In Los Angeles, 1974, the fire alarm

would go off in the 7th Grade. Our teacher

told us to hit the floor, hide under

the desks. I didn't understand because

I didn't speak English. Me, who'd recently

arrived from Cuba, via Miami, via Spain.

David, my Mexican friend, would look at

me from his own little space under his desk,

and he'd translate what the teacher told us,

to cover our heads, stay still, he said:

'terremoto,' earthquake, and the first

time I did think I felt a rumbling below

the ground, below my hands. I thought:

This is it, I'm going to die under a fallen roof,

in the rubble, my parents will have

to come identify my remains. I thought

I saw the floor move underneath my cold,

sweaty hands. I left wet prints on

the linoleum floor, cracks etched red

lines on my knees. My neck ached,

my temples throbbed. Dizzy, I felt

my elbows go weak. David kept

asking: 'Estás bien? Estás bien?' Suddenly

I dreamt of a roof top in Havana, this flash-

back of a clear blue sky, a squadron of jet

fighters screaming across, over us, their sonic

boom an echo… Los Yanquis Imperialistas,

I thought, invading Havana. They

are bombing the city. Lost, I heard

someone call my name, our teacher

Mrs. Brown, bent at the knees, looking

down at me. 'Mr. Suarez?' she was saying.

'You can get up now, it is only a drill,

only a drill.' The class breaks out in laughter.

My hands and knees ached, my face pulsed

red with pain and embarrassment. How would

I ever get used to all of this? Here, in English.