We were supposed to be hysterical about the passage of the hurricane BerylWe should have emptied the supermarket shelves of canned food, batteries, gallons and bottles of water. We should have filled the tanks of cars in long lines and we should have made sure that not a single container of gasoline was left unfilled to keep the electric generators running. We had to follow the script of “storm, storm, here comes the storm,” as dictated by the plena, as dictated by our music, the great Puerto Rican oil that always warns in verse and rhythm what happened and what will happen.
But this time, none of that happened. Saying “hurricane” is saying “good morning” on this island where, after 2017, when Hurricane Maria —literally and metaphorically— broke us not in two, but in countless pieces that we still have not finished putting back together as if it were an impossible puzzle. We are no longer so frightened by the meteorological images that show spirals of fire with skirts of water and ice ravaging the area. These images are everyday, as everyday is getting used to the fury of the wind and, even worse, to its toll on everything that should work and, in itself, never works, whether there is a hurricane or not.
We must have been very overwhelmed internally. Before Mariaa hurricane that was announced was almost a patron saint’s day, but in a reckless way. We had many devastating hurricanes in our memory. Each generation has its hurricane, the one that defined it, the one that marked its before and after, but little by little there were so many meteorological warnings that preparing ourselves became a national sport.
I thought mine was Hugothe hurricane of my childhood, the one I spent in the hallway of my mother’s house when I was 5 years old. We listened for hours to the fury of the wind and the water, then we got up to collect the branches of all the trees we knew and, above all, to wait. After a hurricane, the first thing you do is collect leaves, branches, drowned objects, whatever, but, above all, wait. Wait to find out if the people you love survived, wait to find out how and when the roads will open, wait to count the dead, wait for the water and electricity to come back, wait for the heat that comes after the downpours at the tail end of the storm. We spend our time waiting and entertaining ourselves by playing dominoes, Monopoly, briscas, doing puzzles, whatever. We wait for normality. But what happens is that after Maria —and even before— normality has abandoned this island, which had first-world pretensions or illusions, but every day it becomes clearer that this was pure imposture.
There was a time when we were so accustomed to modernity that, even from the New York diasporic experience, José Luis González, a national author, wrote a story that is inscribed in the collective memory of our literate identity. In his work The night we became people againthe author somehow invites nostalgia for those years when electricity and technology, city life and the human and community discord that forced migration forced them to experience due to the lack of a country project that would reach everyone, as if inviting a reunion with a purer humanity. More… humanist. But it happens that in Puerto Rico no one wants to be people anymore. We have been people for a while and we demand our access to proven modernity, not entirely futuristic, but at least that of drinking water and electric light.
They say here on the street —referring to someone who lacks faith or has no religion or is an unbeliever of all creeds—: “he doesn’t even believe in electric light.” And they are right, in this country believing in science or believing in God is of little importance. If electric light is a sign of the future, it has failed because we all lose power one day after another, and Luma, the private company that manages the country’s formerly public electrical system, cares little or nothing about the urgent needs of a citizenry that, clearly and evidently, it sees and treats as low-class and urgent clients. They also don’t realize that we are people.
So the arrival of a hurricane and the inconveniences that come with the loss of modern services—such as water and electricity—became issues that were intertwined with one another. We hated the hurricane, but the possibility of preparing for one generated a kind of collective hysteria—a little wild and a little joyful—that moved us to take all the necessary measures to be safe, secure from the next storm. It was a kind of parenthesis installed with panels to protect windows, lines at supermarkets, gallon water and generator power.
The media urged citizens to take shelter and protect life and property. There was always a photo of someone hammering a window pane, filling their cupboard with cans, collecting water and testing the plant, no matter how small or large it was. The coverage of these events, typical of the Caribbean climate, was just that: coverage of everyday life, with a subtle diversion around the preparations for a possible major disaster that, probably, would be a disaster, but only for a few, not for the immense concept that is the nation. The Government assumed the safe position: better to be exaggerated, to give the day off in the face of the possibility of an onslaught, than not to protect the citizens. So, the pre-hurricane energy was fearful and festive, all at the same time. And it was because, although we all have the hurricane in our memory, there were so many threats that they almost never materialized. There were times when people even joked about the “disappointment” that not even three drops of water fell. It’s always like this when you forget, until the reminder is brutal. Maria it was.
Since then, the issue has become much more serious for citizens who have already understood that they are on their own when it comes to dealing with another disaster; they are tired of throwing away everything in the refrigerator because there is no electricity again. The Government offers its worn-out and bitter speeches about resilience and people, tired of so much endurance, know that this word no longer means anything because it is repeated in vain. People prepare themselves, they go into debt to put solar panels because the light goes out whether or not there is a threat of a hurricane. They demand their right to imagine their future, to have food on the table tomorrow and not in the trash. This time we watch the news of Beryl with resignation, solidarity for the Caribbean Antilles and a little indifference. We are accustomed to the fury of the wind and, like all customs, it has its dose of daily relief and the danger generated by the stillness of what is recognized as inevitable.
#fury #wind
