Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Dear Somebody,Planes are lonely; I kind of figured that out today. I’m trying to earn some world relation credits for my job application... on my way to becoming a well-known journalist in New York. It has always been my dream. True or false, statistics or stories, glamour or gossip -- writing is indescribable. The feeling of it, not itself that is. On this plane, that’s all I can do. Write. I came here alone, because for some reason I will never find someone that shares this passion, and that’s okay, because there are some things that make you different but special, and I love those little things.
As I sit here on this twelve hour flight to Japan, I know I have nothing but time to spend on my writing. Others sit in their seats playing games on their iPods, while I get ahead in my career with my good old fashioned paper and pencil. It’s nothing that I will ever publish. To sum up the piece, it’s about me and my life. I wrote about the struggles that come up here and there and those personal values of mine: dreaming, living, music, arts. Why I’m telling you this, I do not know. Sometimes, I think I should stop telling you these things, but something keeps telling me that deep inside, you do care.
The turbulence picks up and everyone inside the plane is jostled around for a couple of seconds, which causes me to scribble on my writing. In this moment, I feel as if I’m riding my favorite roller coaster when I was little. Oh the memories. Just then, a flight attendant comes by with a cart of food; I accept the pretzels and apple juice. More memories flood through my head. I’m feeling a bit homesick now. I hope we land soon, because I might get real sick... something about that pretzel makes me think for awhile.
Love,
Noel
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Dear Anybody,I absolutely love traveling. Getting inspiration from a completely new perspective is exactly what I need for my application to the New York Times. The sound of my fingers hitting the keyboard on my laptop fills the silence, and the white puff of a cloud covers the window to my left. Maybe getting assigned a plane seat next to this snoring guy wasn’t the best thing that could happen, but I make do. My mind is running dry of ideas, so I look around for new inspiration. To my right I see someone that is obviously plane sick; she gags at the sight of the pretzel she just ate, and I try to stifle a laugh. Behind me a mother scolds her son for kicking the mans chair next to me. It’s none of my business, but I silently thank the kid for waking him up. When the flight attendant comes by, I decline the pretzels thinking about the plane-sick girl in the other row.
After another hour, my eyelids can’t be forced open any longer, and sleep is necessary. I ball up my sweatshirt and use it as a pillow against the now closed window, and immediately fall asleep.
When I wake up, light is streaming into the cabin. I stand up and walk up and down the aisle to stretch out my legs. Then I get a look from the flight attendant so I head to the bathroom to clean up. The bathrooms are smaller than my closet, and I hit my head on the tiny door. Ow! Once I think I look acceptable I leave and walk back to my seat. I make it to my seat with a minute to spare before the seatbelt sign goes on again, and settle into my chair with my laptop. Actually, I’m not really awake enough to write right now. Maybe I’ll just grab my headphones and close my eyes again.
Yours truly,
Emma
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Dear Somebody,Arrived in Japan almost five minutes ago -- I was dying to leave that flying capsule of stress and stale snacks. When I get out of here, I need real food and not that stale bread covered in salt that they labeled pretzels. I’m thinking of the best sushi restaurant near my hotel. It just so happens to be on the beach. Hours of relaxation before my meeting tomorrow; I’m going to meet with other people that share the passion of journalism. Luckily, I’m within walking distance of the restaurant so I don’t have to spend my time in that incredibly long taxi line. I walk the four blocks to the sushi restaurant, and find myself on the hour long waiting list, so I set myself down on a rock by the beach and continue writing. The sound of the water splashing on the rocks is comforting and it’s the perfect spot for writing. I drop my sandals in the sand and submerge my toes in the water.
My restaurant buzzer goes off and I store my pencil and paper and walk back. I am seated at a small table by a window that looks out at the clump of tall buildings, including my hotel. Honestly, I couldn’t have picked a better restaurant. It has the most delightfully delicious food I have ever tasted; every single recipe from every single family in Japan must have been used at least once to create this extensive menu of Japanese cuisine. I love to try new things, because you don’t know what you’re missing if you don’t try it. That barely makes any sense. I get it.
