Chapter+Three+-+The+Tornado+That+Keeps+Returning

//One collection of memories I keep is called "The Tornado That Keeps Returning." There are moments, even now, when memories of this day come back to me. Over time and space, the memories in this collection shift, change, and evolve. But these details remain the same: It is May 13, 1980, and I am seven years old. I am walking through the grassy lot stretching between my school and the back edge of my yard, watching the sky for wind. We are sent home early; there is a tornado watch. Hours later, I crouch under the basement stairs with my sister. She is holding a doll that is naked and has no arms. It is dark and damp and we hear only static from a radio and the sound of my mother’s footsteps on the floorboards above. Down the stairs, she throws what she thinks we need: blankets, flashlights, spring jackets, shoes, bananas, boxes of granola bars. Later still, I am told the tornado pushed its way through the city of Kalamazoo in eleven minutes, tearing down entire buildings and homes, and ripping into the store where my father stood.//



A Poem – Tornado Out went the warning That woke you up this morning, Everything is falling, And the tornado calling, Watch out – Here I come! Another Poem – For the Wind The wind better stop, Playing with the treetops, To sit down and rest, And not being a pest, Put down his head, To go to bed!

The above poems were my first reaction to the 1980 tornado. Written a month after the event, the poems do not hint at the tornado’s deadly, devastating power. Instead, they mimic, in style and voice, the poetry with which I was most familiar, William J. Bennet’s //Book of Virtues//. Both poems offer morality lessons to the reader, not surprising considering how often my mother read aloud Aesop’s Fables, the //Little House on the Prairie// series, and Hans Christian Anderson’s fairytales. All of these stories emphasized obedience in young children and hinted (sometimes quite pointedly) of the dangers of disobedience. Although no one in my family was harmed in the tornado, that memory has become one I remember over and over again. In fact, in 2005, I felt moved to write another poem about that experience:


 * //Childhood Tornado//**

//The sky at noon no more threatening than a bruise – we sit on the front porch, backs against the smooth glass door, imagining shapes for clouds. Another March day – purples churn to blues

which should turn to rain, but the sky yellows and air stills so terribly, we are snatched inside, with blankets tucked under basement stairs - cracked planks, spider webs and flaking peels

of cement-block hemming us in damp darkness. From above, stuttering footsteps and radio static with words too blurred to trust buzz as shoes, bananas and plastic flashlights fall to us in some gesture of love.//

In this later poem, it is clear my voice and style have changed. I no longer mimic forms of poetry from childhood anthologies. Also, the narrative has become more personal. Instead of taking on the persona of wind, I am writing from my own point of view. This is not a child’s point of view, however. In the poem’s final three words, “gesture of love,” it is clear this is an adult remembering. Maturity has reshaped my memory of the tornado. Rather than a force of nature that needs a stern scolding, the tornado has now become a vehicle through which a parent expresses emotion toward her children.

Tornado Memory: Creating Meaning
I often wonder why this memory of the 1980 Tornado keeps returning to me and evolving in its meaning with each return. Just recently, I decided to research the tornado, assuming this event would hold no cultural or historical value outside the city of Kalamazoo. Not surprisingly, both the [|Kalamazoo Gazette] and [|Library] have digital archives of the tornado. The photographs in these collections closely resemble my childhood memories of driving through the devastated downtown and helping my father clear debris from his damaged store. Perhaps, then, my need to keep recalling this memory stems from a desire to pay honor to those who were lost in the tornado, or perhaps to the mighty power of the tornado itself. As a seven year old, this must have been my first personal encounter with nature as a deadly force. The fact that my father barely escaped from the tornado further caused me to view nature with fearful respect.

I wonder, though, if I continue to recall this memory for a different reason. In researching the 1980 Tornado on the Internet, I was stunned to see even [|Wikipedia] lists an entry of the event. Was this tornado truly a historical event? Did it impact people outside Kalamazoo county? Should I consider myself a “survivor” of the great tornado? Until now, I had never considered myself a survivor of anything. Yet, the simple fact of my living in Kalamazoo on May 13, 1980 and living through the tornado places me in a group of people: the survivors. I wonder if I hold on to this memory, then, to acknowledge this experience, this act of being labeled, this unconscious joining with a community of survivors...

Am I collecting this memory because I believe it holds significance, or has the memory created me?