The phrase is a cliche now: I got the rug pulled out from under me, but when you've had it really happen to you, it really makes sense. It's that moment when you’re standing there, looking around and taking things in and you suddenly get yanked off your feet unexpectedly, landing on your ass and wondering WTF just happened.

I had it happen at least two times in my life that was memorable enough to warrant the phrase. My mom's death was the second time. The first time was a few years before that. It was a WTF moment in my life that I tell now as a warning to parents, never do this to your kids if you want your child to not hold on to trauma for the rest of their lives.

We moved to NYC from Puerto Rico when I was almost four. I celebrated my fourth birthday in the Bronx. Soon after, we moved to Brooklyn, into a small apartment in an old brownstone on the border of Park Slope and Sunset Park. 

The brownstone wasn't meant to be three apartments. We lived on the top floor in what was probably the servants' quarters at one point. A very narrow flight of stairs from the second floor lead up to a short hallway / balcony that was illuminated from the skylight. 

All four rooms of the apartment had doors that opened to the hallway. They were sealed shut with paint. We had to walk in through the one unsealed door into the room that was set up as the living room. The living room windows faced the backyard and, in the distance, we could see the Twin Towers in lower Manhattan. The room that I shared with my brother faced the street and the small room from that was my mom's room. Our tiny kitchen was narrow with one window facing the backyard and our bathroom was a closet with no windows and a skylight. We had to sit on the toilet to brush our teeth and lean over the sink that was next to it.

It was small, but in my childhood memories it was enormous, and it was home. It's funny how in our memories, childhood places are so much bigger than they were. My mom didn't work when we first moved in. She babysat for extra money and took care of a couple of kids that soon became very close friends of ours (waving at Janet and Giovanni). We played hide and go seek there, monopoly, Yahtzee, and war card game. It was the launchpad for summer days to Prospect Park, Manhattan Beach and Coney Island. It was the place of birthday parties and cookouts on the fire escape.  

Then in 6th grade, the owner sold the property. The new owner wanted to raise the rent a ridiculous amount. I remember the day that he came over to my mom to tell her. Again, funny how memories skew things. In my mind, he was a tall thin man that looked like a villain in some movie with his dark mustache and big teeth. I understood little of the conversation, but I remember how angry my mom was. It was one of the few times I saw her that upset. She mentioned something to me about the higher rent and I figured we could handle it. She was married now, my stepdad worked, and she had a job.

It never occurred to me how poor we actually were until later in life. I didn't understand why I couldn't dress like the other kids in school in all the new trends. Why, all it was that we could afford were knock-off brand sneakers or the leftovers that no one wanted purchased at Odd Lots — oh those pink, velvet Puma sneakers! My mom would always answer with "I'm broke" when I asked for certain things, but she didn't make it clear what that really meant. Which was why I didn't understand what it would mean if the rent was raised.

A little while later, we were looking at new places to live. I went to a few with mom and my stepdad. One place was in the far reaches of Park Slope in an area that looked like it had been in the middle of a war. It was a street full of shells of apartment buildings. They were going to be auctioned off. The discussion was that they would buy one with some other people from church, renovate it, and split it up as a coop property. I guess that the idea was a lot more complicated than they wanted to manage. In my mind, it sounded so cool. We went to other properties in Park Slope and Sunset Park. Two of them stood out to me. One was a two-family home with the main apartment having a second floor. The other was a one-family home, also with a second floor. For a kid that always lived in apartments, the idea of a second floor was absolutely amazing. But my mom would say to these, it's not in the budget. Too expensive.

While this is happening, I was in my last year of elementary school. I had applied to two gifted programs at one of the district’s middle schools. One was a sped up program where you could skip 8th grade, essentially doing all of 7th and 1/2 of 8th in one year and the rest of 8th and 9th the next year. That was a big NO from mom. She didn't think I was ready to go to High School in 9th grade. It happened anyway. The other program was what they called their "Rainbow" program. It was a small class of only 15 kids. You'd spend the day in the same classroom and there were enough computers in each classroom so that all the kids had plenty of time on them. This sounded like heaven. A few of us from my class got accepted into the program. Throughout elementary school, they tracked me with the GT kids. I was looking forward to being in the same class in Junior High School with kids that I had been with since kindergarten.