Love,
Noel
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Dear Anybody,This hotel is absolutely stunning! I can just see the coast of the Pacific Ocean from my room which is definitely different considering I grew up in the middle of the United States; I would see a pond on a rainy day and that would be my ocean. Seeing all the incredibly different and amazing culture Japan has to offer, it’s hard for me to remember that I am only here to become a journalist.
I should probably go and explore the city to get some fresh ideas. After all, inspiration can come from anywhere. I have until one o'clock tomorrow afternoon until I have to be anywhere. There are so many options: the famous sushi restaurants down the street, a line of shops around the corner, the beach a mere block away. There are so many things to do in so little time.
I decide my first priority is a snack. I’m hoping one would get rid of my aching hunger, so I head down to lobby and eat some food at the snack bar. After that, I go everywhere the employees in the lobby recommended. Towards the end of the long day, I go downtown where it is amazingly quiet; after all, it is eleven o’clock their time. I sit on a park bench and looked down the street to see the glistening city lights. It’s magical. That is the one and only word to describe this moment. It’s getting late, and I should probably return to the hotel and get ready for my long day tomorrow. Good night.
Yours truly,
Emma
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Somebody,My alarm clock didn’t ring. Go figure. Luckily, I don’t take too much time to freshen up. I brush my hair and make sure it looks somewhat okay. Again, with my pointless details. After I’m done putting on my “business” outfit, I rush downstairs to the morning breakfast buffet. Being the clumsy person I am, I run into a girl that was probably my age with strawberry blonde hair, which probably took a lot of effort to make it that perfectly straight.
“Sorry,” I quickly apologize.
“Oh, that’s okay. It was probably my fau-.” I miss the last bit of what she said -- too busy heading the other way.
That’s purely my way of saying “hello”. I walk in the other direction to reduce the risk of more accidents. The pool looks like a nice place to eat in peace.
Barely anybody is there -- just families of early risers are there wading through the chlorine filled water. I sit at a poolside lawn chair sipping my orange juice and occasionally nibbling on my pancakes drizzled in strawberries. I haven’t had a decent breakfast in ages. When I awaken from my daydream, I see the girl that I bumped into earlier. Oh gosh. The girl coughs out some water and I stifle my grin. In my deep concentration I notice that she’s talking to me.
“A little dressed up for the pool, don’t you think?” She questions as she continues to sputter out water.
“I’m going to a conference later,” I explain in delay.
“Oh really? Where? Because I am too. The Journaling Around the World Conference?”
she continued to question eagerly.
“Yeah, that’s the conference,” I reply while shoving a pancake into my mouth. Then, I try to force it down with some orange juice.
“Cool. See you there.” She swims off and exits the pool area, probably going to get
ready. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Emma,” she chimes as she throws one of the hotel towels around herself.
“I’m Noel.” I answer with small wave as I stand up to toss away the remaining crumbs.
Standing up, I brush the pancake bits of my pale rose pencil skirt -- a small gift from my
aunt who thought this outfit would be the first step to becoming lady like. Yeah right, these pumps are killing me!
In my hotel suite, I scramble to grasp my tote bag, a notebook and some pens, and the keys to the small red convertible I rented. Oh the joys of meetings!
Love,
Noel
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Anybody,This morning I slept a bit longer than I wanted to, but with such a jet leg, who can blame me? I still have time for an enormous buffet with so many unknown delicious foods and a trip to the hotel pool before I start to get ready for the conference. As I walk down the stairs from the buffet, a girl dressed in business clothes rushes around the corner and bumps into me. Her caramel hair hides her face and she quietly manages a “Sorry”.
