The memories are still vivid, 30 years later – the Northridge earthquake struck with such an aggressive force at 4:31 a.m. on Jan. 17 that it simultaneously startled me awake and propelled me from the twin-size daybed in the small bedroom I shared with one of my younger sisters.
Momentarily confused as I sat up on the carpeted floor, I was fully awake an instant later when the terrifying realization hit me – “Earthquake!” Amid the rumbling sounds of the house violently shaking and things falling and crashing in other parts of the home, I grabbed my groggy sister’s arm and pulled her toward the doorway.
Yes – seeking safety by standing in the door frame during an earthquake was still the prevailing belief in 1994. I don’t know if it was still being taught in schools at the time, but growing up in California, this oft-repeated precaution had long been deeply ingrained in my brain by then.
To be honest, it might still be.
As I got to the doorway with one little sister, immediately my two other younger sisters came barreling out of their bedroom across the hall. Suddenly, I was standing there with three sets of arms wrapped around me – they were all scared and hysterically crying.
“It’s OK – it’s going to be OK,” I said, feeling my own terror briefly dissipate as I tried to soothe their fears. But at the moment, I really didn’t know what was going to happen. As most Californians will likely attest, the thought that inevitably crosses our minds when the ground starts shaking underneath us is usually some variation of: “Is this it? Is this the Big One?”
The 6.7 magnitude quake lasted 10 to 20 seconds, but, as it was happening, it felt neverending.
My family’s home was in Burbank, miles from the epicenter and from my school – I was a student at Cal State Northridge. For us, the earthquake had felt horrifying, and there were broken dishes and electronics and other fragmented reminders in every room of the house, but luckily it had remained structurally intact. I couldn’t imagine experiencing the devastation we watched unfold on TV news coverage of the aftermath of the quake and the aftershocks that followed.
My eyes welled up with tears seeing the images and videos of my campus. The earthquake happened during winter break; we were supposed to be back in class in two weeks, on Jan 31. Initially, I had no idea what would happen. Some classmates I got in touch with and random news reports mentioned that CSUN would most likely be shut down – but if so, for how long? Others claimed the 1994 spring semester would probably have to be canceled altogether.
Surprisingly – remarkably – local television reporters soon shared the most unexpected news: CSUN would reopen on Feb. 14, only two weeks late! Classes would be held in trailers, amid continuing cleanup, restoration and eventual reconstruction efforts. I started getting information in the mail and by phone. The Los Angeles Daily News even printed a special “Back to Class” section in a Sunday edition, featuring CSUN’s 1994 spring schedule and other information.
I was happy university administrators had decided to forge ahead, but my emotional health was in tatters. I was overflowing with growing anxiety, on the verge of a full-blown earthquake phobia, something I had experienced before – after the Whittier Narrows tremblor in 1987.
Despite my sense of dread about how I might feel returning for the spring semester – especially because I hadn’t set foot on campus since before winter break – I knew I had to do it. The longer I waited – the longer I avoided facing my mounting fears – the worse it would be. So I went.
As I drove into Northridge, I braced myself for what I might encounter – I had seen the news coverage, so I thought I knew what to expect. It had been nearly a month, so I imagined (and hoped) the worst of the destruction had been cleared away by then. I felt confident I’d be fine.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As I approached the campus, I started seeing apartment building after apartment building emptied of residents, many fenced off with yellow tags or red ones – some visibly damaged or partially destroyed. Seeing the destruction in person was like a gut punch. I felt myself starting to choke up, but I pushed it down.
I had left home early, to give myself extra time to find parking, figure out the new campus layout and find my way around the maze of trailers to locate my classrooms. But instead of parking, I kept driving – and saw the nearly completely collapsed parking garage on Zelzah Avenue.
As I drove, I started to wonder if I could do this – find my way to my first class and sit in the temporary classroom, which itself was a reminder of the catastrophic havoc that the earth underneath my feet had the potential to create at any given moment, without any warning.
Then I saw it: the Northridge Meadows apartment complex on Reseda Boulevard, which had collapsed and killed 16 people – among them, two fellow CSUN students. I didn’t know them, but I started sobbing over their tragic loss nonetheless. At the moment, I knew I would never make it to class that day. I drove home, but I was determined to try again the very next day.
I did exactly that – I pushed myself and finally made it to class and to the next one, and again the following day. Initially, my anxiety was a constant companion. I would furtively (I thought) grip my desk and silently look around over any little tremble – and there were plenty in those creaky trailers as students walked along the adjoining ramp. I recall a fellow student in one class who would sometimes acknowledge and help calm the panic in my eyes with a slight “It’s OK” smile.
Over time, my nerves would ebb and flow, and eventually began to slowly subside, and I started to find myself increasingly swept up into the widespread sense of community on campus. There was an all-hands-on-deck approach by staff, faculty and administrators to making that semester a genuine success – if not necessarily by previous measures, certainly by a new one: survival.
We were surrounded by signage bearing the new school logo: “Not just back … better!” Well, maybe not at first – there were plenty of hiccups in the beginning, including a class or two initially forced to meet outdoors because they hadn’t been assigned a trailer classroom yet.
While it’s hard to describe the aura of resilience on campus, it was palpable and the memory remains vivid. It felt like we were all on the same team, working together to overcome the obstacles and setbacks, one day at a time. We were surrounded by positive visual reminders everywhere – on banners, bumper stickers, informational flyers – bearing some variation of the “Not just back” mantra. Another popular straightforward slogan: “Cal State Northridge Stands.”
The signs didn’t obscure the visible damage, of course, but walking past the wreckage of the South Library and the crumpled parking garage became a bit easier. It was our “new normal.”
Most people I encountered around campus that spring (from students to administrators) seemed, simply put, nicer – they were kinder, more patient and more helpful. And sometimes they were pretty amusing. I remember hearing something I thought was just a rumor – the suggestion to change the CSUN nickname to the “Quakes.” It turned into a real debate and student vote. Luckily (in my opinion), the existing “Matadors” prevailed, by a vote of 1,334 to 392.
That spring semester of 1994 I felt immensely proud to be a student at Cal State Northridge – a matador! The atmosphere on campus was one of perseverance, and it was a feeling that became part of my identity as a student during my remaining years at CSUN. Later I carried that feeling with me as I crossed the stage during my graduation ceremony to accept my B.A. in journalism.
Looking back today, three decades later, I still marvel at how students were inspired to flourish amid the rubble of a decimated university. I believe the spirit of unity made all the difference.