After 6th grade graduation, I went to Puerto Rico for the summer. Mom went with me. My brother and my stepdad stayed behind. My mom returned to the states after a couple of weeks and I stayed with my family for the rest of the summer. It was a summer of freedom and running around in the woods. We played in the stream and caught "rabilargos" (swordtail fish). It was the last summer we played with Barbie dolls and didn't get bored. It excited me to start my new school. I imagined what it would be like in a class with 14 other kids like me - the oddballs that liked school. It was going to be a new start now with the older kids and more freedom.  

Summer wound down, and it was time to return home. I'd only spoken to my mom a few times during the summer after she left. There weren't any phone lines, so we had to drive into town and use a public phone that was by the town's bus depot. The calls were always quick and usually had the echo caused by the delay as the signal bounced off satellites and back to the ground lines. She said little about how things were going. My brother worked that summer at some clothing store doing security and it was the same-old, same-old. Oh, and my dad would get me at the airport. Odd, but OK.

I had to fly by myself through ARROW AIRLINES. That was a debacle. When we got to the airport early in the morning, we were told they delayed my flight until the late evening because of mechanical issues. We turned around back to Cidra (an hour's drive). I spent most of the day there in the strangeness of the unexpected extra time. I guess they called my dad and told him what was going on. We returned to the airport after dinner. It seemed they set everything, so they (my uncle and aunt who dropped me off) headed back to Cidra.

I was traveling as an unaccompanied minor - but this was the 80s - so I was pretty much left to fend for myself. I had some books and magazines. At 5' 10" I looked much older than twelve, but I was still a kid and no flight attendants checking in on me.  

There was a commotion at the counter. I did not know what was going on. Passengers yelled and screamed at the airline employees. One man threatened them and yelled something about calling the TV station. When the craziness subsided, someone came over the loudspeaker and said that they would delay our flight until morning. The plane that we were supposed to get on needed a repair and the only place where they had the part available was in the Dominican Republic. They would give us food vouchers to use at the airport and blankets and pillows for whoever had to stay. 

I had no way of getting a hold of my family in Cidra and I didn't know how to reach my dad, either. I was stuck and scared. An older woman on the same flight took me under her care. She made sure that I got something to eat. I stayed near her when we curled on the ground to catch some sleep.  

In the morning, we boarded and the flight itself was uneventful. Dad waited at the airport for me. We got my suitcase and got in his station wagon. He said little other than how he had gone to the airport the night before and they told him what was going on. He said how tired he was. He also made a comment about how he was unfamiliar with where we were going. That stood out to me since he’d been to our apartment plenty of times. I looked around as we were on the way and realized that the route was unfamiliar to me as well. I thought little of it since I rarely was in a car. We always got around by subway.  

He made the offhanded comment that we had moved while I was in PR. I went numb. What did this mean? I asked my dad what he knew about the new place. He knew little other than I'd have my room. I envisioned a house like the ones we'd seen while looking at places over the past year. 

He parked on a busy street and helped me with my suitcase and bag. It was heavy with goodies that my grandmother had packed like dulce de lechosa and coconut candy. The building had a storefront church on the first floor. There was a heavy metal dark brown door that lead to a dark hallway and a flight of stairs. I remembered this place. We saw it when we looked at houses a few months back. A sick man had sat in the living room when we went to see it. I thought little of it since it was so far from our house and was in such a terrible location.

We went into the apartment on the 2nd floor. They were still partially unpacked. Things weren’t quite in their place. My dad didn't stay long. I went into my room. A windowless dark closet-like room off the living room. It didn't even have an actual door. It was an accordion door with a 6-inch gap from the floor. I cried. I did not know where I was. I was upset that my stuff was sorted through and some of it thrown away in packing "It looked like garbage" was what my mom and stepdad said.  

I held onto hope that at least I could go to my junior high school. It was one of the first things that I asked. My mother said no. It was too far and besides, it's a different district. I would not ride the subway by myself- mind you, I just spent the overnight by myself at an airport. They would register me at the local school.