“Oh, that’s okay. It was probably my fau-” She walks away before I can finish talking. I walk upstairs and change into my bathing suit to do some laps before I head back to my room. I enter the humid room and set my things down on a lawn chair, and hop in and start my usual exercise with the front crawl first. When I poke my head out of the water for a breath on my fourth lap, I notice the business girl is sitting there eating her breakfast. That’s the second time I’ve seen her in less than ten minutes. Now that I think of it, she might’ve been the pretzel person from the plane too. I lose focus on my stroke and suddenly find my open mouth submerged in pool water. I surface to cough out the water from my lungs and I notice her trying to hold back a smile.
“A little dressed up for the pool, don’t you think?” I continue coughing as I speak.
There’s a pause before she responds. “I’m going to a conference later,” she explains.
“Oh really? Where? Because I am too. The Journaling Around the World Conference?” I continue to ask her questions.
She shoves a pancake in her mouth as she speaks “Yeah, that’s the conference.”
“Cool. See you there.” I hop out of the pool even though I’ve only been swimming for five minutes. I should probably get ready anyway. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Emma.” I yell across the pool as I grab one of the tiny pool towels.
“I’m Noel,” she waves and we turn away to go to our rooms. When I return to my room, I quickly rinse off and change into some dress pants and a cute shirt -- have to make a good first impression. I grab my laptop and purse and head out the door. After gathering information on the address of the conference building, I have the doorman flag down a taxi and I’m off. I’ll write you again when I’m at the conference.
Yours Truly,
Emma
2:00 pm, Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Somebody,I recently got into the conference room, and everyone is already here, even Emma. She seems like the fashionably late type of person, but I guess in a foreign country, there are so many things that you already missed... Before the meeting actually starts, I talk to the other writers from the U.S. There are only five of us. And there isn’t much to talk about, we all came here for the same reason. Shortly after, the coordinator directs us to our assigned seats; wow, forever in school, huh? The lady who obsessively used her violet lipstick orders me to sit by Emma. Sitting and waiting, I notice the lady directing looks like a giant grape with her lavender and lime apparel. I giggle a little and stop short after she turns around. Our faces were obviously red. Grape lady (that’s what I’ll call her now) shushes us. As she talks a translator repeats after her; now I can’t control my laugh. I turn to the window and notice that there’s a light drizzle. When, I turn back, Grape lady and the translator are still rambling on about who knows what. Then I realize she wants us to write about our trip so far, so I take bits and pieces of my journaling and put them together with a bit of revising and editing.
The next 5,000 hours are used for a lecture that I can barely understand. Instead of paying attention, I decide to use this time wisely and doodle in my notebook, with my black, ballpoint pen. Sketching the beach, the busy city streets, the skyscrapers lights in the evening, and the rushed scene of the airport shed for like a whole half hour; out of the corner of my eye, Emma stares at my paper. She’s probably jealous that I thought of this brilliant idea to waste time. Who could blame her?
The ground beneath me shivers and the lamp behind me twitches on and off.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Emma pries nervously.
“Not a clue,” I say dazed as I look around the room. People shriek as the desks and lamps topple over while the room leans to its side. I rush under a desk in the center of the room and cover my head seeing that everyone else had just done so. I’ve never seen an earthquake before, much less be in one, so my automatic response is to stay away from walls and standing or hanging objects just in case they fall.
“We need to leave!” a native commands. Shoveling everything into my tote bag, I chase after. Everyone heads downstairs avoiding as many windows as possible. The first person down panics and commands everyone to head upstairs saying that there is a tsunami. I can see the water breaking through the window as the walls crush sending wood, glass, and water everywhere. We switch directions and people push us aside. Someone slams me against the wall of the staircase and I topple in a heap on the tile. Run! I see a mob head for the staircase we are in. Quickly, I stumble to get up.
