36/90, an example of living and learning

I’m taking the slow steps to recover my dignity, my faith in people and my fiancé’s money.

I got home to Ohio today, and it was out of my mouth before I’d unpacked my suitcases. The college student with his mother’s apartment was a myth, a virtual person with ­­a virtual apartment that we will never live in.


Joe had been suspicious. I had been immediately trusting. I didn’t catch onto the Western Union money transfer. I didn’t catch onto the yahoo e-mail address. I didn’t catch onto it being too good to be true. I convinced us.

I blame myself. The day after asking for our refund and refusing to send more money was the first day I didn’t receive a response. My stomach sank. My pancakes went cold as I sat with my head on my desk. I had to call him, to explain that I’d just thrown his first poetry prize money to a “scammer”–the word our supposed landlord used when we asked for assurance, when he’d sent us the address and phone number.
He says he doesn’t blame me. But I can’t help but wonder, now, how he’ll look back on his first prize. I fear that I’ve tainted this moment that was so close to getting us ahead, so nearly perfect.

He still has the prize. We still have the budget we’ve been planning. I still have my family ready to help me get going this week, moving us toward the Big Day. We have a new plan, a new approach to getting our apartment.


I’m learning to be patient. Had I not tried to get us ahead, I wouldn’t have gotten us into this. I would have received the e-mail from Nancy first. This was not the case.
The e-mail reminding me to complete my dossier candidature for my visa told me that, in the e-mail with more work-related details, they would send housing advice from current students.

Jill, my creative writing professor, has seen me hesitate in my writing and explaining frequently. Her advice is, without fail, to tell them. Don’t hold any of it back–just tell the story, and you’ll be surprise how well they adjust to the truth.

I was terrified to tell my parents what had happened. My dad had left me a voicemail expressing his suspicion. I knew he’d be disappointed, sorry, frustrated that it’d happened to us. I hated continuing my tradition of bad-news-giving each time I come back to Ohio.

I was terrified to be seen as a child again, when we were working so hard to make decisions as our own, distinct family unit. I made myself feel like a child, ready for punishment that would pass and move quickly past everything.

My parents, however, were quick to remind me that these things happen. That we live and learn; we do what we can do get it back.

I wished they’d been next to me when I walked into legal services and was told they couldn’t help me. I wish I’d had my dad to cry on when a mascara-filled tear slipped onto my cheek in front of the university police’s receptionist.

“Do you have proof of fraud?” she had asked.

“What does that mean?” I replied, swatting the tear away, holding my breath and straightening my spine. She wasn’t sure. I didn’t let myself deflate.

I walked through the glass door with nowhere else to go, but was glad to walk out on my own. I had done it. I had taken those steps, and when my parents asked how things were getting handled so far, I was proud to list the people I’d talked to, the next phase I’d made for myself.

And they trusted me. I’d spent so much time yelling at myself, standing myself in a corner and dreading what others would say, that I forgot how good they are at making me feel better. Their support and the quick transition to happy wedding talk made me feel like the adult I’m learning how to be.