13 Stories of Dreams — Story 1: Alexandra Machado
By Alexandra Machado
A Note from Julia:
On September 19, 2017, Puerto Rico and Mexico City suffered the impact of two natural disasters: Hurricane Maria and a 7.1-magnitude earthquake. In Mexico, while people were commemorating the terrible earthquake of 1985, another powerful quake shook the city, killing more than 300 — including children inside schools that collapsed — during a catastrophe that strained first responders. That same day, Puerto Rico suffered through Hurricane Maria, a strong category five storm that left the entire island without electricity, drinking water, flooded entire neighborhoods, and with innumerable infrastructure damages. 165 days have passed since hurricane Maria, and the island has not fully recovered. More than 165,000 people continue to be without electricity. The complex panorama left by Maria provoked the migration of nearly 200,00 Puerto Ricans into the United States — concentrating mostly in the state of Florida — in search of opportunities and a better future. Alexandra Machado is one of those Puerto Ricans who came to Washington D.C. after Hurricane Maria’s destructive path through the island. I invite you to read her story.
Maria Changed My Life: A Story of Survival
Puerto Rico
At 11:30 p.m. on September 19, 2017, the worst part of Hurricane María was yet to be seen. Unfortunately, most of the population had already lost electrical power. Three of us were huddled in my house at Caguas, Puerto Rico. My father peeked every so often from a small window in his bathroom and proceeded to list the objects that were flying by. A solar panel. An uprooted tree. Several zinc sheets. His enumeration terrified me but, at that moment, it seemed to be the only thing that brought him peace. I let him be. My mother had her own techniques to keep calm. She paced up and down the hallway. “Where will we seek shelter if the windows explode?” I tried to ignore her question. If the windows had exploded, we would have no other choice but to face the hurricane head and body first. I diced to join in my father’s enumeration game.
“Where will we seek shelter if the windows explode?!”, my mother screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Mom, everything is going to be okay. This will all be over soon. Nothing will happen to us”, I lied. I did not factor in the deep wound that this catastrophe would leave on our mental health. On the mental health of an entire country.
The wind demanded to be heard, perhaps as a warning that two days later — when the heavy rain stopped — it would have devoured everything in its path: trees, flowers, fruits, houses, cars, jobs, hope.
“I’m scared”, wrote my best friend. Earlier that day we had made plans for Sunday. We were certain that everything would have gone back to normal by then. How naïve of us. Months have passed since September 19, 2017 and Puerto Rico has yet to be “back to normal”.
By 2:00 a.m., the wind was in full speed. My house — made of concrete and heavily protected from the storm — was vibrating. I remember thinking “it might just all be in your head.” It wasn’t. Twelve hours later, I would see the fractures that ran through the walls as a sign that nothing would ever be the same. Twelve hours after that, the Puerto Rico that I had known for twenty-three years would no longer exist.
Everything became increasingly complicated. Puerto Rico has been immersed in a decade-old economic crisis that has rendered it almost impossible for my generation to have job opportunities. Hurricane Maria only made it worse. I had no other option than to explore the possibility of finding a job in the U.S. mainland.
If you were to ask me what the most vivid memory I have of hurricane Maria is, my mind goes directly towards October 31, 2017.
That Tuesday, the lines at the airport were huge. I arrived three hours earlier than my scheduled flight. I remember feeling relieved. I had a bit of time before the inevitable: in a couple of hours I would be one of the over 200,000 Puerto Ricans who had left the island to find a better life. In my case, it also meant that I had a couple of hours left with my family, most of whom had come to the airport with me. How many birthdays would I miss? How many Christmases? How many hugs from my parents would I stop receiving? An hour before boarding my flight I decided it was time to face it all. I started saying goodbye. First my best friend, she’s always been the strongest and I knew I would need some of her strength to deal with everything ahead. Then my mother. “It’s okay, my love. You don’t have to cry. Everything will be okay”. My father was last. Tears came in groups as we embraced each other that day. “Be strong”, was the only thing he could bring himself to say.
The plane began to make its way down the runway. I closed my eyes. I needed to concentrate. “Everything is going to be okay, Alexandra”, I tried to reiterate. I wasn’t really sure if that would be the case. From now on, I would be sure of very little. Just before the plane was about to take off, I looked through the window. I could see the rubble of what used to be. Without really realizing it, I’d started to cry. I looked away from the window and around the cabin. Everyone was crying.
It’s been nearly four months since my departure from Puerto Rico. Every now and then I find myself repeating the same thing: “Everything will be okay, Alexandra. Everything will be okay”.
