Behind The Book: Stormwitch

Late one night, walking two miles on a battered high school track, I imagined the character of Ruba Jones. She crawled into my brain fully formed, with a warrior's glare and bright, dangerous eyes. A few nights earlier, I had read an article on the real Amazons, the fighting women of Dahomey, Africa. I wondered why I never heard of those powerful fighters in my history classes. Ruba and the true Amazons needed a story. The more I read about Dahomey's war women, the more I respected their dedication and accomplishment, their single-minded fierceness of purpose. So many times I've had to read about or watch stories about men from the past. How men conquered. How men amazed and terrified opponents. Finally, I was reading about the unmatched feats of *women.*

I've always thought there was something feminine about hurricanes, and not just because they only carried women's names until a few years ago. Hurricanes can't be stopped or reckoned with, or even deflected once they choose a course. They're mysterious and unpredictable, despite our wealth of science and depth of knowledge. Hurricanes are a yearly reminder that we as humans still can't stand against the force of nature.

Hurricane Camille struck when I was very young, but some of my earliest memories are the black and white television pictures, grainy news photos, and crackling static radio reports of the damage. Most people who grew up in Mississippi or the deep south can tell you what they were doing when Camille struck, and how the storm damaged or almost destroyed some aspect of their lives. My dearest friend and her family were vacationing in Biloxi, and left the day before Camille made landfall. Her father hadn't worried about the storm, because he'd ridden out many a storm on a destroyer in the ocean during World War II. When they got home, photos of the coast shocked them. The hotel where they had stayed was completely gone. A concrete arch a few blocks away was the nearest recognizable structure. They never even got a credit card charge for their stay or for any of their meals--all the restaurants had been blown away or flooded. My mother fled Camille a few hours ahead of the devastation, outrunning flood waters with a car full of family belongings and a ticked off, very pregnant cat in labor. I was at the home of my grandparents, and so missed the many tornados that wound through the state in Camille's devastating wake. For many years afterward, until I moved away from Mississippi and before the casinos came, we could still drive along the coast and see big, gaping spaces between buildings. Those spaces went back as far as the eye could see. Camille's footsteps were not easily erased.

I grew up in Mississippi during some of the state's most turbulent years. From a child's perspective, I saw many troubling and difficult things, and I'm still struggling with how to talk about them. Through Ruba's courage and perspective, some of those experiences found a voice. Mississippi was a hard place; at times, unforgiving. The past held on with stubborn fingers, and change came slowly--and often painfully. I loved Mississippi despite its many flaws, and I love it today. I think I have more Mississippi stories to tell, and more characters who need to speak about that stormy era.