The Storm
As I wrote at the end of my last post, it was about this time, as we were now passing others hiking down the canyon, that we began hearing about a massive storm that was pummeling New Orleans with torrential winds and flooding rains. We’d had no real communication with the outside world up to this point.
After one last gaze of the canyon, final goodbyes, and a warm shower, it was on the drive back to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, catching weather reports on the radio, that the three of us from Meridian were realizing that remnants of this storm, named Katrina, had most likely passed through our hometown three hours north of The Big Easy. As my friends flew back to Mississippi, I kept my flight to San Francisco. It wasn’t until after I landed, made the subway ride into the city, and was hiking — although on cement sidewalks this time — to a friend’s flat in Pacific Heights that I received a call from my sister’s husband back in Meridian.
I took off my pack and sat down on a bench in a nearby park to hear the news that Meridian had also been hard hit. Because of the soaking rain and formidable winds, countless pines and other trees had been delimbed or uprooted all together. My little home on sixth tenths of an acre with a number of large conifers had not been spared. And not unlike a number of other neighbors and many other citizens of our community, one had fallen right through the roof of the center of my house. My brother-in-law assured me that he, my family, some neighbors, and a carpenter friend had triaged the damage, removed the tops of the trees from the house, covered the roof with tarps, and essentially secured my home from further damage until my return. My father also insisted that there was no need to cut my trip short and that I should enjoy the time that I had, as there would be plenty of work to do when I got home.
That night I had dinner out with my host. He was to leave very early the next morning for a pre-arranged trip with friends, leaving me his apartment for the next three days. I didn’t hear him leave and was surprised to open my eyes for the first time late in the morning. Even then I felt exhausted and lacked the energy to get out of bed. I told myself that I was simply tired from the rafting and hiking and gave myself permission to keep sleeping until I felt rested enough to get going.
But, this desired restful feeling never really occurred. Out of guilt from not getting myself up to explore this unique city, I finally pulled myself out of bed around noon, even as I felt foggy, out of sorts, and as if a bunch of weights were holding me down. I ate a large bowl of cereal and some ice-cream that I discovered in the freezer. Eating ice-cream in the mornings wasn’t a practice of mine, but for some reason I was magnetized by the cold and creamy sugary substance. By the end of my few days there I had twice replenished my friend’s stash of multiple frozen pints. I wasn’t sure why I was craving all things sweet. But I paid little attention at the time and chalked it up to being on vacation.
Getting out into San Francisco felt more like an effort than an exciting adventure. I did a lot of walking the afternoon of my first day, between North Beach and Golden Gate Bridge along the trails of the Presidio. The next day, I got myself out of bed a bit earlier and navigated the bus system to land myself in the heart of The Castro District1 to cautiously explore the “gay” bookstores, adult shops, and bars. But I lacked the mental and physical energy that I’d had during the planning of my trip.
I’d never before walked the streets of a neighborhood unabashedly flying gay pride flags from what seemed like every other business or home. It was at once both freeing and frightening. I still didn’t want people to think I was one of “them” — that I was gay — as if everyone I saw in the Castro was gay or even cared. What was this continual need to maintain such a separation from who I was at my core? This lack of acceptance and integration of my sexual orientation remained my greatest inner canyon.
*Thanks for reading and/or listening. Continue to next post Thirst. To read from the beginning please go to Why I'm Writing.
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The Castro District, commonly referred to as the Castro, is a neighborhood in Eureka Valley in San Francisco. The Castro was one of the first gay neighborhoods in the United States. Having transformed from a working-class neighborhood through the 1960s and 1970s, the Castro remains one of the most prominent symbols of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) activism and events in the world. Wikipedia