There’s a lot to think about as of late.
You know, with all of these tornadoes swirling around us. Did you know I used to love tornadoes? I wanted to become a weatherman. I actually looked at moving to Oklahoma in the eighth grade as a good thing because it 1) gave me a chance to be where the tornadoes happened and 2) put me closer to the University of Oklahoma — the premiere meteorology school in the country. I had known about OU all the way back when I was four, shortly after I had seen “Twister” for the first time and got bit by the storm chasing bug.
Of course reality doesn’t quite have that Hollywood sheen. There’s nothing glamorous about facing down a tornado. There’s only terror. I’ve been lucky these past weeks, because the storms that inundated Moore and I40 near El Reno veered to the south. It’s a hollow form of luck. I wouldn’t wish the destruction or death suffered by Oklahomans this past month on anyone. It’s simply too absurd.
On Friday, when that big, slow monster of a storm passed through Central Oklahoma, a very good friend of mine and her boyfriend asked to come up to my house to take shelter. At the time, it was too sketchy down in OKC to say no, so I gave them my address and over they came. During our watch party, my friend’s boyfriend learned that one of the tornadoes touched down where his parents were, to the southwest. The effect on him was instantaneous, and it was physical. Not knowing if his parents were okay wracked him with anxiety and fear. I felt a perverse sense of detachment; as a transplant, I will never know what it’s like to see a generations-old family property destroyed by one random gust of wind. I felt bad for him, but I also knew that I would never be able to relate on a visceral level.
I feel a lot of guilt about that.
When the storm finally eased up over my neighborhood and my friends left, I went out in the front yard. I looked up at the sky and saw the slightest hint of a rainbow. Like, it was so small at first I thought the sucker was mocking me. But now I don’t think so. (I mean, it was a giant raincloud, if it had the capacity to mock there would be far more scientific interest in it than there is)
Symbolism is big in Oklahoma. Just look at the name of our basketball team, or the fact that or biggest images of rebuilding, rejuvenation and rebirth come from sites of destruction and tragedy. We took a slogan that we had been using during the NBA season and playoffs — Oklahoma Rising — and attributed it to Moore after it became clear how much devastation they were faced with.
So if anything, the tiniest sliver of rainbow I’ve ever seen was a way for us to know that even the smallest bit of hope is still hope.
Oh and if any of you on-the-coast d-bags tell us to move, I’m just going to send you the link to footage from the 1994 Northridge earthquake (which I lived through) and tell you to move.