Why are artists tortured? Not because of the demons that inhabit them. Nor because of the “blocked” times when creativity hides and the demons can’t be exorcised. No, I think artists are tortured (assuming, of course, they all are) simply because they live in perpetual vulnerability. To share one’s vision, one’s magical spark with the world lays one bare. Humans are judgy little creatures, and even if we creative types aren’t asking for it, we get feedback. Good…bad…ridiculously off the mark…by placing our work into the universe we risk hearing what others think.
And also, we crave validation. See the paradox? Torture.
That said, without further ado I am honored to present to you my piece which–for reasons still eluding me–I submitted to the Writers Digest 2023 Personal Essay Awards. To be judged, on purpose. Out of almost 850 international entries, guest judge Estelle Erasmus, adjunct writing professor at NYU and award-winning journalist and writing coach, awarded my essay Second Place. Written as a companion piece to my WIP, IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE, it’s not a cheery, fluffy read. But I hope you enjoy the work just the same.
My cage has been rattled…the door left slightly ajar…this type of encouragement could be dangerous.
My Award-Winning Personal Essay:
“Life According to the Saffir-Simpson Wind Scale”
“While all hurricanes produce life-threatening winds, hurricanes rated Category 3 and higher…major hurricanes, can cause devastating to catastrophic wind damage and significant loss of life. These hazards require people to take protective action…” ~ National Hurricane Center
Category 1: “Very dangerous winds will produce some damage.”
I consider myself a dying breed. Not quite an extinct species, but on the endangered list. A BBC-David Attenborough voiceover plays in my head: “Here we have the well-adjusted, happy adult daughter raised by parents who remain in a committed, loving relationship after 48 years of marriage; a rare sight indeed.” I never suffered weekend visitations or custody arrangements like so many of my friends. My parents’ partnership served as my matrimonial blueprint. I married at the tender age of 22, creating a statistically-appropriate family of four by my mid-thirties. I believed that “till death do us part” part. I just never calculated the full weight of such a promise.
Until I stood at the foot of my father’s ICU bed and watched my stoic, unflappable Yankee mother unravel, whispering into his non-coherent ear, “You’d better not die, you son-of-a-bitch. You can’t leave me here alone.”
A gossamer thread separates promise from curse.
This wasn’t Dad’s first ringside hospital seat. A lifelong cigarette-and-booze diet fostered throat cancer. He survived, but not without cost. Afterward, a stroke, multiple falls, and incessant alcoholism battered his fragile physique.
I discovered Dad’s consummate acting chops far too late. For years he hoodwinked us. He’d conquered his vices, but the cancer surgery caused his slurred speech, not drunken mush-mouth; an age-old back injury made him wobbly; of course his pickup smelled of smoke, thanks to a fishing buddy.
Mom departed for her annual weeklong business trip, announcing, “He’s got a cold. Check on him now and then, won’t you?” I dutifully called after she left expecting a quick chat. Instead, a feeble whisper barely acknowledged my voice. After an eight-hour-drive rescue mission, I rolled my father into my local Emergency Room. A one-way trip.
Six weeks of biological ping pong ended when an oncologist summoned us to Dad’s bedside. I prepared myself for the storm. Or so I thought. My husband parked the car and I vomited into a plastic grocery bag before I could even pull the door handle.
Watching a loved one die is a test of grace, a double-dog dare to let them go. But granting someone permission to leave this world reeks of self-righteous entitlement.
My father’s unshaven face smelled of antiseptic and old. Old, dead skin cells that couldn’t be bothered to slough off. Old, greasy hair with no reason to refresh or renew. I stroked his pallid cheek, whispering into his ear to control my inescapable voice crack. I promised to look after his wife of 50 years and thanked him for being the father I’d painted in my mind. I permitted him to go and told him he could rest. As if I possessed the authority to do so.
The storm passed, as storms always do, leaving behind a crack in my foundation.
Category 2: “Extremely dangerous winds will cause extensive damage. Many shallowly rooted trees will be snapped or uprooted.”