As we run, I begin to wobble and decide that I don’t need these shoes anymore. I continue to run, this time without any obstacles. We are most likely the last ones downstairs. The water rises. The building empties. While my mind is in panic, the water level rises almost consuming us. I tread in the water trying to keep my head up literally. When I am ten steps away from the rooftop door, I realize that Emma was helplessly trying to open the locked door; it needed a key that we did not have (obviously). At the top of the staircase I try to force the door open. It doesn’t hurt to try. As of right now, my life is an on land version of the Titanic. A sickening feeling multiplies in my stomach and I can’t help but begin to hyperventilate. Telling myself to calm down isn’t even an option. Standing there uselessly, I begin to look around. Emma beats me to the punch and notices the fire extinguisher behind me. She lunges for the box in the wall and yanks out the canister. Close enough to the latch she swings at the lock. It dents. Focusing on the dent she swings again. It cracks. Once more, she hacks at it. It falls off. The metal door is unlocked, so I wade in the water attempting to get closer to the door. We give the heavy door a shove. Light consumes us like a first glimpse of heaven. The building inside was so much darker that we forgot the time of day. It was still afternoon. Using all the strength we can muster, we drag ourselves up onto the roof floor. Gasping and coughing, we calm down and realize something very important. We’re safe for now.
I look around and notice all the people that escaped earlier are still in shock. As if they were the ones that got locked in a flooding building. There’s not much that I can do right now, so I’ll wait. Usually, I’m the type to dance in the rain, but this time I will wait for the storm to pass, because there’s no rain, just a lot of water.
Love,
Noel
2:00 pm, Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Anybody,
After I check in with the woman at the front desk I make my way up to the conference room and start introducing myself to some of the other writers that are from the United States. Shortly before the conference starts, I notice Noel slip in the room and walk towards the group of English speaking writers. We find our designated spots as 12:59 rolls around and sure enough, Noel and I are seated next to each other. The coordinator quickly ushers journalists to their seats and I can’t help but laugh at her obsessive use of purple lipstick.
There are five representatives at different parts of the table, simply there for translation purposes, so I grab a pencil, and start to jot down notes as the translator quickly explains what
the agenda is. First we need to write about our experiences in Japan so far, comparing the different aspects of the culture. I shove my laptop in my bag and grab the supplied paper and pencil and start writing. I noticed I’m one of the few writers with laptops here.
I spend about twenty minutes writing a brief piece about the environment in Japan compared to the oceanless place in which I grew up. After a few minutes of sharing, the leader of the conference begins a lecture on why this is such an important thing to do as a writer and blah blah blah. I zone out a little and start paying attention again when he is mentioning why Japan is such a great place to host this and how it’s just a great place overall. This guy really doesn't know how to lead an international conference with people from all over the world listening to him droan on and on about why Japan is so much better than their country. I look over at Noel’s paper, which she’s been heavily writing notes on, to find that she’s really been doodling this whole time. She’s actually fairly talented and I’m jealous that she can make a pen sketch look so realistic. Although, I’m mainly jealous because she found a good way to ignore the lecture. After twenty minutes go by, I’m even more restless. My train of thought is interrupted by a shaking in the ground. “Do you know what’s going on?” I ask Noel.
“Not a clue,” she looks as confused as I feel. The immediate order from the natives is to duck under the table and cover our heads. As the shaking dies down and parts of the ceiling cease crumbling, the screams start to carry through the open window. The leader of the conference glances out the window and directs us all up the stairs. I grab my bag because something about the chaos tells me we won’t be back for awhile. I’m not sure what’s going on until word spreads that the earthquake caused a tsunami.
When the initial wave of the tsunami hits, I’m just starting the third flight of stairs. Water fills the first floor immediately and starts working its way up. I’m tripped by another frantic writer from my conference and evidently so was Noel because she was on the ground too, kicking off her shoes and moving up the stairs. I push past her and reach the door -- it’s locked. I try forcing it open but it won’t budge. Noel quickly catches up and tries helping but it won’t work. The door’s too heavy. The water continues to rush up the stairs and the look of fear in Noel’s eyes reflects my own. Our panicked screams echo in the deserted staircase. I’m about to give up hope when I notice a fire extinguisher on the wall behind Noel. As a last ditch effort, I smash the case and attempt to break the clasp on the heavy metal door. On the first strike, the metal dents slightly but not nearly enough. I keep trying until finally the clasp breaks off. I push the door but it barely budges. Noel wades up to the door, and after a few failed efforts, we organize ourselves and push at the same time. The door flies open and the sun streams in. We barely pull ourselves out of the water to get to the roof. I collapse on my soaked backpack and take a breath, then another, then another until finally, I am able to move. The water from the initial wave must’ve just barely swept the top of the roof and it’s covered in an inch of saltwater, making my backpack more drenched than it already was.
