I went to bed last night expecting there to be some bad weather. Bad weather is something we're used to here. But, when I went to bed, I didn't expect to wake up to sirens at four or five in the morning. I could barely rouse myself awake -- even through the air raid sirens. Mama came to me and said, "You have to get up. This one might hit us."
And so, we sat up in her bed watching the local weather. Both of us were too tired to comprehend what was happening, and we fell back asleep rather quickly,
10:15. My mom wakes me up again. "It might hit us this time," she says once more, and once more, I wake up, only this time more obediently.
We trek to the living room and turn on the same local station as before. This time, the weather feels different. This time, there's an aching in my lupus-bones that tells me it's stronger now. This time, we both pay attention.
I eat a small brunch as the sirens blare. Already the weather is calming down again. I decide I can go back to sleep while everything is quiet.
My mom wakes me up with the same premonition as the two times before. Now, the storm is even more fierce. This time, I wake up to go into the hall with my mom, my dogs, cats, our pillows, and blankets. We wait in the hall for some time like that, calling the grandmothers and my sister, making sure they are safe. My dad, who is well-studied in atmospherical sciences calls to give us his take and his advice, which is, thankfully, always right. He tells us to remain in the hall.
The world around us goes quiet. Our puppy that was squirming now stills. I look ahead, out of the hallway and towards the living room, and I see blackness. And that blackness gets blacker, more and more devoid of color until it seems as though there is no more color left in all the world. It's a sight I've seen before. I know that when day turns to night, it is never a good sign. I listen to the TV in the living room, which seems so loud now, and I hear that there are vortices over the city hall of my town. I live less than a mile from there; the tornadoes are less than a mile from me. And, for the first time, fear grips tight at my gut. It's one thing when a tornado is across town. It's quite another when it could be at your house in less than a minute.
Five minutes later and we are still here. I relax now, knowing those vortices must've moved on, perhaps even shot back up into the clouds above. But still it is black and I know the badness is near. I know we are not out of the woods yet. I hear the TV say that another tornado is tracking towards my mother's mother, who lives in the county just north of here some twenty minutes away.
We think she is okay, and we think we are too. The sky is no longer black, paling to gray. Color slowly returns to the world, and the sight of it gives me reassurance. Finally, the rains return. This a good sign. The quiet is what is terrifying; the quiet is the harbinger.
The storm moves on. Other towns are hit worse than we are. I listen and watch as vortex after vortex is spotted. The affected areas span the width and breadth of the Tennessee Valley, from my home in Muscle Shoals, AL all the way to Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga, TN. The weather man says in his thirty-two years of experience he has never seen such a thing. And in my twenty-two years of life, neither have I.
We hear that people are dead, that more are injured. We here the county courthouse in Cullman is practically gone; we hear the buildings around it are flattened. I wonder how dare a tornado tear down what has stood so long. I wonder how dare this weather take so much without asking. I wonder if there is more that could be done. Were we, as a state, too cocky? Did we truly think this would be a storm like any other?
But these are just the wonderings of a little girl, for I am a little girl today. The local stations go out. We no longer have news. I try to call Comcast to complain; the call won't go through. My heart beats a little faster as I call my dad. Time after time the call drops and I realize what a security blanket all of this technology is for me. I feel as unsafe as a child, stunned and not knowing what to do. Even the Internet fails me. The Internet. I can barely comprehend it.
But then inspiration strikes me: perhaps a text message can get through? It is a long shot, but I have to know for my own piece of mind. My text to my dad is simple: "call me ASAP". I wait, wait, wait until the phone rings and it is him. Like the child I suddenly am, I tell him my worries. "Is it over now?" I ask. It is, he says. It is over, but the storm leaves a path of destruction that has not been seen since, at least, the Day of Tornadoes. And maybe not even then.
Hackleburg is destroyed. Destroyed. A town is gone. Phil Campbell is almost as bad. I remember going to a play at a college in Phil Campbell when I was five. And I am struck with a harrowing sort of knowledge: places I have been before, place I drove past the day before, no longer exist now. My soul shivers.
Mile-wide tornadoes wrought havoc on Birmingham, AL, a city made of steel, like it's English namesake, and so old and so tough, it should be untouchable. But it isn't. Alabama is stripped of her armor. Tuscaloosa has also been struck with a tornado like the one in Birmingham. Our university is there; the storm has stole our helmut. Alabama is unhorsed. The storm did not ask for our swords; it asked for our heads.
Our towns and our people have fallen, but we do not waver. We our strong like the ones who made us. We are a stubborn people. Hope, love, and faith will never leave us. We won't let them.
I write as an observer who sat hunkered in safety in her hallway and now types on her iPad. I am lucky. I am alive. There is a lot to be done. Help is needed and though I cannot offer it physically, I offer it intellectually. I send out this digital letter from the trenches beseeching those who read this: Alabama needs your thoughts, your prayers, and your help.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
No comments:
Post a Comment