The Tohoku earthquake and tsunami, as well as the subsequent meltdown debacle are events that I am lucky enough to have experienced first-hand, yet walk away from. I am obviously grateful for this, yet at the same time filled with sadness over those less fortunate than I, who were literally in the wrong places at the wrong time. I will never forget my experience on that day in March 2011.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had just left school after a long day of that particular brand of play-teaching one employs on 小学校 days, but by all accounts it was still a (brisk) beautiful day. After a quick zip down my favorite mountain back roads in my Subie, I stopped in at my office to check in and round off the day before following through on plans to hop on my motorcycle for a quick spin. Right as I began a fluffy conversation with the only other two folks in my department, things began to shake. This wasn’t particularly nerve-wracking; I’d experienced quakes before but always held them in this contemptuous light, openly mocking them on a regular basis. As the conversation shakily continued, the large overhanging 教育委員会 sign swung furiously, with no sign of letting up.

Normally, within a minute of starting up, things tended to settle down and people brushed themselves off, picked up the few things that may have fallen, and resumed their daily routines. On March 11, however, it was clear that this earthquake was only getting started. The old town hall building was sturdy, but soon the slight jiggle underneath my feet and the furious shaking of the signs merged together, and the entire building began lurching precariously. Two and a half minutes in and everyone knew that this was NOT a “normal” earthquake. The old ladies of the tea ceremony club and various office staff began gathering in the lobby of the building, unsure of what to do or where to go, but finding comfort amongst numerous others who felt the same sense of unsurety. When I could feel the heaviness of the floors above in my feet, I knew it was time to go outside to an open area immediately, if for nothing more than my own peace of mind.

Outside I watched the parking lot turn into Jell-O, as it wobbled like it had been plucked, along with the cars, trees, and street lamps attached to it. This point was the first time I had ever given any real consideration to the fact that I could possibly die on this escapist island paradise of mine. Noticing that no one had followed me out of the jiggling building, I resigned to see the rest of the situation through with my co-workers inside. After what seemed like an eternity, during which I was all but convinced that the old building we occupied would collapse around us, the shaking and rumbling subsided. After six minutes of uncertainty, things went back to normal. Or so it seemed. We all expressed our relief at the experience drawing to a close, and I went home for the day.

For me, the 2011 Tohoku Earthquake was a somber lesson not to trivialize or treat danger as a novelty, as well as another reminder that life is precious. Although I was shaken up, after those six minutes had passed, I was able to go home. I honestly didn’t realize that so many folks weren’t going to make it home, go to bed, and sleep off a bad day. Six minutes changed everything for them. The next morning, I woke up to the news of the tsunami and its devastation, and the developing crisis at 福島第一 , and only then did it strike me that the prior day’s rumbling was simply the tip of an iceberg that would change things for years to come.

Six minutes on March 11, 2011. How did you spend them?

-Namakemono