Immediately following Sept. 11, like so many others, I was filled with a kind of patriotic urge. I wanted to hang an American flag outside the house, but my dad said he still felt uneasy with such displays after the hollow patriotism of the Vietnam era. I wanted to give blood, but the lines were so long at local blood banks that people were told to stay home.
So, instead, I left the country.
I had finished stuffing my luggage that morning after three weeks of packing preparations (including the "mock pack" mandated by my parents) when my mom called up the stairs to turn on the TV. I was to leave the next day, fly to Iceland for a few days and then head to Glasgow, Scotland, for the English Foreign Study Program.
Of course, I didn't fly anywhere on Sept. 12.
After several panicked ticket changes and a few anxious days of waiting, I did eventually take off for Scotland. Once there, my American identity was immediately thrown into the limelight. My accent gave away my nationality every time I opened my mouth. So whenever I spoke to someone new in those first few weeks, I often received an expression of sympathy in light of what had happened Sept. 11. The Dartmouth Off-Campus Programs Office also made me aware of the issue of nationality, with its warnings not to wear clothing with American symbols and not to frequent places like American fast-food restaurants. Each FSP group was to have an escape plan, a place we would go if things became dangerous in our current locations.
These warnings seemed extreme in the non-threatening environment of Scotland. But maybe that was due to my ignorance of what was happening back home. There was no TV in my dorm, and many of the Scottish newspapers served up the news tabloid-style. One issue had the headline "We Want Osama's Head On A Plate" blaring across the front page in huge red letters. Not exactly the image of a trustworthy news source.
Despite these obstacles, I could have kept abreast of current affairs if I had really wanted to. I could have handed over a few pounds everyday for an issue of The New York Times. I could have taken the time during my limited Internet sessions at the campus library to go online and read the news. But I didn't. And now I wonder why not.
When news of the situation at home did reach me, it seemed rather unreal. I learned about the anthrax outbreaks when my grandmother mentioned them in a letter. My mother called one night and in the midst of the conversation said, "I just want you to know, the U.S. is about to start the bombing." Bombing? What bombing? I had absolutely no idea things were at that point. When they visited Scotland in November, my parents brought over a few Time magazines for me to look at. I was amazed as I read them; it was hard to believe the country being written about on every page was the same country I had lived in just two months before.
The news did not seem real.
My sister's frantic phone calls from her D.C. apartment that September morning -- those were real. But that was when I was still at home. These stories of anthrax and bombs and war turned unreal in their journey to me across the ocean.
Things settled down over the duration of the FSP. By the end of the trip, instead of being different because I was from the country that had just been attacked, I was different because I did not eat baked beans on white toast for breakfast, like the rest of my Scottish floor-mates.
Was it a good time or a bad time to be away from home?