I drag myself to the edge of the roof to see the water that nearly took my life. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw. Even going through the chaos in the stairwell was nothing compared to the devastation of the people who were unfortunate enough to have been on the ground. Three stories up, I can see the effects of the tsunami. A steady wave of water continues to rush in, although it’s losing power and height. I turn away because it’s too hard to watch. I really can’t write right now. I need to take a break. I’ll write you again tomorrow . . . probably.
Last night was a blur. All I can remember is being rescued from the roof -- and maybe some more. The owner of the building was found lifeless on the first floor. They presume that he drowned. After that, it just kind of got worse. I mean, sleeping in a tiny tent crammed with like twenty other people isn’t exactly comfortable. Although this morning was slightly better. Since I escaped unharmed, I got to help with the relief efforts. Yea? A little boy lost his family somewhere in the storm; we found him in tears surrounded by piles of plywood and debris. We brought him to a tent far enough away from the shore so that he would be safe with a bunch of other children that were waiting for their family. Now, it’s almost ten o’clock and I haven’t seen the smallest bit of food since yesterday’s breakfast, so any movement makes we feel like falling over and passing out. I really need food. The freezing weather isn’t helping either. I am searching through the streets when I smell the delicious scent of bread wafting through the air. Food. That’s good enough for me.
In the dining tent, all I can see is a crowd. People eating, people talking, people crying. Beyond the families sitting at the table and eating, I see the chaos. There are so many citizens screaming, shouting, shoving. The other man behind the counter tells me and Emma to come into the back storage room. He hands us each a box and tells us to take it to the camp. We run and try to avoid the begging starving families.
Inside the camp, we tear open the boxes of food and lay them out so others can take what they need. It’s better that they get everything here than at the dining hall. After what seems like a blink of an eye, everything that was laying on the ground had vanished. I guess our work here is done. Looking about, I notice that Emma is on her way out of the building. We need a break, so I chase after her.
We wind up on the shore of the beach. I remembered the first day I came here. The city was so lively, the waves were so calm, the streets were so peaceful. Behind me used to be a wonderful area where people would meet up and explore for a day; now everyone is hesitant and even frightened, because of these wet claws tearing everything apart. My stomach is grumbling, my bones are aching, my heart is breaking, and now I realize the aftershock does hurt.
Last night I felt like my day couldn’t get any worse, but it did . . . repetitively. The fear of being locked in the stairwell was just the beginning to a horrible night. It all continued with the stairwell collapsing not five minutes after Noel and I escaped. We waited on the tilted roof for a dreadful eight hours, until finally a rescue team found the entire writer’s conference stranded. Once safely on the ground we had checked out the damage. I had to shield my eyes when I saw the nice building manager lying in a big puddle on the first floor. I felt awful that we hadn’t noticed him, drowning in his own building.
Few relief efforts had come in last night, so the sleeping arrangement of twenty people per tent wasn’t exactly what I would call comfortable, although none of us probably slept much anyway. This morning most of the “non-injured” people, including Noel and myself, started helping the relief efforts with bringing lone stragglers to “camp”, which is really just a bunch of tents put up as close to each other as possible due to the freezing weather.
As we split up and go through debris looking for injured victims of the tsunami, Noel and I come across a little boy, not more than seven years old sitting in a pile of driftwood and roof shingles, who has most likely been up all night. After a lot of convincing from the translator, the boy finally agrees to come to the camp and wait for his family. We continue to search through debris, seeing things no one in their lifetime should ever have to see.
