Something In Common

By Rachel Garcia, Age 14, and her mentor Gindy Bladen

Inspired by the October '08 Memoir Workshop, "Between Blindness and Sight"

 
Rachel: I looked at a picture of me taken a year ago. I was in Miami wearing a short dress with a collar. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked nothing like the girl in the photo. She was happy, free, and strong. The girl in the mirror looked scared, lost, and hurt. How could I have done a complete 360° in such a short amount of time?

Gindy: I had a moment like that a few years ago. I had red hair for a role I had played, and I decided to let it go natural. It just didn’t seem important after everything my family had just been through. But at the end of that September, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that my hair had turned gray from the shock. I was upset, but I was also angry. It was silly, but it felt like insult added to injury.

This year everything just feels wrong. Ebony was so young, so beautiful. She didn’t deserve to leave. Especially not like that. It’s not fair. I should be happy, carefree. I shouldn’t have to carry this with me. I shouldn’t have to feel so empty. I’m fourteen; I shouldn’t have to wake up every day, put a smile on my face, and act as if everything’s okay.

It’s not fair that I have to be two parents and do everything myself. It’s not fair that we have to deal with the media attention and people being upset when they find out about her dad. But the saddest thing is that my daughter doesn’t have her daddy anymore. I don’t understand how people don’t get that. People say, “Never forget,” but do they understand that this should never happen to any family anywhere?

Our friend Ebony was murdered. Her ex-boyfriend followed her home one night in August and stabbed her. If someone had responded to her cries for help, she would still be alive.

That’s terrible. You must get so angry. When my daughter was starting middle school, her father was murdered. He worked at the World Trade Center, and he was killed in the attacks.

I wish that people would act like my gym teacher. He doesn’t even know the full story. He knows that someone close to me died, but he doesn’t force me to talk about it. He’s just there when I need him and that’s great. Do you think it’s harder to deal with your pain, or your daughter’s?

Oh—hers. What do you think your mom would say, Rachel?

My pain. She says she’s like a lioness with her cub.

I think your mom and I are a lot alike. My mother-in-law used to call me “Tiger Mom.”

I hate having to act okay. I hate when people say, “Oh, how are you?” when they don’t want to hear the truth.

I know what you mean! On the first anniversary, people seemed to want to think that we were fine now. They wanted it to be over. But those feelings are like the tide—sometimes high, sometimes low—they keep coming back. Does it help to write about it?

Yes. Writing helps because I get to share my experiences with others. I’m sure there are other people going through the same thing but they feel alone. And writing helps me make sense of my feelings.

Yes. I started to write my story down because people still try to ask me about it. They want to understand, but they don’t know how to talk about 9/11 in a real way.

If I’m going to go through all of this bad stuff, something good has to come out in the end. I don’t want to be an angry person feeling as if all of this happened for nothing.

Hang in there, Chuchi. Keep writing your story. You’re doing really well.

**This piece evolved the way that our writing sessions evolve—we start talking, something mutually important comes up, and we say, “Oh, let’s write about that!”**

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