A little lament is food for the soul
Reflections on Hurricanes Milton and Helene brought to you by science, gratitude, and grief
TLDR: These hurricanes were truly mind boggling. Let people feel things.
This has easily been one of the most anxiety inducing weeks of my life.
My mom and I evacuated north to Tallahassee on Monday. We spent most of the day waiting on last minute car repairs and then drove for over 9 hours (typically a 4ish hour drive) from Saint Petersburg. It was truly one of the longest days of my life. The original weather forecasts projected a category 5 landfall with storm surge up to 15 feet, which would be literally unsurvivable. As a result, Florida saw one of the biggest evacuations we’ve seen in about seven years.
Even having the option to evacuate that easily (though it can be exhausting) is a massive privilege. Evacuating can be expensive. It can generate additional lodging, food, medical, and gas/transportation expenses, on top of the generally high costs of living in Tampa Bay. Some people are required to stay and work through storms or return to work as soon as possible at the demand of their employers. Disabled people often do not have the necessary resources and support needed for a safe evacuation and are often actively left vulnerable to more harm in times of disaster. Incarcerated people don’t get a choice and are essentially left to their fate, as was the case with the Manatee County, Lee County, and Pinellas County jails. The list goes on and on.
Ultimately, the storm didn’t hit St. Pete as hard as anticipated. Hurricane Milton quickly strengthened, peaking at a category 5 with maximum sustained winds of 180mph. Thankfully it weakened to a category 3 just before landfall. The system also made landfall slightly south of us, so we didn’t get nearly the level of storm surge that was originally projected. I quite literally would not have a house to return to right now. Even with that fact in mind, plenty of people can’t share that sense of relief. We still experienced historic flooding (over 18 inches of rainfall in St. Petersburg in 24 hours. We also received the worst of Milton’s winds, with gusts topping out at 102 miles per hour.
This was a devastating storm for so many residents of Tampa Bay and the broader state of Florida — especially on the heels of Hurricane Helene. Helene left plenty of flooding, death, and destruction in its wake across the southeast United States. In the Tampa Bay area, we saw storm surge levels exceeding 6 feet, the highest we’ve seen since 1921 and sustained winds exceeding 80 mph. Some people were still without power from the first hurricane in late September. Others were already in need of major home and vehicle repairs due to flooding, storm surge, and wind damage. Some people have to find new homes and cars entirely. Mind you, Hurricane Helene never reached Tampa Bay.
On Wednesday, Milton triggered a total of 126 tornado warnings (as reported by the National Weather Service) with full touchdowns by a confirmed 19 tornadoes across Central and South Florida. The cyclone dumped roughly 18 inches of rain on my hometown, St. Petersburg. The extreme winds were so powerful that it pulled the water out of Tampa Bay which basically created a reverse storm surge so we were spared in that regard. Lots of people saw clips of Tropicana Field’s roof being torn to shreds and the crane that struck a building in downtown Saint Pete. The wind uprooted trees left and right. The Publix parking lot about a mile from my house was completely flooded. Hell, the street directly behind my house is impassable. My neighbor told us the water overwhelmed the picnic tables. (Yes, there are alligators back there and yes, they are outside lol) This was only a category 3, and it could have been so much worse.
So, with all this in mind, I’m counting my blessings today. Other than my family’s avocado tree (planted by my grandfather 40ish years ago) being completely ripped out of the ground, I know for certain that I have a mostly intact home to return to. All things considered, my loved ones and I are safe and as okay as we can be after all this.
Today my gratitude rises to meet my lament. I grieve knowing how powerful people abuse and destroy this beautiful planet in service of their insatiable greed. This was merely a taste of the direction that late-stage, capitalism-driven climate change has steered us in. This storm was a major record breaking cyclone that has completely shifted the reality and material conditions of so many people at once — homes gone, roads completely upended, towns and communities destroyed.
The earth is hot as fuck right now. This was one of the hottest summers on record. The Gulf of Mexico is warm in general, but of course, it’s warmer than it’s ever been. Pollution of the Gulf of Mexico runs completely uninhibited in the interest of capitalist greed. Unfortunately for us, tropical cyclones love warm water. We’re at a stage in our country’s history where neoliberal capitalists will, at best, acknowledge that climate change is happening and simultaneously reaffirm their commitments to total environmental degradation at home and abroad in the name of overconsumption, exploitation, and profit. For example, at the presidential debate, Vice President Kamala Harris said, “climate change is real,” and in the same breath reaffirmed and celebrated the US’s commitment to fracking.