Noel starts to slow down, and then turning around, she starts walking toward camp. I’m hoping she’s not giving up already, but then I smell the scent of fresh bread wafting through the air and I understand. I probably can’t continue much longer without food anyway.
It’s absolute chaos at the dining tent. People are pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line to receive the desperately needed food. As I start to make my way to the front of the line, one of the volunteers directs Noel and I to the rear of the makeshift kitchen. Handing us each a huge box packed with food, he directs us to take it to the other tents for the injured who can’t make it over to the main tent. As we run over to the sleeping tents, we have to duck and dodge the mob grabbing at the boxes.
Once there, we tear the tape off of the box, grab a little bit for ourselves and get out of the way. Only five minutes pass, and the boxes are completely empty. Most people didn’t get much food. I need a break from all the chaos so I start walking away from camp, and for some reason I head towards the ocean. Noel follows, probably curious to know if I’m insane. After all, the ocean is the main reason all these people have been left without family.
I set myself down on a rock along the shore and give a long look at the beast. Has it really only been a day? A day since my life was so normal, going exactly as planned? I feel like this nightmare has been around a lot longer than that. My lack of hope and sleep is not helping the matter. If only I had the magic ruby slippers to take me home.
I think the reason I came down to the beach is to avoid showing my feelings around the people who have lost so much more than me. Even though I’ve only known Noel for two days, I feel like she’d be the kind of friend that wouldn’t judge me if I told her that I don’t want to help with the relief efforts. It’s so hard to stay “strong” in front of people who have lost their all of their strength. They emanate so much sadness. I need some time away from writing. I will most likely write you again.
I woke up on the pavement, literally. The floors were as hard as stone. Even before the sparrow started singing, I was wide awake. When I went to the post office to ask, they told me that I will be stuck here for at least another week. You can do a lot in a week. “Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only one second without hope.” We have hope. As long as we don’t give up and help each other -- we’ll be alright.
New York Times, I may be late. I may not even be worth the job. Although, I think it’s worth it to give you this in person. This is it. This is what I have to offer, my experience.
Late last night, I finally dragged myself back from the beach. I crawled into my assigned tent and passed out immediately; I was wiped. I wake up to a chirping sparrow outside my tent with that “slept on concrete” feeling. Just because it’s a new day, doesn’t mean it’s a new situation. The short supply of dry coats and blankets is taking its toll on the camp due to the cold weather. Until more supplies come in life is going to be a bit uncomfortable.
It’ll be awhile until Noel and I are transferred to a working airport. It’ll be years before this part of the country is completely restored. A person's strength really comes out during a time like this. New friendships are made, along with new personalities. As someone wise once said’ “You don’t know how strong you are, until being strong is the only thing you have”. I get that now. So to the writer’s of the New York Times -- Thank you for your consideration, and remember that when you’re selecting your new employees for the journaling column, experience, whether positive or negative like the tsunami, is the only way to truly understand what you’re writing about.
“Not a clue,” she looks as confused as I feel. The immediate order from the natives is to duck under the table and cover our heads. As the shaking dies down and parts of the ceiling cease crumbling, the screams start to carry through the open window. The leader of the conference glances out the window and directs us all up the stairs. I grab my bag because something about the chaos tells me we won’t be back for awhile. I’m not sure what’s going on until word spreads that the earthquake caused a tsunami.
