Personal Essay: The Tornado
Photos and Text: Courtney Pedroza
After the tornado, I picked my shaking self off the bathroom floor where I was hiding and brushed the glass off my cameras. In journalism we often pack up our cameras and photograph a stranger who’s life we don't know much about. This time the story was about my neighbors, my roommate and me.
Mark Broekhuizen, 17, walks through the remains of Ken Gluck's house in Mt. Juliet, Tenn., on Friday, March 6, 2020. The walls are the only ones left standing following the tornado that ripped through Middle Tennessee and is where Gluck hid during the storm.
The wind sounded like a train. Strong and violent. It howled, threw objects, and snapped trees. I looked out the living room window and saw two people across the street running hand-in-hand, away from my favorite bar, Attaboy. I can only assume it was the same couple who died looking for shelter that night.
I was home alone in my pajamas. I only had a few seconds and tried to get my roommate’s dogs to come into the bathroom with me. The windows exploded and suddenly everything was covered in glass. The dogs were too scared and ran when the bedroom door flew at me - Its force ripped through the living room. I had no choice but to leave them and hide in the bathroom.
The wind and dirt tore under the bathroom door. I smelled a wave of gas. Everything outside the door broke, and suddenly the restaurant sign for my weekly BBQ was in my home.
Glass was still flying when I found the dogs and threw them into the bathroom where we hid. With a cracking voice, I called the breaking news reporter. And then, dialed 911.
I went into autopilot that night as I walked out the front door with my cameras.
I saw neighbors exiting, one by one, away from a building where an entire apartment unit was now missing. One was a neighbor whose dog I walked when he had surgery. Another one had once offered to lend my roommate and I a fan when we set off the smoke detectors. And another who was usually on her porch.
Our belongings were outside but I didn’t even recognize them. By mistake, I left the front door open and only noticed that when I took a break to get glass out of my shoe and glimpsed at the TV to see a reporter’s live shot in front of my apartment. My colleague asked the reporter to close it for me. She did.
The majority of my photos were blurred as my body was shaking. I didn’t know what else to do, but to keep taking photographs.
My apartment was boarded up that morning and I couldn’t get there as a roof had blocked my car the night before. My roommate grabbed my jewelry box and some clothes for me. I was locked out.
The next day I walked down Main Street past my favorite restaurants, bars and yoga studio to stand in front of my bedroom window. It hit me then that I would never live there again. I had been holding onto some hope but nothing was recognizable anymore.
Across the street from me were the once colorful bricks, now scattered, of what used to be the Molly Green clothing store. They had a rainbow mural painted on the wall and almost daily my roommate and I would photograph people posing in front of it. We kept saying whenever we moved out we’d take a photo in front of it too. Now, the mural was gone. Houses, businesses and churches were gone too.
People kept telling me to go home and rest but I didn’t have a home and didn’t want to be in a hotel by myself. The only way I could deal with losing everything was to see that I wasn’t alone.
Everything was taken away overnight. Where we once felt safe and laid our heads, we could now feel rain and wind. I cried with them.
I was one of the lucky ones. I was alive. I only had a few scratches. I had renter’s insurance, friends and family. Four days after the tornado, I returned to my apartment to take stock of my belongings. That Saturday, I had two hours to move everything out of my apartment.
As the coronavirus pandemic began, over 20 colleagues from The Tennessean came to Main Street. They signed a waiver acknowledging it was dangerous, and a man unscrewed the board blocking my door. We entered the completely darkened apartment and everyone turned their cell phone flashlight on. We all began packing.
The U-Haul was filled in an hour and a half. We drove to my new place and unpacked. I stepped into the hall and cried as they figured out where my dishes would go.
This changed who I am as a journalist. This changed who I am as a person. I saw the best of people. I saw the best of Nashville. Everyone helped and protected their neighbors. People donated everything they could. And as the construction continues it is an opportunity to create something better.
I've learned a lot since then. I now live in Arizona. I have my own dog, a better go-bag, but I never replaced the furniture. I never want to be in this situation again but it has challenged me in beautiful ways.
I am grateful my friends are alive and safe after this tornado. It brought us closer together. Too many people died that night. They will never be forgotten.
I can now feel the wind on my face without shaking. It took me nine months to look through this work but I finally feel strong enough.
The wind stole from us, but also exposed us to how much we have.
For that I’m grateful.
My colleagues from The Tennessean helping me move. Photo by Larry McCormack