By Carolina Perez, CLA Social Media Intern
It’s 2005. My family and I live in a beautiful 1928 Spanish Colonial-style home in Miami. Coming back from my preschool on a stormy Tuesday, I see that the garden my father and I planted yesterday is in shambles. We had just planted orchids, gardenias, milkweed, and two mango trees—I was very excited to eat the mangos. I tread across the clay tile walkway, frowning at the sight of a mango tree knocked down by the wind and harsh rain. Most of the laborious gardening is in disarray.
I step through the stunning hand-carved wooden door and discover chaos: murky water covers the familiar clay-colored tiles on the floor while large amounts of rainwater flow through the roof. My father attempts to remove the flooding by using a water pump. My mother frantically sets large pots all around the house to collect the rainwater seeping through the ceiling.
After a while, my parents leave the water alone and bring us to one of the only rooms without windows. They had already prepared the room with candles, flashlights, non-perishable food, radios, loads of drinking water, and sand to block the water from coming through the bottom of the door. We all huddle together: my mom, my dad, my sister Gaby, and me. We grasp the candles my mom lit for us for dear life.
While I am scared of the ear-splitting noises the sky is making, my dad calms me down by explaining, "No te preocupes, hijita. El trueno es Dios hacienda rositas de maiz," or, "Don't worry my little daughter. The thunder is God making popcorn." We laugh together; the melodious sound of happiness fills the cold, dark room, turning it warm and bright.
Although this was a frequent experience—flooding and leaking water occurred many times during storms—I never remember witnessing such strong effects. Little did I know, this was the beginning of Hurricane Wilma, a category 5 hurricane that hit Miami. Although I was a three-year-old child, these memories of me and my family surviving a hurricane were very memorable and will always have a place in my heart. I would have to experience the same terror and uneasiness each time a vicious hurricane hit time and time again.
My family and I left the house on Alton Rd, moving to somewhere more inland about 5 feet above sea level. Extreme hurricanes like Wilma are becoming more frequent and dangerous, exposing the consequences of living in places like Miami where we are more heavily impacted by climate change. Hiding in the dark room waiting for hurricane Wilma to pass in my childhood home, I understand that my environment has an enormous impact on my life. I hope others come to understand this same importance.