Survivor’s Pride: Living to Tell About It (again)

         For a while we were the center of attention. The world looked towards us with love and compassion in their eyes, and they sent us money and free stuff. We were front page, baby.

         Our earthquake was televised live for whomever tuned in to watch the World Series, which in 1989 was called the “Battle of the Bay.” It was the Oakland A’s taking on the San Francisco Giants, and the earth’s crust, a major Giants fan, shuddered in anticipation. The press corps ran to their satellite trucks and fanned out, making it an unusually well covered natural disaster.

         When the quake started, I was on the beach, reclining against the cliff and reading. I heard a dull, low noise just before sand and debris started raining down on me. I crawled away from the cliff and looked around. The surface of the water seemed to be boiling, and looking along the coast I could see the slow rippling motion of the quake itself, lifting and dropping the beach, making it do the wave like the fans at Candlestick might have done, were they not otherwise occupied.

         Afterwards, the wet sand at the water’s edge was fluffed up. My feet sank in like it was snow. The whole thing seemed magical, and everything was quiet until the sirens started.

         Most everybody likes telling their earthquake story. My complete version is much longer, of course, and for effect I play up the somewhat true danger of rocks falling twenty feet towards my head, and how I helped shut off gas to houses in my neighborhood, and how I drove supplies to emergency shelters. The worst part of that particular task was listening to people gripe about how they were tired of canned chicken, but the way I tell it they’re not ungrateful louts; they’re pitiable shell-shocked citizens scrambling to maintain some semblance of normalcy before they have a nervous breakdown. This is a generous take on their behavior, but more importantly it raises my stock because it illustrates how I kept my composure while others were losing theirs.

         So we had survived being shaken like dice, and most of us lived to tell about it. There was always an audience eager to hear it, locals and outsiders alike. The satellite trucks beamed our stories all over the globe. Before long, we’d contracted a bad case of Survivor’s Pride.

         We Survivors feel like we wear some sort of Purple Heart medal, as if being in the earthquake required any special talent or bravery. How much training do you need to say “Oh Shit” for fifteen seconds? But the pride’s there; it’s tied to the attention somehow. Some say you can’t call yourself a local if you missed the show.

         I suspect a similar thing will happen for the people in Florida who just endured Hurricane Charlie. You won’t be able to hold your head up at the locals bar unless at least half of your roof blew off. You only lost a couple lawn chairs? Sorry, you drink at the Holiday Inn.

         These folks just went through the same sort of national attention we did, including the usual progression of stories in the press. First it’s the inaccurate casualty and damage assessment accompanied by a statement by the Governor, who- surprise- requests federal disaster relief, which will of course be granted by the President (as if he’d say no; give me a break), but only after the situation settles down enough to guarantee him front page for his generosity.

         Then the newsroom gets out a checklist of standard, focus-group-approved disaster stories to divide among the staff. “Russell, I need a picture of a destroyed mobile home and one of a boarded up storefront. Sabrina, you get overwhelmed hospitals, looting, and price gouging. Lisa, you’ve got the Presidential visit. No photos of him smiling. Connell, find someone who’ll accuse the government of not doing enough to prepare us.”

         Survivor’s Pride is easily wounded. We were upset when the press kept referring to it as the “San Francisco Earthquake.” What??? We were closer! What’s up with that? But the worst was when the quake got downgraded from a 7.0 to a 6.9. It made us look like whiners, like the world would say, “Oh, well, 6.9. I can understand getting all worked up about a 7.0, but a 6.9? I’ve got a washing machine full of towels that can do a 6.9.”

         Eventually the press coverage ended, and world’s attention turned elsewhere. It was inevitable, but still hard. Some people moved away after the earthquake, but others thrived on it. Deep in their hearts, they can’t wait for it to happen again. It’s just a matter of time.