School started that week. Mom waited until the first day of school to go to the JHS that I was supposed to attend to get my records. I went with her- her translator. I choked back my sadness on the subway ride there. When we arrived, the office was packed and chaotic. Mom spoke little English, so I had to translate. I told the secretary that we were there for my school records since we moved to a different neighborhood and I could no longer attend. She got my records and looked them over. She said that since I was in the Rainbow program, I could stay. It was a city-wide program, not just the district. I explained this to my mom. I had some hope. I could stay. She said no. I would not ride the subway by myself. The secretary explained what a great program it was, which I already knew, that the subway ride was short. My mom already decided. No.  

The tears I'd been holding came out in a river. I looked around at the other kids, smiling and saying hello to their friends. I never got a chance to say goodbye to mine. I thought we'd be together again in the fall when I left for PR in June. There was no way to persuade her. The secretary tried for a while, then said to me, "I'm sure you'll be fine in your new school."

We took my records to a school about six blocks from our house. There was a long line to get in. There were security guards at the door that asked for my school ID. I explained I was there to register, and they let us in. After we waited a while, we were told that this wasn't the school they zoned me for. This school was primarily for the Marcy Houses. I needed to go to JHS 117, which was in the opposite direction of our building. We left and made the almost-mile walk to 117. It was less chaotic there, but it may have been because of the time of day. It was already late morning. 

Though they had a GT program there, they didn't put me in it. In fact, at first, they thought that they would have to put me in the bilingual (English as a second language) program since mom didn't speak much English and they assumed I didn't either. They placed me in the highest track homeroom in their "mainstream" classes. I was the oddball. Teased and bullied for actually caring about getting good grades and made fun of for not using slang. I made friends, but they had their own set cliques since elementary school.  

Halfway through the school year, the principal asked my mom to come to the school for a meeting. She told her that there was a magnet school that would be a better fit for me. Again, mom was reluctant. The principal then offered to move me to their academy program. It was a sub-school within the same school, similar to the bilingual program. She said that they have placed me there from the beginning and was apologetic. At that point, I had made friends, and I'd feel like a traitor. We hated the Academy kids. I would have preferred to go to a completely different school than betray my friends. I think the principal understood that. I continued in the "Micro-satellite" program, as it was called then. It was only two years. Even though my mom didn't want me on public transportation at age 14, it happened anyway. She couldn't deny me the opportunity to attend Brooklyn Technical High School for 9th grade. I think by then she realized I was a responsible, no-nonsense kid.  

I didn't allow myself to get very close to anyone while I was in my JHS. I knew it was temporary. I had one close friend, and she seemed to distance herself once we got our High School acceptance notifications and she was going to Murry Bergtraum High School with a couple other kids from our class.

The 2nd rug pull happened when I was in 9th grade. It was part of what caused me to not allow myself to get too comfortable with people or situations. When you think that, you'll get knocked off balance at any second, you're unwilling to settle in. That story is for another time.

After this, I swore I wouldn't let anyone hold me back. If it was in my power, I wouldn’t deny myself an opportunity that I felt I deserved and would succeed in.  

I also decided that when I had a family, I would avoid in every way possible disrupting my child's life. There are some things that you can't avoid- moves for financial reasons, job loss, and loss of family. 

I know we needed to find a different place to live when I was twelve. Yet, it could have been handled so much better. There could have been honesty and transparency regarding the move and our financial situation. My family could have trusted that at age twelve, I was old enough to handle the news that we were moving and have it become a painful surprise. Mom could have also trusted me to ride the subway to my original middle school. It was eight subway stops away on the G train. It would have taken me just as long to get there on the subway as it did to walk to JHS 117 from my house. I doubted my worthiness and trustworthiness. What was I missing that other kids I knew had that their parents let them do certain things? I know now that it wasn't about me or anything that I did, but at twelve years old, I didn't.

Now I know my mom did what she did because of her own fears. She was older and lacked much of an education. I'm sure that in many ways she also held herself back because of anxiety over not understanding how to navigate in a place where she didn't speak the language well and felt like an outsider. I know that when in Puerto Rico she was more of a fighter, since she was comfortable and was in her culture.

My son is now twelve. At the age that I went through the first rug being pulled. I promise him that I won't let my fears hold him back. Hopefully, I can also guide him so that he'll never allow himself to be held back by his own. We learn from our past to not repeat the mistakes of our parents.