My forever lasted 24 years.
Financial distress, broken trust. Grief upon grief from each of us losing a parent in the same year. Monday-morning-quarterback it all day long, but nothing changed the fact that our partnership had splintered. We no longer functioned as two halves of a whole, no longer existed in full support of one another.
We navigated the demise of our marriage calmly, prudently, sans cyclonic temper. We forged new roles as co-parents. A restructured union, braving the elements together.
But how to break it to our kids? A nearby park’s meditation labyrinth allowed me to practice various scripts. I followed the serpentine path working towards the gentlest prose, inching towards the center of the spiral, the eye.
The words spun their world as if a tornado landed in our living room. Mom and Dad are splitting up. Divorce. Our fault, not yours. We’re still friends; we’ll make this work because we love you both so much.
They never saw it coming. How could they, if we never fought? Never even argued?
I’d hidden it from my kids to spare them, always putting on the good face. I guess I’m too good an actress. Must’ve gotten that from Dad.
Over time the clouds parted, but the damage was done. Our failure forever altered the landscape of our family.
Category 3: “Devastating damage will occur. Near total power loss could last from several days to weeks.”
I soothed grief by consuming Costo-sized boxes of Oreos while ruminations consumed me: I couldn’t have gotten to him any faster; I’m not responsible for Dad’s death.
I didn’t believe me.
I gave therapy a whirl; it worked, before the divorce. A not-so-tropical depression formed thereafter. But I’m the consummate manager. I could deal with depression yet still function. Unlike my oldest child.
If only there were a parenting book on how to tell the difference between a mopey teenager and an at-risk child in acute danger. Is there a manual for that?
He’d never skipped before, but leaving was better than throwing himself off the school roof. Which was what he’d spent the morning considering. Blood drained from my arms as the pressure plummeted; I wiggled my fingers to prove they were still there. I was in shock.
In-patient care sounded promising, till I learned how dangerous children in mental health crises can be. He survived the week—and his first fistfight. Months of work began.
His Blue Ribbon school deemed him too vulnerable for their liking and sent him to a special academy. An evacuee from the perfect storm of adolescent anxiety, achievement-obsessed culture, and a broken home. A child in crisis is a family issue. But medication, education, and dedication to wellbeing restored health, in all four of us.
We remain vigilant, watching the horizon for signs of brewing trouble, searching the dark patches for the light—which always breaks through, no matter how thick the cloud cover.
Category 4: “Catastrophic damage. Well-built frame homes can sustain severe damage with loss of roof structure and/or exterior walls.”
“Transgender” spilled from the lips of my only son. My daughter-in-law clocked the truth years ago but kept silent until my child figured it out. Then it was up to me to accept and adapt.
Infrastructures crumble, and ruins must be cleared before building anew. I loved my kid. And she was still my kid. But I had to let go of unrealized dreams for my assigned-at-birth son before grasping that I’m mom to two daughters.
I questioned the validity of this announcement. What if she changes her mind; decides she was wrong? The privileged musings of a cisgender person.
A transgender person has lived a lie for years, confronting overwhelming fear and doubt.
To come out as trans in my country today means willingly stepping onto a battlefield without armor or weapons.
Trans folks may doubt their every previous choice: Which “me” likes sci-fi films, the person the world expects me to be or the real me inside?
Transitioning is no fad, but a courageous commitment to honor the authentic self they’ve been—inside—the entire time.
Over two years, my skittish, overcompensating young man transformed into a jubilant, self-confident woman, championed by her wife who buttressed her against intimidations threatening to topple her resolve and blow her backward with gale force.
Painted nails, pierced ears, shoulder-length tresses any fashion influencer would envy, pink sexy-librarian glasses, and hormone-induced breasts completed the transformation. The old exterior supplanted by an original, remodeled framework.
I birthed this person 25 years ago. Behold, my new baby girl.
Category 5: “Fallen trees and power poles will isolate residential areas … for weeks to possibly months.”
