The other day the phone rang. It was one of my husbands’ cousins on the East Coast. She inquired about our family’s health and happiness, and then I knew what was coming: “That fire isn’t anywhere near you, is it?”
We often get calls like this when a natural disaster hits close to home. To a certain extent, I know this is usual for any sort of natural disaster. People are concerned and want to make sure you’re OK. But I’ve also noticed that there’s a particular dynamic: East Coasters being hyper-concerned about our West Coast tragedies.
Let’s pause a few moments for the numbers: “Nationwide, hurricanes annually account for an average of 17 deaths while flooding deaths average 147 per year.” [1] “In an average year, 800 tornadoes are reported nationwide, resulting in 80 deaths and over 1,500 injuries.” [2] The average deaths in U.S. snowstorms in the last 8 years was 24. [3]
And now, drumroll, the total deaths from California’s earthquakes in the last 20 years: 62. Spread out over 20 years, that’s about 3 per year. If we count the last ten years? The average is 0. Wildfire deaths are a little harder to research, but let’s just look at Santa Cruz in recent times: 0. Deaths in wildfires in California are most often firefighters, and only occasionally caused by inherently dangerous living conditions like in the Oakland Hills fire.
So I got to thinking: why are people who live in an area where hundreds of people die annually from natural disasters so interested in — and scared of — California’s natural disasters?
I think it’s for two reasons: First of all, California has worked long and hard on having a sexy image, and everything we do is thus of interest to the rest of the country. Wildfire 200 miles from LA? Interview a movie star about how it affected them! Earthquake cracks a vase in a museum? Headline news in USA Today!
But I think there’s more. Wildfires are totally alien to places where sometimes they wish it would just stop raining! Floods happen all over the eastern half of this country, so wildfires seem foreign, and, of course, wild! Also, they can be fast-moving whereas floods are often (except when a levee breaks) slow-moving. (I wrote a poem about this once.)
Earthquakes, moreover, have something deeper going on. We have pop songs about how love rocks your world —
I feel the earth / move under my feet
I feel the sky come tumbling down!
The earth moving below your feet is about the most uncontrolled thing any of us can imagine. And I suppose that’s what’s so scary about it. No warning like a hurricane or tornado. No fun associated with it like a snow storm. Just plain scary and out of control.
And that leads me back to thinking about my family. I know that a lot of family’s have problems with kids forming irrational fears. We’ve had our share of them. Our son was afraid of “swinging doors” when he was a toddler. I never understood why he’d start screaming when we entered a public bathroom till he was old enough to express it. (Imagine “The swinging doors!” said in a quavery, breathless shriek like in a horror movie.) Our daughter is just now recovering from her second bout of fear of toilets flushing. (What’s with my kids and bathrooms?)
But none of us has ever been irrationally (or rationally) afraid of earthquakes and wildfires. I think it has to do with the way we look at the world, something my husband and I share in common, I think. We’re plenty afraid of screwing up on some safety front and having our kids hurt, but fearing that our kids will get hurt in an earthquake? That’s just too vague. We talk to them about earthquakes and fires: What do we do if the house starts shaking? What number do you call if Mommy or Daddy gets hurt and you need help? What would we do if that fire burning on the other side of Nisene Marks comes toward our house? This is something that we can deal with in the rational parts of our brains: We do our best to be prepared, and if the time comes and something horrible happens, we use the skills that we’ve been practicing (and the earthquake preparedness kits that my husband has stowed in the garage and in our cars).
Except when we have a fire burning in our vicinity, I think I’m much more scared of my kids walking down a busy street, of whether they’re doing something in our car to distract me so that I might get in an accident, or whether I’ve been feeding them a regular diet. A fire or an earthquake reminds us to be prepared, but it doesn’t stop us from going on with our lives.
I have a friend who lost her house last year in one of the wildfires. She called the other day and said that she’s going through what must be post-traumatic stress syndrome at this fire, which is on the opposite side of the county from her new house. I understand that: our bodies have a sense memory of that feeling of terror when something bad happened, and they reenact that memory when it’s triggered. But her new house is surrounded by defensible space, and the fire didn’t stop her from calling to invite us to their huge-housewarming party.
Tragedy happens, and life goes on. I’m relieved that no one (so it seems) will lose their houses in this latest fire. But if they did, it wouldn’t send me running for New Jersey. Nor should I expect that their next snowstorm in which several people die while shoveling their walks should send them running our way. We all deal with tragedy as we can. The human condition. Life does, indeed, go on.
