I have difficulty defining “home” right now. Home to me means familiarity, security, a sense of belonging and the presence of those I love. Right now, those much-needed signs of home escape me.
Since my arrival at Georgetown less than a month ago, I have begun to develop a keener sense of my purpose in this place. No matter how much I may have anticipated the start of my new life here, the reality of beginning college proved to be much more settling than expected. People were outgoing, and the two strangers I shared a room with quickly evolved into friends. The more I was away from home, the more I felt I belonged away, away from the monotony and conformity of home. My conversations with old friends in Florida only made my distance from them seem greater. I felt as though I was being propelled into a completely new and different direction. I wallowed in the education being thrown at me?spiritually and emotionally, intellectually and socially.
On Sept. 11, perhaps the most fateful day in American history, my image of this perfect, little world was shaken. At about nine o’clock that morning, I went for a half-hour workout at Yates, and I recall considering whether I should have done my run outdoors, perhaps taken the scenic route by the monuments. Before returning to my dorm, a friend who had been watching TV during her workout told me that an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center. It didn’t register with me then, and I dreaded the media frenzy this would inevitably entail.
On my walk back to Harbin, I didn’t bother to look at the skyline, and I still wonder what I may have seen. On the local radio station, reports were flying in about an explosion at the Pentagon. In the hall a few girls were crying. It seemed like another fire drill. Were we evacuating? My mom called instantly. She said with that calm worry in her voice to remain inside and not to attend classes. My roommate was approaching a state of hysteria, and I almost couldn’t resist the desire to partake in the sensationalism of the event.
Callers described horrific scenes over the radio. One man said he saw a fireball outside his car window while driving beside the Pentagon on I-395. From my dorm window, I could see the billowing smoke rise from the burning building. But for some reason I felt removed. These streets were familiar streets and the Pentagon a familiar landmark for the people of this area, but not for me yet. My roommate, a local Virginian, held back tears as these names, these places, equated to the family and friends she knew lived or worked there. I could detach myself easily and feel that these events were alien, non-inclusive of me. Although it all may have been only two miles away, it was 2,000 miles away in my perception of it.
I instinctively wanted to speak with my family, but phone lines were jammed. A feeling of helplessness and detachment began to creep in. My need to communicate with them became desperate. Eventually, I contacted my brother and sister via e-mail. The sense of relief was amazing. I could tell by the gravity of their questions that the images they were seeing of these events were far more disturbing than what I was experiencing. I typed in an instant message, “I love you guys,” and instantly lost connection. I logged on again and was relieved knowing that my message was on its way to them.
I think about that split second a lot and the fear I had of never letting them know how I felt. That is the closest I believe I will ever come to understanding the horror of the people in those buildings or in those planes who either realized or didn’t realize at all that it would be their last opportunity to tell their families they loved them.
This past week, I have found myself attending religious services as often as I can. Maybe it’s my desire to make sense of the absurdity of these events. Maybe it’s my need to share my grief with others. Maybe it’s my need to feel wanted, to feel loved.
I’ve caught myself many times this past week in the arms of strangers or people who were strangers less than a month ago. Invariably, we are touched, and we all suffer as a result of this and together we share this suffering.
When I think of home now it has a much broader meaning. I went on a run two days ago, but this time decided to take the route by the monuments. I have never lived in a time when I could sense the fragility of national security as I could this past week. But I am not scared. If home is a place where everyone is welcome, where external forces pose no threat to the resiliency of a united family and where any member is willing to fight to protect the life and welfare of its fellow members, then I have never felt at home as much as I do today.