When the initial wave of the tsunami hits, I’m just starting the third flight of stairs. Water fills the first floor immediately and starts working its way up. I’m tripped by another frantic writer from my conference and evidently so was Noel because she was on the ground too, kicking off her shoes and moving up the stairs. I push past her and reach the door -- it’s locked. I try forcing it open but it won’t budge. Noel quickly catches up and tries helping but it won’t work. The door’s too heavy. The water continues to rush up the stairs and the look of fear in Noel’s eyes reflects my own. Our panicked screams echo in the deserted staircase. I’m about to give up hope when I notice a fire extinguisher on the wall behind Noel. As a last ditch effort, I smash the case and attempt to break the clasp on the heavy metal door. On the first strike, the metal dents slightly but not nearly enough. I keep trying until finally the clasp breaks off. I push the door but it barely budges. Noel wades up to the door, and after a few failed efforts, we organize ourselves and push at the same time. The door flies open and the sun streams in. We barely pull ourselves out of the water to get to the roof. I collapse on my soaked backpack and take a breath, then another, then another until finally, I am able to move. The water from the initial wave must’ve just barely swept the top of the roof and it’s covered in an inch of saltwater, making my backpack more drenched than it already was.
I drag myself to the edge of the roof to see the water that nearly took my life. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw. Even going through the chaos in the stairwell was nothing compared to the devastation of the people who were unfortunate enough to have been on the ground. Three stories up, I can see the effects of the tsunami. A steady wave of water continues to rush in, although it’s losing power and height. I turn away because it’s too hard to watch. I really can’t write right now. I need to take a break. I’ll write you again tomorrow . . . probably.
Yours Truly,
Emma
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Dear Somebody,Last night was a blur. All I can remember is being rescued from the roof -- and maybe some more. The owner of the building was found lifeless on the first floor. They presume that he drowned. After that, it just kind of got worse. I mean, sleeping in a tiny tent crammed with like twenty other people isn’t exactly comfortable. Although this morning was slightly better. Since I escaped unharmed, I got to help with the relief efforts. Yea? A little boy lost his family somewhere in the storm; we found him in tears surrounded by piles of plywood and debris. We brought him to a tent far enough away from the shore so that he would be safe with a bunch of other children that were waiting for their family. Now, it’s almost ten o’clock and I haven’t seen the smallest bit of food since yesterday’s breakfast, so any movement makes we feel like falling over and passing out. I really need food. The freezing weather isn’t helping either. I am searching through the streets when I smell the delicious scent of bread wafting through the air. Food. That’s good enough for me.
In the dining tent, all I can see is a crowd. People eating, people talking, people crying. Beyond the families sitting at the table and eating, I see the chaos. There are so many citizens screaming, shouting, shoving. The other man behind the counter tells me and Emma to come into the back storage room. He hands us each a box and tells us to take it to the camp. We run and try to avoid the begging starving families.
Inside the camp, we tear open the boxes of food and lay them out so others can take what they need. It’s better that they get everything here than at the dining hall. After what seems like a blink of an eye, everything that was laying on the ground had vanished. I guess our work here is done. Looking about, I notice that Emma is on her way out of the building. We need a break, so I chase after her.
We wind up on the shore of the beach. I remembered the first day I came here. The city was so lively, the waves were so calm, the streets were so peaceful. Behind me used to be a wonderful area where people would meet up and explore for a day; now everyone is hesitant and even frightened, because of these wet claws tearing everything apart. My stomach is grumbling, my bones are aching, my heart is breaking, and now I realize the aftershock does hurt.
Love,
Noel
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Dear Anybody, Last night I felt like my day couldn’t get any worse, but it did . . . repetitively. The fear of being locked in the stairwell was just the beginning to a horrible night. It all continued with the stairwell collapsing not five minutes after Noel and I escaped. We waited on the tilted roof for a dreadful eight hours, until finally a rescue team found the entire writer’s conference stranded. Once safely on the ground we had checked out the damage. I had to shield my eyes when I saw the nice building manager lying in a big puddle on the first floor. I felt awful that we hadn’t noticed him, drowning in his own building.
Few relief efforts had come in last night, so the sleeping arrangement of twenty people per tent wasn’t exactly what I would call comfortable, although none of us probably slept much anyway. This morning most of the “non-injured” people, including Noel and myself, started helping the relief efforts with bringing lone stragglers to “camp”, which is really just a bunch of tents put up as close to each other as possible due to the freezing weather.
