Photo Credit: Alex Georgiev, View From Author’s Home in Central Florida
Alex Georgiev (University of Pennsylvania)
When I think about climate change, what comes to mind is not statistics or politics.
What comes to mind is sitting in my parents’ bathroom on a blow-up mattress during Hurricane Irma, listening to the wind rage outside and wondering whether my home would still be standing by the morning.
I was eleven years old. My family of four was huddled in the downstairs bathroom because it was the safest place in the house. Surrounding us were two sinks, a bathtub, a shower, flashlights, headlamps, camping lanterns, portable chargers, and anything else we thought we might need not if, but when the power went out for an extended period of time. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but in Florida, this kind of preparation was not unusual. Hurricanes were just part of life.
When I was growing up in Oakland, in Central Florida, my family was in a good position compared to many others. We were further away from the coast and somewhat protected by the surrounding land. Yet even in this good position, hurricanes still tore through our state. If a place as good as mine, further away from the coast and safer in theory, could be affected by a hurricane as badly as it was, then nowhere in Florida is safe during hurricane season.
What made it personal were the trees that were around my house. We were surrounded by huge grandfather oak trees, the kind that make a place feel rooted and permanent and safe, hence the name Oakland.
I grew up in those trees. I climbed those trees from the time I was a little kid. My friends and I made tree houses in those trees. I got my first kiss in one of those trees. Some of those trees had high places that only I could get to, and those places were my places. They were my safe havens growing up. Those trees were not just a part of my home; they were a part of my youth.
So when Hurricane Irma came in 2017, it did not just feel like another storm.
I remember the days leading up to it as well as the storm itself. Every CVS, grocery store, and gas station was packed. It felt like Black Friday, except boosted by fear instead of deals. Everybody was angry and frustrated and in a hurry. Everybody was buying toilet paper, non-perishable food, batteries, water, and gas for generators. Around my area, people were boarding up their homes and deciding whether or not to evacuate. As a kid, that’s when it clicked in my mind that this was serious. It was no longer just a storm, it was something that could take things from you and those around you.
Before the worst of the storm hit, I went out a few times just to look around and see what it was like. I think this is one of the strangest things about hurricanes. You are afraid of the storm, but at the same time, you are curious. I saw Spanish moss torn off trees where it had been hanging for years. The rain was no longer falling down. It was flying sideways and almost horizontally due to the wind. The sky had become just a gray ceiling everywhere. Lightning struck increasingly as the winds picked up. Dead branches were falling. Before anything big happened, my home had already become strange.
Before the worst of the storm hit, I went out a few times just to look around and see what it was like. I think this is one of the strangest things about hurricanes. You are afraid of the storm, but at the same time, you are curious. I saw Spanish moss torn off trees where it had been hanging for years. The rain was no longer falling down. It was flying sideways and almost horizontally due to the wind. The sky had become just a gray ceiling everywhere. Lightning struck increasingly as the winds picked up. Dead branches were falling. Before anything big happened, my home had already become strange.
My family and I went into the bathroom downstairs. We tried to make the situation as normal as possible. One thing we did was watch a movie. I think this is something so normal for a family to do in such an abnormal situation. Once the power went out and the Wi-Fi went out with it, all we had left was the storm. The sounds were louder than expected with no electronics playing to drown them out. The heavy rain, lightning, wind, and branches cracking loudly are all scary things to an 11-year-old. This is what I remember the most. It is the only time I have ever heard wind while inside a building. I do not just mean hearing the wind as background noise. I mean hearing it as something alive and powerful outside my home.
Then, I heard one of the oak trees fall.
I looked at my parents immediately and asked what had happened, although I already knew. I just wanted my parents to tell me something else had happened. If we heard it as clearly as I had just heard it, then it had happened close by. My first thought was that the house had been hit. My second thought was that if one tree had fallen, another could fall. And the next time, the other tree might fall and hit us. My dad quickly walked around the house to make sure it had not been hit, and thank God, it had not been. After this, I really struggled to fall asleep. Later, when a second tree fell, I stopped pretending that I might fall asleep. I stayed awake the rest of the night. That was the moment that I remember the most. Not just because I was scared, but because I felt like I was hearing parts of my childhood break apart outside. Most trees or branches that fell had memories for me. Memories of where I had climbed. Memories of where I had hidden. Memories of where I had felt as though I was home. One night, nature became something I loved and feared.
The next morning, the street looked like a war zone. The smell of wet wood and mildew was everywhere. There were hardly any leaves on the trees that were still standing. Spanish moss was on the ground. There were small branches and sticks everywhere, as well as large branches and entire trees that were down in the most unexpected positions. The roads were flooded, and just a few blocks away, the road had opened up into a crater because of the limestone in the ground. There were power lines down, damaged homes, and the entire neighborhood was impacted.
What was just as weird was what I did not hear. There were no birds or sounds of wind rustling through trees. There was no sense of life happening outside. Just the sounds of generators, chainsaws, Duke Energy trucks, ambulances, and fire trucks. The storm had not only destroyed the neighborhood but had sucked all life out of it.
On that day, my friends and I began helping out with the cleanup, partially because our parents told us to. We picked up branches, helped clean up yards, and especially tried to help elderly people or those lacking familial support in the area. The trees and large branches were too big for us kids to manage, so we would all grab a smaller branch and drag it out of the way, waiting for the dads to show up to deal with the big ones. What I remember about this time is how quickly people came together. Religion, race, money, status, none of these mattered in those moments. A hurricane can tear a community apart physically but sometimes it brings out the best parts of those communities too. It reminds everyone that despite differences, reconstruction is about community.
This is what makes hurricanes so complex. I was terrified of them: I was terrified of what would happen to those I love and to those worse off than myself. Kids dependent on school lunches when school is cancelled for a week, those living in houses not built to withstand such a strong force, elderly people with no one to turn to, even those animals suddenly left homeless. But I was also shown something beautiful, something that made me realize despite differences, there is something more that ties us all together as a community.
As I grew up, I found it difficult to see these storms as singular events. It was not just Irma. It was the pattern that came after. Two back-to-back hurricanes, then two in one season. The damage was more than what I had previously experienced. There was flooding in areas where I had not previously seen it. I had missed school so many times that I had begun to think of it as a routine during hurricane season. These were all changes I noticed due to climate change.
This is where climate change became personal to me. I had always lived through these storms, but I had not always made the connection between them and climate change. I could see these storms were getting worse, though I had not really thought of why. Now, I can see that what I have experienced is not really “Florida weather.” What I have experienced is climate change entering my life in a way that I could see, hear, and feel. I could see it taking away pieces of my home and pieces of my landscape connected to my childhood.
What once seemed normal does not anymore. This might be the hardest reality to come to terms with. Hurricanes do not feel like a disruption of life anymore, they feel like a part of a new definition of life in Florida.
Even though I am away at Penn, this feeling does not go away. My family is still there. When the next major hurricane comes through our state, I already know what I will be doing. I will be waiting for service to come back, waiting for power to come back, waiting for a text message saying everything is okay. This impact goes beyond just the people that live in Florida.
What people need to know is that a hurricane is not just a storm. A hurricane is a change in routines, sleep patterns, safety, childhood memories, wildlife, and the way people think about their communities. A hurricane takes away trees, homes, roads, and power, but also takes away the feeling of places you have grown up in.
Hurricanes have changed what home means to me. They are getting stronger and more common as climate change continues. Each time they came back through our state, they take a piece of home away with them for EVERYONE.