oldsouthmeetinghouse

A few days later ...

The Mr. and I got married at Old South Meeting House where, in 1773, rebels gathered right before they stormed towards the harbor for what would become known as the Boston Tea Party. It is a place of defiance and ultimately independence. We’re both “I’m doing it my way” kind of people and love the symbolic nature of our chosen location, a sort of “yep, we’re getting married but we’re not doing this the way you all think we should.” And I wore bright green shoes. That I made sure everyone could see under my nontraditional tea-length dress.

Defiant. Independent. That’s who we are. And that is what this city is. We are surrounded by reminders of the scrappiest of scrappy revolutionaries who walked these streets before us. It’s why we laugh knowingly at that scene in The Town when Coughlin has been shot, heavily bleeding, and is clearly out of options. Jon Hamm yells out, “Coughlin, throw down your weapon.” And he responds, “Fuck you!” with what may be one of the best approximations of the local accent that takes almost two decades of living here to learn how to love. Us Bostonians walk around with a little “fuck you” in our hearts all the time.

On Friday, the Mr. and I are going on our usual date night. To a restaurant on the perimeter of the crime scene, one block from the first explosion. And when they reopen Boylston Street, we’ll go pay our respects and reclaim our rightful place on that street. Alongside our fellow Bostonians. Scrappy. Defiant. I may even wear some green shoes.