I was half-asleep on the couch, cradling my newborn, too tired to get up and go to bed. I didn’t smell the smoke or hear the crackling of the flames. Only pounding on the door alerted me to danger. I ignored the knocks until they became more insistent. “Who is it?” I finally asked.
“San Diego Police Department. The building is on fire! Get out!”
I grabbed the baby and the diaper bag and ran.
Outside, I watched as flames shot into the nighttime sky. I screamed for my husband to hurry up. He stumbled outdoors, carrying the four-year-old. Police officers herded us toward the trolley station parking lot nearby. I hugged my little ones tightly against the November cold, staring silently as the building burned.
After the initial fear wore off, I was consumed with regret. In the rush to get my family to safety, it didn’t occur to me to grab a single document. Birth certificates, our marriage license, the first photos of my babies, and the immigration paperwork we needed to complete my husband’s status adjustment were all in the tiny apartment, behind a wall of flame. I looked down at my daughter. Although wrapped in a blanket, she trembled in her thin pajamas. I clutched her baby brother to me, warming him with my body as we shivered in the fall night air. In our hurry, I hadn’t even grabbed jackets for them.
The baby cried, wanting to nurse. I tried unsuccessfully to pacify him until a police officer, seeing his distress, let the children and I sit in the back of a patrol car. As we huddled together, I wondered what would happen to us. Would we lose everything? Would we be homeless? We didn’t have renter’s insurance, didn’t have two nickels to rub together, didn’t have family nearby to take us in.
The Red Cross came a few hours later. The fire had been extinguished and every building in the apartment complex was habitable except for ours. Red Cross volunteers gave us diapers and motel vouchers, and a week’s worth of passes for Hometown Buffet. They even handed my daughter a stuffed elephant to hug as we waited.
We were among the lucky ones; although several apartments were completely destroyed, ours was intact. I would have said it was a story with a happy ending; no one was injured, we didn’t lose anything of note and we were able to buy a home as a result of being displaced. There didn’t appear to be any lasting trauma from the experience.
A few years later, in 2003, San Diego was overrun by wildfires. As ash rained down in our neighborhood and hillsides in the Otay area burned, I found myself tense, on edge. I woke up frequently throughout the night to stand on my balcony and see if fire was approaching our home. Although our house is neatly bordered by freeways, fires had already jumped several freeways and I wasn’t willing to risk sleeping while danger approached. During the day, taking advantage of the free time provided by school closures, I assembled our belongings for evacuation. This time, I was careful to pack paperwork, photos, and changes of clothes.
In the aftermath of the fire, we were horrified by news reports of deaths — teen siblings killed trying to escape, married couples who met their demise together. I was reminded how very fortunate my own family was.
Again in 2007, during the October firestorms, I was jumpy and nervous, preparing to flee. The local middle school was evacuated as fire burned down the hill toward the campus; lines of students hustled down the hill away from danger. Frantic parents met their children and whisked them to safety. Those who didn’t have cars wondered plaintively, “Where can we go?” The tension in the air was as palpable as the smoke. A week of watching and waiting, evacuation box ready by the door, left us tired and jittery.
More common than in years past, fall is punctuated by the smell of smoke in the air. A shift in the Santa Ana winds, a startlingly warm day, a red flag alert for fire danger all spark wariness. I scan the horizon for smoke, flip through news stations listening for fire information. Evacuation is never far from my mind, as is the safety of not only my children, but pets and important paperwork. Like many in Southern California, I have learned the hard way not to be caught unaware.
As this fire season drags toward the end of the year, please make a safety plan. Don’t imagine you’re immune to risk. It’s better to unpack your evacuation box after a false alarm than it is to sift through ashes and rubble hoping to rescue remnants of your former life.