We will continue to see this kind of unnecessarily extreme, violent weather the longer that we allow folks in positions of power at all levels to gamble with our lives and do unnecessarily extremely violent shit to us and the earth.
When will it be enough for us?
When will we know that we are worthy of more than constantly living on the edge of death and disaster?
In summary…it feels like we’re kinda fucked.
It’s so strange to witness people perform mental gymnastics to avoid undertaking the task of witnessing. It’s even stranger to see folks shaming their friends and neighbors for fully feeling the magnitude of the past few weeks — for being audacious enough to remember and honor multiple truths. To be present for the multitude of stories surrounding us is often uncomfortable. It feels like growth — like that of an abscess.
Sometimes it’s the kind of growth that heals and dissipates on its own.
Sometimes the growth brings mild, persistent discomfort.
Sometimes the growth breeds excruciating pain in the body.
Sometimes it rises until the flames inside your body swell
and next there’s a scalpel to your flesh.
Then in your cries for relief
there’s a sweet release.
Suddenly there’s a wound prepared to be tended to.
And then you’re prescribed something
that may taste like your personal brand of hell.
I say all this to say that sometimes growth cycles in their many forms accompany our grief.
Grieving can be medicinal. Our lament is the salve.
This has been a series of largely unprecedented, historic, catastrophic, life and community altering, unfortunate events. People are forever changed because of it. In this moment, I feel blessed.
“It feels like a blessing, in the original etymology of the word. To be blessed, originally, meant to be anointed in blood. That's how I feel. Like the people that kept and collected me bathed me in their blood. They give me something to survive for. Stories to tell. Tapestries to weave. They remind me why archival is my most favorite love language.”
— Ismatu Gwendolyn, a prelude: “blessed,” meaning washed with blood
We are being called to remember what has kept us alive — both materially and immaterially. We are being called to collectively remember the ways of being that have sustained our communities for generations. In this moment, we are called to remember what it means to keep and be kept by one another.
“We are each other’s
harvest:
We are each other’s
business:
We are each other’s
magnitude and bond.”
- Gwendolyn Brooks
We find ourselves at a crossroads once again. The weight of the question, “so what will it take for us to do something?” has weighed heavily on my spirit all week. While I’m so grateful for safety and to have a home to go back to, I refuse to be placated into forgetfulness. Something devastating happens to us and everybody simply forgets. We’re even more guilty when it comes to people that we’ve stamped as other.
How do we survive this when profiting off all of our bodies is the goal of those who hold and wield their power in the absolutely worst interest of our collective time and time again? We repeat the mistake of allowing those in power to assuage their guilt or even worse, exonerate themselves. We’re being reminded that power is not to automatically be trusted. All we have is each other.
It’s more than ok for people to be able to grieve the overall weight of this moment, to feel their way through their anxiety, to feel rage at the systems that lead us back to these spaces time after time. We deserve better. We are worthy of more.
I want to be free to feel that grief. I want to not only feel the grief, but to allow my grief, in all its power and inevitability, to do its work in me — to liberate me.
Benediction:
Cole Arthur Riley’s words from Black Liturgies, particularly those in the chapter titled Lament, have carried me through 2024. This week, they feel particularly poignant. They act as a life jacket for my soul. In a prayer “for those who have forgotten how to cry” addressed to “God of the unmoved,” she pens:
“We’ve grown calloused from the overwhelming helplessness of mass information. Call us back into a wholeness and nuance that honor the dignity of the world with mourning. Soften our hearts to tragedy, even our own. Bring us into proximity with the wisely vulnerable, that they may teach us true courage. And give us aids in our anguish, to journey with us in and out of sorrow. Grant us ears to hear our own grief, and to welcome it into our body as a friend once lost, found again. Amen.” — Cole Arthur Riley, Black Liturgies
In a prayer for grieving addressed to “God who knows sorrow,” she writes:
“May our mourning look how it must from one moment to the next, free from guilt about how much sadness we can muster. And as we meet grief in all its complexity, grant us a small company capable of remaining with us in our loss, those who journey with us as we heal. Not so they can speak platitudes or try to drag our souls toward happiness, but so they can hold space for our pain. Cast out any timeline we’ve made for our own healing. Remind us that grief rests and wakes as she chooses but remains with us across time.” — Cole Arthur Riley, Black Liturgies
I’ve struggled to articulate everything I’ve been thinking and feeling this week. There’s been so much information to take in. Everyone is exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. Both of my parents cried this week. I cried too. Shoutout to the
Writer’s Circle for being the catalyst for this piece.
Omg want a freaking honor Joy! 🥹