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By Newsweek Editors
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When I was applying to colleges as a high-school senior I wanted nothing more than to go somewhere far, far from home. I believed, as so many young people do, that my success and maturity would be measured largely by how far away from my family I went to attend college and, eventually, get a job. As it turned out, my parents balked at paying for me to fly home for four years of Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer vacations, so I had to look for schools within a few hours' driving distance. I applied to two schools that were in state, and two in bordering states. Not very exotic.
In the end, I chose the school that was just an hour away because it offered me the most scholarship money. I can remember the mother of one of my friends saying with disdain in her voice, "So, you decided to stick around here, huh?" My response--my rationalization to myself and others--was that I wouldn't have to come home, or even call, any more than if I were at a school thousands of miles away.
But I did call and visit often. I justified this by telling myself I would move away after college, when I would no longer be financially dependent on my parents. I also took every opportunity I had to travel as an undergraduate. I studied for six months in France and for three months in New York City, in a program for fine-arts students. I knew that my parents were telling their friends and neighbors about the far-flung adventures I was having, and it made me feel that I had somehow compensated for choosing a school so close to home.
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When it came time for graduate school, I applied all over the country. My first choice--which happened to be several states away--offered me a spot, and I accepted immediately. In all the excitement of planning and packing, I overlooked the fact that this would be the first time I would leave my family without knowing that it was only temporary, that I would soon return. I was totally unprepared for the grief I felt.
The night before I left, my parents tried to comfort me. They assured me we would all see each other again soon, that this was something I had to do and that they would enjoy visiting me in my new city, but I was inconsolable. I cried during most of the three-day drive to my new school and every day after that for two weeks. It was devastating to realize that for the next few years I would see my mother and father only on special occasions and major holidays.
Since then I have seen my family three times, for two Christmas visits and my wedding last summer. Unfortunately, it has never gotten any easier for me to say goodbye when the time comes. My husband (who grew up near my hometown) and I plan to move again in a year and a half. One of our top priorities will be to get closer to our families.
I am 24 years old, a full-fledged adult. And I miss my mom and dad and my brother. Not long ago, that statement would have felt confessional. I had internalized the not-so-subtle message that once you reach your magical 18th birthday, you should be completely self-reliant. I had bought into the idea that while you should certainly continue to love your parents, and even to ask their advice once in a while, you shouldn't be sad if you don't get to see them on a regular basis. I saw a sitcom recently in which the young husband complained to his wife about her parents, wondering why they couldn't be like "normal" parents and live far away. This character had perfectly captured the essence of it: parents who live near their grown children are smothering, and children who stay near their parents are clingy, codependent, unsuccessful.
That perception may finally be changing. Before September 11, I felt unique in my strong attachment to my family. Since then, however, many of my friends say they wish they could gather together everyone they love so they could keep them safe, and so they wouldn't have to face alone whatever new dangers may come.
But it's more than fear, I think, that makes us want to be with our loved ones. It's a cliche to say that adversity and trauma force us to seriously re-examine our lives. But since the attacks, I've heard my peers say they feel a renewed appreciation for their families. I have spoken to so many young people who visited or called their relatives on September 11--even if they were not in physical danger--to say I love you, are you OK, I'm so grateful for you. It's too early to know whether our gratitude and our desire for more contact with our families will last, or if, as the fear and shock continue to abate, those feelings will fade, too. But for now, at least, it seems as though my family and I, in our closeness, are not so unusual.
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