That question got asked a lot on Monday. By the forums I frequent and in my fiction workshop. I just sat quiet as everyone else memorialized what they were doing.

But since Monday, I have been recounting what happened five years ago.
I had just transferred from a university in Michigan to NYU. I was there two weeks living on East 53rd street when the attacks happened.

I was in the Dramatic Writing Program at NYU, which is a very small department in the Tisch School of Arts. Out of 2600 applications, they accepted 40 incoming students, and I was one of them. It had been my dream to go to NYU. Live in New York City and write and go to NYU. It was the only dream I had ever had. I didn't dream of getting married like most of my other girlfriends. I didn't dream of being a mom. I dreamt of going to NYU. I felt like my future hinged on this goal.

Eight of us dropped out (aka "took a medical leave of absence") that semester. I left in November because I had a script to complete by December. It could have been about anything but it had to be set as a Western. I felt like I would never write again. I felt like anything I had to say was silly and petty. I had a website at the time, but I couldn't even update it anymore.

I heard the sonic boom of the planes flying into the towers even from my place on the Upper East side. And the ambulances. I remember wondering if this was typical New York City life. I had only been there for two weeks. I even sent that question to my husband (at the time he was my fiance) as an e-mail. I was on my way to class when it happened, waiting for a NYU tram and I suddenly saw the smoke billowing. I was going to class early, so I went back to my room to check the news. The streets then cleared of people. I called my fiance in DC and my family in California and my best friend also in Cali, letting them know I was okay. It was ironic because my best friend has been to NYC a year or two earlier and had recommended that the things I see in NYC was the World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty (aside, of course, from the Seinfeld Reality Tour). I had planned to head down to WTC that day. It was Tuesday and I only had one class. I was going to head down to 14th street and walk the Financial District.

I officially withdrew from NYU in November, I left on a medical leave of absence for post-traumatic stress disorder which would hold my place until the following Spring. I couldn't sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time. I kept hearing planes. When I left, I went to live with my fiance in DC since there was no room for me at home. Or at least that is what I tell people. I actually didn't have a home and futhermore I wasn't welcome at the home my mom lived. My mom had sold the house the week I left for college in Michigan the year before, and went to live with my grandmother.

On my trip back to California to visit during the summer of 2001, my grandmother had locked my little brother out of the house to "teach him a lesson" about carrying his key. My little brother was left outside alone knocking on the door for two hours, crying. My mom was heartbroken that her mother could be so cruel. She didn't even know what to say. So all of us sat down at the table and tried talking it out. I tried to mediate the conversation but my grandmother is highly irrational. I didn't yell at my grandmother, but my grandmother certainly yelled at me. She also told me that she hated me and that I was never allowed to step foot in her house again. My mom called me when I flew back to DC and told me that I couldn't come visit at Christmas, and that the next time I'd be "allowed" to see them again would be at my wedding in June 2002--and that was only because my wedding was in Michigan and my mom and brothers were flying out for that.

I honestly didn't know what I was going to do. I felt like I had to stay enrolled at NYC just to have a place to live, but I couldn't write, which meant I was going to flunk out of school and be kicked out anyway--which would make it even harder to transfer anywhere else. I was staying with my fiance in DC right after 9/11 because I had absolutely no where to go.

Our plan had been to get married 2002 and continue to live apart until I was finished at NYU. We were both very comfortable about that idea. But after 9/11, we didn't want to separated from each other.
When I went to live with him, he was receiving $500 a month from his parents--I know, right? I grew up really poor, so that was like mind-numbing to find that out. But his parents are really old-fashioned and were extremely upset that I went to live with him, even though they knew my situation with my mom and grandmother, and ya know, living through September 11th.

His mom threatened that if I lived with him, they would cut him off. And that she was "Devastated. And embarassed." And what was she supposed to tell her friends? My husband stuck up for me, and asked why was it anyone's business? He said we're both adults and he wasn't asking for her permission and she didn't have to like the decision, but just to support it.

They cut him off.

He gave up $500 a month for me when he was 21, while his older sister continued to receive her $500 a month stipend until she was 28 years old--even going so far as to move in with her boyfriend and keep it a secret from their parents, just so she could still get the $500 a month. Because she knew how crazy her mom acted when B and I moved in together. Ha. I say "moved in" together like it was a decision we wanted to make. We had wanted to do everything in the "proper" order. Get engaged, get married, then move in together. But, ya know, life happens. And suddenly "proper" orders seem like bullshit.

Heck, we lived in DC and they lived in Michigan. They technically didn't even have to know we were living together. We were just being honest.

Whatever.

So September 11th really affected my life. I transferred to a university in Maryland and finished my BA in English. I started writing again in 2003. It took me nearly 2 years, though. And I'm still writing. Heck, I'm even getting my Ph.D. in Creative Writing. So I have recovered mostly from the shock and Post-Tramautic Stress Disorder.

But I have to admit that I didn't realize how irritated I still am about that whole situation with my mom and in-laws. I think the irritation continues to re-surface with the in-laws when B's sister tells me things like how their mom told everyone how she didn't think we would ever get married because we were so young. And how annoyed she was that DH was marrying someone with student loans. The complaints go on and on.

I lived through September 11th in NYC when I was 19 years old and was so thoroughly traumatized by it that I gave up my dream of going to NYU and writing and living New York. How does that not elicit some kind of empathy or acceptance as to my situation, especially since my mom told me that I couldn't go back to California?

It also hurts that my own mother didn't stand up for me so I could come back home--even though that wasn't really home. But it was where she and my brothers were living.

The only person who cared.... the only person who stood up for me was my husband, who wasn't even my husband at the time.

So yeah, September 11th affected me in some pretty horrible ways. I gave up on my dream and writing for a time. And I learned that the people you think you can count on to be the most caring and understanding really can't be counted on for anything. And I learned

that blood is not thicker than water.

But at least I learned the real definition of family. And that was through B.

Labels: horror, real life

( 3comments )

at September 15, 2006 7:41 PM  Emma said...

Hi. I found your blog through delighfulblogs.com, and I just wanted to let you know that I've really enjoyed reading it.

 

at September 19, 2006 8:55 PM  Lindsi Dawn said...

I couldn't help but cry when I read this... recalling everything that you were going through and the emotions I had because of you that day. I remember the Saturday before you told me you wanted to go see the WTC that week... and I will never forget how unbelievably scared I was that morning for you. I tried for hours to call Brad, his parents or your mom to find out if you were okay, since I knew it was pointless to try and call you. I don't think I've ever been so scared for someone’s life as I was that day. I can't even begin to describe the relief I felt when you were able to log online and tell me you were okay. If you hadn't I wouldn't have been able to go to work later that day.... actually, I don't think I would have been able to go back at all until I found out you were okay. Life wouldn't be the same with out you! I love you lots and I hope you think of me as family too… wait, I know you do, sista! Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don’t care if I didn’t marry your brother… we’ll always we sisters at heart.

 

at September 19, 2006 8:56 PM  Samantha said...

And then there are days when I'm glad I have a blog. Thank you, L. I love you, too.