My husband and I were healing. Forgetting the recent past and rewiring our traumatized neuropathways with new, joyful experiences. Safe experiences.
We were ready for that bucket list trip to Africa.
I leaned hard into my imposturous role as carefree jet-setter. But like the proverbial swimming duck duality, we flitted from one once-in-a-lifetime jaunt to another as an undercurrent slowly sucked the entire world out to sea.
I eagerly lowered myself into South African waters in hopes of meeting a Great White, thrilled to view the beautiful bronze whaler also-rans instead. I froze in silent awe, a statue in a Botswanan open-air Landcruiser, while an elephant herd shuffled so close I could count the wiry hairs along their craggy legs. “The alpha male is near. To the trucks!” our guide yelled as I hustled mid-dinner to search for apex predators in the black Zimbabwean night amidst toe-curling roars. Yet I held no fear, other than missing the beasts before impending extinction.
Fear only emerged when country after country closed its borders. When COVID-19 stormed across the globe while we were abroad. Unmanageable dread demanded we flee to safety, as if that existed. We limped back to the U.S. swirled in a typhoon of apprehension and resurfacing stress-disorder symptoms.
Mandated sequestering provided a false sense of control. I employed the survival skills I used six months earlier. Two traumatic events in less than a year—I could easily withdraw, live as a hermit. But as I learned during Dorian, life demands interaction.
We’re a social species. We need connection. Safety in numbers, because we’re part of a herd. Living in isolation isn’t the answer. Reconnect, rebalance, move forward. My new mantra.
Category 6: “Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks or months.” Or longer.
I can hear it now: “The Saffir-Simpson Scale only goes up to Category 5; there’s no such thing as a Cat 6.”
Only five Atlantic hurricanes in recorded history can claim windspeeds of 185 mph or more—level 6, should the scale be recategorized: the Great Labor Day Hurricane of 1935, Hurricane Allen in 1980, Gilbert 1988, Wilma 2005, and Dorian in 2019.
I survived the latter.
Dorian started in the usual fashion, traveling west from Africa with an insatiable appetite for the energy offered by the late summer Caribbean Sea, already above normal due to climate change. Superheated waters fueled the tropical wave into a strapping, burly hurricane. But Dorian wanted more, stalling over shallow Bahamian shoals and ballooning due to rapid intensification like a steroid-jacked bodybuilder. In one day the forecasted Category 3 burgeoned to a behemoth, off-the-charts Category 5, targeting Marsh Harbour, our recently-adopted home.
What didn’t happen? Mass evacuations. Nope, islanders, tourists, my new husband, and I were left to our own defenses.
I had 24 hours to devise our plan: cram produce, protein, ice into every available cooler; fill water jugs, bathtub, washing machine; pack raincoats, long-sleeve sun shirts, sturdy shoes, medical supplies, sunscreenbugsprayhandsanitizerextratoiletpaper…Jesus! How can I possibly know what to expect?
Most hurricanes move swiftly, Tasmanian devils barreling ashore over a few hours. Dorian savored landfall and pummeled the Abacos for over 24 hours.
Sustained winds of 185 mph drown out every other noise, including passing tornadoes. Gusts to 225 mph deafen the ears, squeezed internally to the brink of bursting by plummeting air pressure. Ceilings ache to break free of their bonds, each gale punctuated by a jarring thud. The house hyperventilates, while we hold our breath in anticipation of the pending final blow.
But it’s the aftermath that’ll get you.
Revised survival plan: tend to minor injuries; unite as a community, especially if neighbors own a satellite phone; forget about bathing. Relish small victories…sunshine desiccating stagnant storm clouds and the myriad of stars unveiled by an electricity-free night sky. And after escaping total destruction—six days after uninvited Dorian’s arrival—hug family members with whatever strength is left. Then deep dive into how to survive global warming-spawned ultra-intense hurricanes. Because this won’t be the last Category 6. The gauge is inadequate; it’ll no doubt be upgraded. And we all need to adapt to the winds of change.
