became a livestream that the Globe had been actively trying to get spread, except the termination of cell services in the area had crushed it to the point of no connection, and in turn, left me with one percent battery life.

We found Chris Faraone, former staff writer for the Boston Phoenix, who I had worked with during the lead-up to the death of Andrew Breitbart a year ago. He was coming to meet us when the explosion happened. Standing on the curb with face in phone, he was tweeting like a machine, figuring out as much information as possible. One of my roommates, a pedicabber who was working down by Mass Ave, reached us to check in before heading back to the South End bike shop.

Adam XII and the rest of the RadioBDC staff were standing close to their van on Newbury Street when we finally reached them. Before long, Garrett Quinn, of Mediaite and Reason Magazine, appeared out of nowhere. Pearlman, Faraone, Quinn, and I started to walk towards Commonwealth Avenue where the marathon route had been diverted.

One older man, who had been running in the race, walked up to us. His face was blank as he explained that his wife and family had been sitting on the bleachers next to the finish line, and that he hadn’t heard from any of them since the morning. Quinn took out his phone and texted the number the man provided. His eyes were in terror for ten minutes before she texted back that he should come home, they were safe. The terror turned into tears of relief.

Lola Bar on Commonwealth Avenue had become our home for the next hour or so. Journalists seemed to pile in, as it was as close as we could get to the scene. We found few power outlets and a 4G netcard to attempt to send the Globe the photos taken. No luck. Too slow. Deval Patrick and Ed Davis spoke from a hotel on the other side of Boylston, and as we watched, shushes attempted to shut up the drunkards raging about 9/11 in the back corner.

Anxiety about getting the photos out set in, and before long Pearlman and I were on our way down the mall, up Beacon Street, and onto Temple Street, where we quickly lit cigarettes and decompressed for five minutes. We had frequently shared cigarette breaks at this spot right in front of Donahue, but this time was different.

If you had the opportunity to help, you did. Random volunteers raced down the street with wheelchairs and water. Bostonians offered up their homes, cars, and communication devices to complete strangers. Restaurants offered free food and drinks to anyone dislocated. As the Boss sings on last year’s album Wrecking Ball, “we take care of our own.” I don’t have to move all the way to the west coast to experience Oakland, because this is “Planet Boston,” when it needs to be.

Thank you to the SUPD officer who we pleaded our case to after showing our expired student IDs, for allowing us to get into our office. This office has become my absolute comfort zone in the past five years, and while my mental health was struggling to grasp what had just happened, I could relax a bit while looking around at the memorabilia collected on the walls of D537.

I entered Suffolk University during the last few months of the Bush administration. I covered the 2008 and 2012 elections. I was here during the forced resignation of President Sergeant, and virally f’d up the first issue with President McCarthy on campus. (Yea, sorry about that.) I’ve seen Seriously Bent get funnier and funnier. I’ve seen the College Republicans awesome care package drive become the most popular, successful event on campus.

It had never once crossed my mind that I would be spending my last night on the staff of the Suffolk Journal, as its editor-in-chief, after almost 100 issues, covering a terrorist attack which, if I was fifteen feet closer to the street…who knows.

I love you, Suffolk, and although I may be hot-headed at points, you’ve treated me well. You’ve given me so many opportunities and allowed me to meet so many people who I cherish. It is terrible that this happened in our city, but life will continue. Fear is meant to destroy your faith, don’t let it.