Milton's Mittens

Holding Florida in the light as this worst-named storm makes landfall.

As I write this, Hurricane Milton is touching land. 10- to 15-foot storm surges are expected. A viral video shows St. Pete Police cars cruising casually through uncleaned debris from last week’s hurricane, overhead lights flashing, while a megaphone repeats an eerie recording fit for The Purge franchise:

“If you choose not to evacuate, you do so at your own risk. Once the weather conditions deteriorate and flooding conditions begin, officers may not be able to help you leave your home.”

You almost expect the message to end with a hearty: “Have a nice hurricane.”

Consuming the news right now as a former Floridian is like watching a horror movie as one of the victim’s friends. You know what’s gonna happen. They’re descending the basement steps, down to the killer’s grasp. All you want to do is scream: “Hey, dummy, that’s where he keeps the saws!”

But still, you watch on anyway. Because what else can you do?

The National Weather Service declared Milton as potentially the most destructive hurricane on record in the Tampa Bay. It’s reaching the mathematical limit of possible fuck-uppery.

And still, I can’t help but think that the most fucked up thing about it is the decision to name it Milton. That’s meteorological malpractice. If we return to the horror film analogy, it’s like if the serial killer’s name was Barnabas, or Phineas, or even Greg.

How does one process trauma caused by a Milton? Did Katrina sound so silly, before it became a household villain? Imagine us talking about this in 15 years:

“Of course, that was before Milton came through…” It sounds like we’re discussing a mischievous kitten. Or, as my comrade Drew said, “You might as well just call it Milhouse.”

So, where do we go from here? How can we Milhouse-proof from afar?

Are heartfelt considerations sufficient to protect my parents’ home in Mad Beach? Will thoughts, prayers, and invocations shield my alma mater on the shoreline of Boca Ciega Bay?

Can all the good vibes in the world empower my beloved friends, Ally and Keaton, who are working the storm shelters as I type this?

I picture Tampa Bay as baby Harry Potter, the storm approaching like Voldemort. Can our collective love form an improbable plot armor and shield my former home from the hurricane-who-must-not-be-named’s wrath?

When Hurricane Irma showed her ugly head and scared Eckerd into full evacuation mode in 2017, I reached out to friends in Pennsylvania and asked them to hold my college in the light.

I’ve written before about my softcore Quaker attitude, but one of the facets of Quakerism that survived my 13-year trial period is the concept of holding someone in the light. It’s a spiritual action, akin to manifesting vibes, or giving someone at the tailgate your last beer.

There’s something about that action verb—to hold—that really gets me. It’s an effort of support, or attachment.

Like holding a baby for the first time. Or holding someone’s hand.

Or the 1962 Smokey Robinson classic, “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.”

There’s a potency in the term holding in the light that thoughts and prayers lacks. Maybe it’s the poetic, non-denominational phrasing. The “light” seems palatable and inviting in a way that prayer is not.

Not everyone knows how to pray. And as I watch those who refuse to evacuate, some people (I suspect) don’t know how to think. But everyone knows how ‘light’ feels.

Whether that be sunlight. Or strobe lights at a concert. Pyrotechnics, fireworks. The glow of a hot oven on Thanksgiving. A crackling campfire. A roaring fireplace on a cold winter’s eve. Maybe it’s my retro lava lamp, or the IKEA donut light—both of which I cherish.

Looking back, I’ve felt embarrassed about asking my friends to hold my community in the light during Irma. Why was I so dramatic? For years, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been a burden, soliciting them to spend limited spiritual capital on a storm whose worst damage to Eckerd was blowing over a palm tree.

But now, looking at Milty and his potential devastation, I can’t help but wander toward that same foregone conclusion. Everything I love about my former home could be destroyed overnight. So, once again, I’m drawn to the light.

They say there’s no atheists in foxholes. I believe that once Milton gets his mittens on Florida, no one in his wake will deny a little light-holding.

So, I ask you, if you have the spiritual currency to spare, to hold Tampa in the light. And hold St. Petersburg in the light. And hold Eckerd College, and my parents’ house, and the homes of all my friends—in the light.

Hold in the light that Spanish professor who gave me an unwarranted C freshman year, and the blockhead alcoholics who lived down the hall. Hold in the light the fucked-up roosters outside Wawa on Route 19, and the guys telling jokes for change outside 7/11 on 34th, and the tramcar operators in Ybor, and the cancer center in Tampa, and the shitty drivers on I-4, and the pubcoons at Eckerd, and the manatees, and Skyway Jack’s, and—

and, and, and

And, y’know what? Hold in the light that piece of cooking grease cosplaying as governor, because, as much as I’ve loathed his every action since 2018, I’d like nothing more than for his response to Milton to be an unequivocal success in protecting my former home.

And hopefully, by tomorrow, I will feel embarrassed to have asked. Just as I was after Irma sneezed on me seven years ago.

I lived in Los Angeles for two years, but Los Angeles is not my home. I haven’t lived in Pennsylvania for 9 years, but it will always be my home.

Florida, however, is something different altogether. The “other Bay Area” will forever my home away from home. It’s where I became a writer, where I stumbled into adulthood, Yuengling in hand, and discovered who I want to be in life.

St. Petersburg will always hold a special place in my heart, whether it’s the micro-city I discovered in 2015, or the post-COVID patchwork I departed in 2022, or the flat, barren beach from gulf to bay that Milton could make it.

Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.