The Improbability of Kindness

The 6.1 magnitude earthquake that hit Los Angeles early one morning in October 1987 literally rocked my world and my whole sense of security within it. It was the first time I had experienced nature as something to be afraid of – before then it had always been a good friend. A friend I thought I knew.

The noise of the earthquake was in itself terrifying, as it roared like a freight train passing underneath. Every fiber of my being wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Standing up was hard enough, running wasn’t an option. I watched the floors and ceilings of my apartment bulge and buckle and the walls twist and crack. The fish in my saltwater aquarium lay sideways as the vibrations flattened them and prevented them from swimming upright. I could see the streetlights outside my window thrusting up, and slamming back down, as the ground beneath them heaved like waves on an angry sea. Dogs were howling and every car alarm in the city was blaring. Time stood still for the 30 seconds that the earthquake lasted, and I was certain that I was doomed. As a carpenter, I knew there was no way the ceiling and walls could move like that without the entire building coming down. But it didn’t come down, the building was fine, and I was fine. As soon as the earthquake stopped, my fish snapped upright, and for them at least, life instantly went back to normal.

At the time, I was in charge of building maintenance for a nonprofit housing project and even before the proverbial dust had settled, I started getting calls. Everyone was okay but people were trapped in their apartments because doors had shifted and wouldn’t open. I didn’t have time to relive the panic, or to worry about the future- I just started functioning. One foot in front of the other, I spent the day at work, rehanging doors and assessing the damage. When I left at the end of that excruciatingly long day, I drove past clusters of people who were camping out on lawns, sidewalks and parking lots. They were sleeping on lawn chairs, too afraid to go back inside. It was a surreal dystopian scene - and it quickly got worse.

On the way home, two cars and a motorcycle collided in a major intersection in front of me. It was a brutal crash, and it seemed unlikely that either the motorcyclist or the driver of one of the cars would survive, but there was another driver, who was still conscious. His legs were pinned, and he was struggling to get free. There was gasoline leaking everywhere and, in his panic, he tried to start his car. Afraid the spark would cause an explosion, I opened his door and got him to stop. I tried to convince him that he was going to be okay, that he just needed to stay calm while we waited for help. He grabbed my hand and asked me not to leave him. I assured him I wasn’t going anywhere, and without thinking I said, “I love you, it’s going to be okay”. He started crying and for the second time that day - time stood still.

I was acutely aware of everything and of nothing. I could hear people talking but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I could hear the hiss of a radiator overheating. I could hear someone stepping on crushed glass nearby, and I could hear sirens in the distance. I could smell gasoline, radiator fluid, and my own sweat. I could feel the grip of his hand and how it shook as he sobbed. I could tell the sirens were getting closer only because they were getting louder, but it felt like an eternity for the paramedics to actually arrive. When they finally got there, I let go of the man’s hand and like the fish in my saltwater aquarium, I stood up and everything snapped back into focus.

I often think of that day and remember the total improbability of it all. The shocking hostility of the earth. The resilience of the buildings all around me. The ability of fish to simply carry on. But truly the most improbable thing of that whole improbable day was me, holding the hand of a stranger and how in that moment, I truly loved him.

There were a lot of lessons for me, and they’ve stuck with me over time. Since then, I have never questioned the importance of building codes, and I no longer take nature’s friendship for granted. I learned that I can function, and keep on functioning, even when I really, really, really don’t want to. And after that day, I’ve never questioned a fish’s ability to swim on its side (though admittedly, this lesson has yet to come in handy). Clearly though, the most important lesson I learned that day - and I’ve thought a lot about it since this past election; I learned that sometimes the only thing we have to offer each other is kindness - and maybe that’s all that’s needed to keep someone alive until the paramedics arrive. Or, like now, until someone figures out how to shut off this spigot of nastiness.