I can only take the news in small doses. I watch with my fingers laced together, covering my eyes. I want to know but I’m afraid to.
It’s silly. I’m silly. I’m afraid of earthquakes. Living in California, it’s a valid concern. I was here during Loma Prieta. Which was smaller than the quake in Haiti and happened beneath much sturdier structures and with the benefit of wealth and privilege all around us. Just last week, we had some small ones and I froze on my bed. I was afraid if I moved at all, the bed would just fall through to the first floor. Irrational, I know.
But being scared of tiny tremors now – or even a full-blown shaking – seems sort of like complaining to a hungry guy about how tired I am of chicken.
If I were to picture me and Haiti being friends, Haiti would be the tough, cool dude and I’d be the little wimp walking three steps behind and trying my best to act like I wasn’t three seconds from peeing my pants.
Everyone: Find a reputable organization and send all your money to them. Save some to buy groceries for your kids, but maybe you all eat a little less this week.
I won’t be serious forever. I’ll return to my normal blather just as soon as I can get some of these images out of my head.