I met my potential new roommate one evening in August. I needed to see the place and she needed to vet me. Her current roommate was there, making dinner in the tiny galley kitchen. She was lithe and olive-skinned, an exchange student from Spain. It was so simple, but I remember how wordly and adult she appeared, holding a small glass bowl of pasta with cherry tomatoes.
I moved in a short time later, mostly with just bedroom items, my clothes, and a few things for the kitchen. It was a townhome with a kitchen, breakfast nook, and living room on its first floor. The second floor had 2 bedrooms and one small bathroom. My bedroom faced the front and was the smaller of the two. I think I paid $25 less per month since mine was smaller, but it seemed luxurious after living in tiny dorm boxes for 3 years.
I decorated my room in burgundy and black, a color scheme that seemed sophisticated at the time. We didn't have laundry so I'd still go to my mom's house often to visit and run a few loads. My roommate's parents lived close by as well and she would do the same.
Her boyfriend lived in the same apartment complex, just down the street from us. He spent a lot of time at our place, even when she wasn't there because we had a more comfortable living room and a better TV. I found it weird, but I wasn't there much myself so I suppose it never got to the point that it really bothered me. I was either in class, at the library studying, or hanging out with my boyfriend around town.
The morning of September 11th, I had a yoga class that I was taking for one of four required physical education credits. An antiquated requirement for a liberal arts school even in 2001. As I was driving back to the townhouse, I had the radio on and there were reports of an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center. It was a short drive home, but the DJ never switched to music and so I immediately turned the TV on once I got inside.
I called my roommate to come down and watch and we sat motionless in our tiny living room, unable to believe the story unfolding.
Years later, I'd meet my husband who recounted his own story of being at work in Manhattan that day. They had a meeting that morning and he ended up going in earlier than usual. Had he gone in at his regular time, he would have been under the World Trade Center at the time of the attacks. Instead, he was uptown and talked about his cell phone jamming and sitting at a bar waiting for more information before eventually making the long walk home to Brooklyn. I didn't know him in that world. It was the one in which he sold phone service to Manhattan businesses and carried a messenger bag to work. He smoked cigarettes and lived in Park Slope and knew exactly where to stand on the subway platform to be right in front of the door.
Having never lived through such a news event outside of being a child, I wasn't sure what to do about regular life. Do I sit and watch TV? Am I supposed to go to class? School closures weren't announced via text or social media. I had a microbiology class late that morning and decided I should go in case it wasn't canceled. We all sat in the lecture hall for a few minutes, murmuring quietly about the news. The professor came out and canceled class and our afternoon lab given the unknowns of the world.
I decided to go to my boyfriend's apartment that afternoon. He had blue jersey sheets on a bed pushed up against the wall. We sat on the edge, side by side with our elbows on our knees, eyes glued to the TV.
I wrote about how I felt the next day, a lengthy journal entry of sorts. Somewhere in the many moves of my early 20s, this piece of paper was lost. But I'll never forget the dystopian feeling I had that morning of September 12th, the world in which I lived seemingly shaken forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment