The Finger of God

I thought I was going to die. The filing cabinets were shaking, the lights were out, and I found myself grabbing for the hand of a woman I had met just weeks before. Screams were coming from some distant place, but the scariest sound—the most frightening part of the whole ordeal—was the roar I heard over the screams. I chanted, “Oh God Oh God Oh God,” as I stared up at the ceiling. We were huddled together in my professor’s office at Union University. The date was February 5, 2008. We shouldn’t have been there.

As the sky darkened earlier that day, my anxiety was building. The principal, with an uncharacteristically nervous voice, had notified all students at Obion County Central High School that the school would be closing early. She also told everyone that the rule about cell phone use was temporarily set aside so that students could call their parents. Panic ensued as students ran to look out the window. It was my job to calm the students and try to focus them on some semblance of an English lesson, but a terrible storm was eminent, and I knew I had to drive an hour to Jackson for a night class.

As soon as the students were out of the building, my principal made another ominous announcement: “Teachers: I have been informed that the approaching storms can produce tornadoes. You might be thinking of staying and working, but you must leave and go home. I repeat: GO HOME!” I couldn’t go home. I had to drive to Jackson and sit for a three-hour night class and later drive home.

Other universities in Jackson and all over West Tennessee had cancelled evening classes, but when I emailed my professor, she assured me that our class was still meeting. My husband begged me not to go. Colleagues said I was crazy, but this professor had warned us on the first night of class that attendance was required. She stressed the importance of attendance by stating that our grades depended on it.

I arrived at the Penick Building just seconds before sheets of rain began to fall. I was early for my 6:00 class, so I went to the room and waited. I heard thunder outside, and several professors gathered in the hallway and talked about how serious the weather was becoming. One man proclaimed that he was leaving early, and I heard a woman in the group say that she was headed to her community’s tornado shelter. And I continued to sit in the classroom because my professor had not cancelled class.

The professor arrived, and so did the other four students in the class. Everyone was present. Everyone but the professor was concerned about the weather. One student said she had driven forty minutes from Hardin County in heavy rain, and the other two, who were from Jackson, said they assumed class was cancelled until they read the email the professor sent to all of us. One student asked if she could keep her cell phone on since she was worried about the safety of her child, who was staying with a sitter.

We diligently took notes as the professor lectured and the storm raged on. After about thirty minutes, the student with the cell phone raised her hand. “I think we need to go,” she said. “My dad just texted me that tornadoes have wiped out Memphis and are headed our way.” The professor reluctantly gave us permission to leave, but only one of us did so. We couldn’t drive home in this weather. We were stuck. I can’t speak for everyone in that class, but I was becoming bitter.

I was staring at the doorway, feeling panicked and no longer pretending to listen to the professor. At 7:30, a janitor jogged by our room and panted, “Come with me. We have to get to the hallway.” I looked at the man’s gray uniform, and for a moment I thought I was looking at a deity who would lead me away from certain death. We followed him until we got to the hallway, which was quickly filling up with students from all over the campus.

“I have a better idea,” my professor said, “Let’s go sit in my office. It’s an internal room with no windows.” This was the smartest thing the lady had said all day. As we followed her through the cavernous offices, the sirens began to whine. We got inside, closed the door, and that’s when the lights went out and the tornadoes hit the campus, including the Penick Building. It was thirty seconds of complete terror.

When the roar faded away and the lights returned, we left the professor’s office and walked dazedly in different directions. I eventually found a hallway where I could get decent cell phone reception, and I called my husband. “It’s all over the news. Union was hit. I’ve been worried sick about you. When are you coming home?” he said. I couldn’t answer. I just sat on the floor and cried. How would I get home?

I waited another thirty minutes before pulling on my black hooded rain coat and racing to my car. The light poles weren’t working, but when lightning lit up the area, I could see that the car parked beside mine had been smashed by a tree. I jumped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, but then I didn’t know which way to go. The sky was still rumbling, and sirens were ringing out from every direction. The smell of gasoline filled the air, but I didn’t know why. I drove around to the north entrance, but was soon stopped by a group of emergency workers. I turned around and drove to the south entrance, where I was able to exit. After taking two detours caused by downed trees, I managed to reach my home at 10:00 p.m. I crawled into bed with my husband and baby girl and fell asleep watching the somber weather report on WBBJ.

The campus suffered $40 million in damages, and thirteen students were trapped in a dormitory before emergency crew members could rescue them. At my school the following day, I told my story again and again. “Yes, I was at Union last night when the tornadoes hit. Nope, classes weren’t cancelled.” When the day was over, I checked my email. One email was from the professor with whom I had spent the harrowing evening. I saw that she sent it at 5:00 the day before, long after I had already left for Jackson. The message said, “I’m sure you’re all worried about the weather as you travel to class today. Our provost has assured me that if Union University was in any danger of being hit by a tornado, we would cancel classes. As things stand, Union is not cancelling classes tonight.” Good thing the asshole isn’t a meteorologist.