Tornadoes Are Rare In NYC. In Oklahoma, They Teach A Different Kind Of Resilience

Editor’s Note: This column reflects the author’s opinion.

NEW YORK, NY— New York City knows storms. It knows hurricanes, flooding and winter nor’easters. But tornadoes remain a rare visitor, and Tuesday’s tornado watch introduced a threat many residents have only experienced through headlines and screens.

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Since I moved to New York City, the reaction to where I came from has remained the same:

"Are there really tornadoes? Are they scary?"

It's true. Oklahoma — including my hometown, Oklahoma City— is undeniably flat, with storm-prone weather and a warm, humid climate.

Together, those ingredients create the perfect conditions for the cyclonic formations that tear through towns, destroying homes and killing people.

You’ll know one is on the horizon when the sky turns sage green, as if the world is about to collapse.

And, throughout the dozens of tornadoes I've witnessed, there are two constants.

First, the weather is full of contradictions that seem to defy science.

You need a jacket. Wait, you don’t.

The air is cold and warm, familiar and foreign, until your skin loses the ability to tell the difference: nature’s sensory deprivation tank.

It makes you wonder if a ghost possessed the air: the eeriness of a calm breeze amongst 150 mph wind gusts.

It's everything at once.

And when those contradictions collide to fruition, Mother Nature’s creation becomes her monster.

In 2009, my first-grade classmates and I were lined up against the wall during a tornado that tore through Oklahoma City, just two miles from my elementary school.

We barricaded ourselves with textbooks, stacking them until they covered our two-foot-tall bodies, thinking they would protect us.

They wouldn't have.

The insulated interior walls, with no windows, were already doing the heavy lifting, but our teachers didn't mind keeping us preoccupied with something other than screaming.

That was the last time a tornado scared me.

Then, in 2013, one of the most devastating tornadoes in modern history swept through Oklahoma, killing 24 people and destroying 2,400 buildings, particularly in Moore, a town just southwest of Oklahoma City.

After getting off work, my dad came home to find my sisters and me in the bathtub, covered with a mattress.

We rushed to the car to drive to a public storm shelter.

In the backseat, my older sister, Shelbie, 13, was crying. She held a Bible in her lap and prayed that we wouldn't die.

By then, at 11 years old, I thought it was cool, even funny, to be desensitized to tornadoes.

I kept laughing, providing play-by-play coverage like the ecstatic storm chasers on the local news.

"Do you feel the car floating on the water?" I asked.

It was the only time my parents had ever driven through flooded streets (not recommended, under any circumstances).

Shelbie scolded me.

Of course, tornadoes are dangerous.

They're ruinous. They carry no moral obligation for what, or who, stands in their way.

Maybe growing up around tornadoes changed the way I see them: less as a threat, more as a force I’ve learned to understand.

Maybe it's the thrill of speeding away in a car, only to turn back and catch a glimpse of the swirling monster chasing after you.

Or, maybe, it's the rarity of collective focus: the feeling that everyone is dialed in on the same thing, in the same moment.

Growing up learning about tornadoes, I also witnessed the resilience of Oklahomans— the same kind of resilience I would later recognize in New Yorkers.

After the Moore tornadoes, people didn’t leave after their homes were destroyed.

They rebuilt.

Neighbors searched through debris. Strangers showed up with supplies. The community organized, donated and carried each other through what was left behind.

Most of the United States thinks of Oklahoma, at best, as the home of horseback-riding cowboys or tornadoes. At worst, a flyover state.

But when I think of Oklahoma, I think of people who persevere, who rebuild, and somehow, always do it with a smile on their faces.

And that’s the most unforgettable constant: the storm will pass, but the people who stand beside you after it won’t.