Part I: Memories of March 11, 2011

Notes: This is a series of stream of consciousness entries chronicling the events on the day of March 11, 2011 from my perspective. They are memories from a person who was far enough away from the epicenter to in no tangible way be affected by the tragedy of the Tohoku Earthquake. However, they are also the memories of a person was present to witness both the terrifying power of nature, and the true strength of character at the heart of the Japanese people.   

 2:45 PM
Quickly looking up from my computer screen, I scanned the room and took quick note of the sights: disorganized desks, teachers engaging in idle chatter and the expensive, yet rarely used TV in the corner of the room.

These things being rather ubiquitous to a Japanese teachers' room, I returned my attention to my lesson plans for the coming week(while covertly reading the news on my computer). That was when the tremors began. Being born and raised in Japan, the other teachers continued their work under the assumption that the quake would quickly pass.

As the shaking continued, I heard the first words of concern from a colleague. At the time, it seemed a very benign statement, but it was our first inkling that something was wrong.

“This one’s really long isn't it?”

Upon uttering those words, it seemed as if the strength of the tremors grew exponentially. To my amazement, none of the staff panicked. We knew that our first job was to evacuate the students. Calmly, the staff began dispersing around the school.

Leaving the staff room, I found myself at a small trot a few steps behind a colleague. As I saw her, I was in awe of her calm. She understood what needed to be done and that panic on the part of the staff would only create chaos and fear among the students. To this day, that demonstration of personal strength and discipline is my quintessential memory of said colleague (unfortunately this role model of leadership no longer works at my school).

The music room being no more than 20 meters from the staff room, I could hear the screaming of students echoing down the hall. Going to the music room, I was relieved to find the students taking shelter under desks and pianos, but not before placing their instruments neatly on the ground (very Japanese). A student hiding underneath the grand piano called me from her shelter and asked me to lay her euphonium on its side (whether to prevent a falling horn from harming another student or to prevent a fleeing student from harming the horn, I am still unsure).

Doing my best to reassure the band members, a voice over the intercom instructed us to begin evacuation. The ground still shaking beneath us and seemingly growing in intensity, we escorted the students outside to wait for the tremors to stop.

Jogging in and out of the school while, to my astonishment, flagrantly ignoring the “don’t wear your outdoor shoes inside” rule, were the staff. Going from room to room, we checked for stragglers. The staff worked like a well oiled machine as we checked and rechecked halls, rooms and other hiding spaces then signaled that an area was cleared.

Confident that the school was safely evacuated, the staff was able to proceed with a final head count of students. I cannot recall exactly when the shaking stopped (perhaps while we were evacuating students, or maybe while we were doing a final check of the school), but eventually the earth stood still once again. The whole of the school, or more accurately, the whole of the student body that had still been at school when the quake began were safely accounted for.

As I scanned the crowed, I was amazed by the different, yet all too human reactions from those assembled. The teachers hid their shock and fear by busing themselves with headcounts and emergency checklists. Some students sat quietly, while others stated their disbelief at the size and length of the tremors. Still others were embracing and crying from fear, a sight I can do without seeing again. As the staff went amongst the crowd, we tried to ease the tension and reassure students when possible. As I tend to do when dealing with discomfort and trauma, I joked with the students (I have a severe case of Chandler-ism).

After a time, we allowed students with a parent in the house to return home. However, this left a sizable group of students with parents away at work and, due to the closure of trains, unable to return. These students were moved into the gymnasium. The staff played games or chatted “happily” with the marooned students all the while covertly glancing at cell phones to check on our own loved ones (Facebook was a critical asset this day). For some odd reason, most likely desperation, fear and sentimentalism, I spent a great deal of time attempting to contact my former schools in Tochigi (they were as surprised by my call as I).

It was well into the evening when the last students began their treks home or to the homes of welcoming neighbors. The exhausted staff sat in the teachers’ room calling students to confirm their safe return. As our collective adrenaline rush ebbed, we began drinking copious amounts of coffee. In a display of esprit de corp, all the teachers began emptying their desks of any and all candy and treats which had been hoarded over the year. These precious bits of chocolate and sweets were put into a white garbage bag which was then placed lovingly in the middle of the room like some sort of Wonka based oasis.

Due to the mass shutdown of trains, a  number of teachers were stranded at school for the night. For many of them, their dinner would be from the bag of candy. What few blankets were available were distributed to the trapped staff members. Fortunately, I lived close enough to my school to return home on foot. And so I did.