The details are clear and banal as they should be when you’re twelve years old. I was living in the far East Contra Costa county. I was playing Nintendo while waiting for the start of the third Bay Bay Bridge World Series game. I was transfixed, on the floor, on my knees when I felt the ground undulating under me. My first (unwise) reaction was to leap up and try to steady the bookcase holding the entertainment center from falling over. Then it stopped. I ran through the kitchen, past my mother who was crossing herself uncontrollably.

Outside, neighborhood kids were already gathering in groups up and down the street breathlessly recounting the events of just a few minutes ago. About the kid who jumped off his bike and hugged a tree until it was over. About the some other kid who had peed his pants. There was an interval of several weeks when I huddled with my older sisters in front of the newscasts about the sheer scope of the destruction, of the uprooted lives, and I wondered half heartedly how was it I saw nothing of the sort where I lived in spite of our proximity to the City.

It faded somewhat from my consciousness until I was in high school. I was in the quad having some debate about baseball. I just remember making some awful offhanded remark about the “stupid little quake ruining the A’s legacy.” A girl I’d never talked to before or since sprang up and stormed out of her seat with such a hateful look I was frozen and silent until she was far enough away for someone to murmur that some “aunt or something had died in the City during the Quake.” Her glare lingered after that and I made it a point to read stories about the people who lost something, everything in the quake.

I’ve gotten older and as a result my social circle has expanded and I’ve actually gotten to know people touched directly by the Loma Prieta Quake. And as unnatural as it sounds, I’ve reminded myself to be thankful every single day. I’ve learned the World isn’t such a small place when you’re a child and its sheer size can insulate you from these acts of God for a time. But it can’t insulate you forever.

By Jim Mendoza

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