As we split up and go through debris looking for injured victims of the tsunami, Noel and I come across a little boy, not more than seven years old sitting in a pile of driftwood and roof shingles, who has most likely been up all night. After a lot of convincing from the translator, the boy finally agrees to come to the camp and wait for his family. We continue to search through debris, seeing things no one in their lifetime should ever have to see.
Noel starts to slow down, and then turning around, she starts walking toward camp. I’m hoping she’s not giving up already, but then I smell the scent of fresh bread wafting through the air and I understand. I probably can’t continue much longer without food anyway.
It’s absolute chaos at the dining tent. People are pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line to receive the desperately needed food. As I start to make my way to the front of the line, one of the volunteers directs Noel and I to the rear of the makeshift kitchen. Handing us each a huge box packed with food, he directs us to take it to the other tents for the injured who can’t make it over to the main tent. As we run over to the sleeping tents, we have to duck and dodge the mob grabbing at the boxes.
Once there, we tear the tape off of the box, grab a little bit for ourselves and get out of the way. Only five minutes pass, and the boxes are completely empty. Most people didn’t get much food. I need a break from all the chaos so I start walking away from camp, and for some reason I head towards the ocean. Noel follows, probably curious to know if I’m insane. After all, the ocean is the main reason all these people have been left without family.
I set myself down on a rock along the shore and give a long look at the beast. Has it really only been a day? A day since my life was so normal, going exactly as planned? I feel like this nightmare has been around a lot longer than that. My lack of hope and sleep is not helping the matter. If only I had the magic ruby slippers to take me home.
I think the reason I came down to the beach is to avoid showing my feelings around the people who have lost so much more than me. Even though I’ve only known Noel for two days, I feel like she’d be the kind of friend that wouldn’t judge me if I told her that I don’t want to help with the relief efforts. It’s so hard to stay “strong” in front of people who have lost their all of their strength. They emanate so much sadness. I need some time away from writing. I will most likely write you again.
Yours Truly,
Emma
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Dear Somebody,I woke up on the pavement, literally. The floors were as hard as stone. Even before the sparrow started singing, I was wide awake. When I went to the post office to ask, they told me that I will be stuck here for at least another week. You can do a lot in a week. “Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only one second without hope.” We have hope. As long as we don’t give up and help each other -- we’ll be alright.
New York Times, I may be late. I may not even be worth the job. Although, I think it’s worth it to give you this in person. This is it. This is what I have to offer, my experience.
Love,
Noel
Sunday, March 13 2011
Dear Anybody, Late last night, I finally dragged myself back from the beach. I crawled into my assigned tent and passed out immediately; I was wiped. I wake up to a chirping sparrow outside my tent with that “slept on concrete” feeling. Just because it’s a new day, doesn’t mean it’s a new situation. The short supply of dry coats and blankets is taking its toll on the camp due to the cold weather. Until more supplies come in life is going to be a bit uncomfortable.
It’ll be awhile until Noel and I are transferred to a working airport. It’ll be years before this part of the country is completely restored. A person's strength really comes out during a time like this. New friendships are made, along with new personalities. As someone wise once said’ “You don’t know how strong you are, until being strong is the only thing you have”. I get that now. So to the writer’s of the New York Times -- Thank you for your consideration, and remember that when you’re selecting your new employees for the journaling column, experience, whether positive or negative like the tsunami, is the only way to truly understand what you’re writing about.
Yours Truly,
Emma
From time to time I thought I knew who was writing what part, but I kept flip-flopping, and in the end it was difficult to tell. I enjoyed the piece as a whole, and thought it was a pretty cool way to discuss the tsunami that hit Japan. There are some concerns I have about conventions regarding the use of ellipsis, colons, and the dash construction. Otherwise it was really excellent. The voices were so realistic that this piece demonstrates a real command of dialog. Also the organization was compelling to go from one person to the next over the same events. Excellent job, both of you!
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