Purple Rocking Chair: Notes from Hurricane Michael
essay by Nick Machuca
Sensory overload inside a disaster zone:
Familiar places mangled beyond recognition. A constant, thunderous roar of gasoline generators keeping cold foods sanitary. The overwhelming scent of pine, pine, pine as annihilated trees leak their woody scents in a colossal swath of aromatic decimation. The ubiquitous drone of helicopters tearing through too-clear skies in all directions. Navigating childhood neighborhoods whose landmarks have been fully obliterated.
Elastic branches of healthy trees bending and creaking under hands and feet scrambling to cross through the tangles of foliage trapping your family inside. Hot tears obscuring your vision as you embrace your parents like you haven’t in years. The aching sound of your father’s voice breaking as he exclaims his surprise at seeing you’ve come to join them in this hell. The endless blaring of fire alarm systems whose auxiliary power sources still have yet to run dry.
A sickening sensation in the stomach each time the cell phone sounds off an emergency alert: where to go and where to avoid (despite having no service). The natural friendliness of conversations with neighbors you haven't seen in years. The burn of skin exposed to sunshine all day after a storm defoliates every tree for fifty miles. The sharp sting of cuts and scratches criss-crossing your forearms after you’ve piled up shredded chunks of wooden fencing.
The uneasy assurance of having to carry a loaded handgun each time you leave the house. A perception of running out of time as you pack up your grandmother to evacuate her before the daily curfew. An unpleasant shock of stomping a foot onto an exposed nail as you sift through the rubble of a disintegrated family home—and then the quiet anxiety about contracting tetanus in the hours after.
The pained anguish in your Nana’s eyes as you stupidly ask what she will do after the storm has stolen her house—her silence speaks volumes. The undeserved sense of responsibility as you relay information to people who haven't had access to news reports for days—describing aerial footage of the damage, explaining how long officials expect the area to go without vital services, warning about the gasoline shortages everywhere, directing neighbors to cleared routes out of the area.
Felled trees exhaling their final breaths across the warm asphalt they’ve collapsed into. The jolt to full consciousness as you flip a light switch or twist a sink handle and get nothing—you begin to learn which routines you perform on autopilot. The momentary confusion in finding check receipts from 1982 strewn around the neighborhood and shattered pieces of other homes embedded in your childhood yard ~ the detritus of American life.
A haunting loss as you stand inside a room where you’ve celebrated so many holidays, sunlight warming your face through naked rafters overhead, soggy ceiling tiles squeezing out rainwater under your feet, knowing this room’s joyful celebrations have come to an end. The awakening taste of scalding, fresh coffee as one of the few surviving components of a normal day inside this unreal, unimaginable catastrophe.
Familiar places mangled beyond recognition. A constant, thunderous roar of gasoline generators keeping cold foods sanitary. The overwhelming scent of pine, pine, pine as annihilated trees leak their woody scents in a colossal swath of aromatic decimation. The ubiquitous drone of helicopters tearing through too-clear skies in all directions. Navigating childhood neighborhoods whose landmarks have been fully obliterated.
Elastic branches of healthy trees bending and creaking under hands and feet scrambling to cross through the tangles of foliage trapping your family inside. Hot tears obscuring your vision as you embrace your parents like you haven’t in years. The aching sound of your father’s voice breaking as he exclaims his surprise at seeing you’ve come to join them in this hell. The endless blaring of fire alarm systems whose auxiliary power sources still have yet to run dry.
A sickening sensation in the stomach each time the cell phone sounds off an emergency alert: where to go and where to avoid (despite having no service). The natural friendliness of conversations with neighbors you haven't seen in years. The burn of skin exposed to sunshine all day after a storm defoliates every tree for fifty miles. The sharp sting of cuts and scratches criss-crossing your forearms after you’ve piled up shredded chunks of wooden fencing.
The uneasy assurance of having to carry a loaded handgun each time you leave the house. A perception of running out of time as you pack up your grandmother to evacuate her before the daily curfew. An unpleasant shock of stomping a foot onto an exposed nail as you sift through the rubble of a disintegrated family home—and then the quiet anxiety about contracting tetanus in the hours after.
The pained anguish in your Nana’s eyes as you stupidly ask what she will do after the storm has stolen her house—her silence speaks volumes. The undeserved sense of responsibility as you relay information to people who haven't had access to news reports for days—describing aerial footage of the damage, explaining how long officials expect the area to go without vital services, warning about the gasoline shortages everywhere, directing neighbors to cleared routes out of the area.
Felled trees exhaling their final breaths across the warm asphalt they’ve collapsed into. The jolt to full consciousness as you flip a light switch or twist a sink handle and get nothing—you begin to learn which routines you perform on autopilot. The momentary confusion in finding check receipts from 1982 strewn around the neighborhood and shattered pieces of other homes embedded in your childhood yard ~ the detritus of American life.
A haunting loss as you stand inside a room where you’ve celebrated so many holidays, sunlight warming your face through naked rafters overhead, soggy ceiling tiles squeezing out rainwater under your feet, knowing this room’s joyful celebrations have come to an end. The awakening taste of scalding, fresh coffee as one of the few surviving components of a normal day inside this unreal, unimaginable catastrophe.
Please donate what you can to the Hurricane Michael Relief Fund on GlobalGiving.
The storm has passed but the suffering has not; all contributions will make a difference for those in need. Feel free to coordinate with Nicholas Machuca (via IG: machucador_) if you are in the Tampa area and would like to contribute physical items such as food, water, or supplies to affected people in the Florida Panhandle region.
The storm has passed but the suffering has not; all contributions will make a difference for those in need. Feel free to coordinate with Nicholas Machuca (via IG: machucador_) if you are in the Tampa area and would like to contribute physical items such as food, water, or supplies to affected people in the Florida Panhandle region.
About the writer
Nick is an instructor of academic writing at the University of Tampa and a recent graduate of the University of Oregon. His interests are in multiethnic literature, environmental humanities, and environmental justice ecocriticism. This work was written during Nick’s recent visit to his hometown of Callaway, Florida, two days after it had been destroyed by Hurricane Michael.
IG: machucador_ |