Giuseppina F. Glover, GPC Online Student

Earthquake

It is odd how some events can change a person profoundly, and how at the time we may be unable to understand the magnitude of their impact on our personality. At the age of eight, I could not possibly realize the impression a natural geologic process would leave on my life and my disposition. That day an earthquake flattened many small towns in Southern Italy in a matter of seconds, killed more than three thousand people, and left over three hundred thousand more homeless. What happened on Sunday, November 23^rd, 1980 will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Just like any other Sunday, we dutifully went to church in the morning, and later that day my mother and I visited some of our relatives who lived near Angri, a small, old, crowded but very picturesque town in South Italy. It was my first time visiting my older cousin Anna Maria in her new house, and we were having a delightful evening playing a spirited game of spades. It was eight PM when total darkness swallowed the entire abode, and exploding vibrations shook the house violently. I instinctively supported myself by holding on to the table, as the house went up and down, like a ship fiercely tossed in a storm. I could hear the clatter of breaking glass, loud feminine screams and the cries of my younger cousins. I was in a semi-catatonic state, suspended between amazement and fear. In my mind I searched for an explanation but found none. Then my uncle shouted, “Earthquake!” I knew that word, I had recently studied Earthquakes in geography class and I associated them with falling buildings and destruction. “I must get out!” went through my mind. But where should I go? I was not familiar with my aunt’s large four story house, and I was paralyzed by fear, so I remained in the crumbling dining room firmly clutching the smooth edge of the wooden table and stridently calling my mother. She calmly answered and localized me by my screeching voice. I felt her warm and comforting touch on my right arm. Her tranquil response surprised me. Like any other eight- year- old, I was relieved by her presence and by the fact that she was not scared. My relief, though, was soon succeeded by enormous panic when I realized that my mom was also unfamiliar with my aunt’s house and just stood there near me, maybe pondering her next move.

At the apex of my terror, when I had lost any clear thought, a strong grip took hold of both our arms. Guided by my wailing cries, my aunt Angela had found us, and was now pulling on us forcibly, and urgently instructing us to follow her outside, because she was not sure that the house would remain standing. As she led us down several flights of narrow stairs, the world seemed to crazily spin around us and we were vigorously jostled back and forth, so that my mother lost her balance and tumbled down some of the stone steps. My aunt helped her get up, urged her to keep going down, and warned her to be careful because there were three more sets of stairs. She also told her not to worry about me because she had a firm hold of my arm and would make sure that I reached the bottom of the stairs without falling. Just as we reached the building’s outer door, my mother stopped at the door stoop, because she was afraid that if she stepped out into the street, one of the very heavy stone shingles might fall on her head. My aunt shrilly cried that the house was going to fall and violently propelled us into the street. As we hit the hard, dirty pavement, we heard a loud crash behind us, and a few seconds later the ground stopped shaking.

The light of the full moon cast an eerie glow on the street and I was finally able to see my surroundings again. In the dim light I was dismayed to find myself, my mother and my aunt thoroughly covered from head to toe in chalky, white dust. The street presented a very frightening and catastrophic scene. Panicked and shocked people of all ages, with their clothes in various states of disarray, wandered around, desperately calling the names of relatives or friends. Some were only half dressed or in pajamas, and probably the earthquake had interrupted their preparations for a night of slumber. One brown haired, slim lady was completely nude and covered in soap. An older, paunchy, gray haired man was holding his hand to his bleeding semi bald head, and murmuring something to himself. He was only wearing a white cotton sleeveless undershirt, very dusty dark pants and no socks or shoes. It was probably cold but nobody seemed to feel the freezing temperature, and despite the fact that I was not wearing my coat, I could not feel it myself. A young brown haired man, very nicely dressed in a dark brown wool suit, was wearing only one shoe. He seemed quite odd, so nicely dressed albeit without a shoe in that street usually frequented by very fashionably dressed individuals, but that now was crowded with disheveled people, who were for the most part covered in white or gray dust just like us. The earthquake lasted only ninety seconds but it caused enormous devastation. Where many buildings stood just minutes before, there was a heap of rocks and unidentifiable building materials. The air was permeated by an over-powering smell of smoke mixed with dust and something else that I could not identify at first, but then realized it belonged to the living, the smell of fear, the acid odor of sweat and the nauseating scent of blood. I felt overwhelmed by the terrified screams and the sorrowful cries of this mass of humanity, mixed with the soothing voices of those who were trying to comfort others. A young brown haired stout man approached me and my mother and upon hearing that my throat hurt because of all the dust I had breathed, he offered me a mint. I then started to calm down and was able to assess my surroundings. Most people, us included, had convened in the square of the little town where my cousin lived and were trying to determine the situation and figure out how to help those who were trapped in the rubble. I could hear many debating whether it would be safe to approach the fallen buildings and how soon there might be another seismic event.

My family and I were safe and no physical harm came to any of us, but this event left lasting scars on my mind. I became fearful of the dark and high buildings and started studying natural calamities, like earthquakes and volcanoes, maybe as a way to exorcize the uncontrollable fear they instill in me, although unsuccessfully, since even now I cannot stand the thought of traveling to California or other earthquake prone areas. Prior to the earthquake, I was a very lively, adventurous, bold child. I was not fearful of anything. I liked to tromp around with my cousins in search of fun and adventures and I loved to live near my relatives in Southern Italy. After the earthquake I became more prudent and watchful about every decision I had to make, which is odd for an eight year old, and I would think it over to see what kind of permanent damage my decision might involve. I started pushing my parents as much as I could, being only eight years old, to move far away from Southern Italy, because I felt much safer when we were in another country or in Northern Italy, and once we moved, I was extremely scared every time we went back to visit.

This fear followed me as I grew up. Even when I came to the States, I researched each location where I was planning to move to make sure it was not prone to volcanic or earthquake activity. To this day, if a hotel is unable to accommodate me downstairs, I will look for a different hotel.