Previously published in Medium

Four cots line the walls, each with a pillow, sheets, and blankets. Rows of canned goods interspersed with giant bottles of water are stacked high on the wooden shelves braced against the far wall, storing enough food for four people to last about a week. A small rectangular table with four chairs holds a radio, a wind-up clock, a stack of candles, a box of matches, a 1st aid kit, flashlights, and a few books. The bomb shelter is ready.

It’s 1951, fear and panic of nuclear attack increases as news about the Cold War spreads. My good friend Jackie lives around the corner on Sinaloa Avenue. Sometimes we sneak down the cold cement stairs to play in the dark, dismal fortress of her family’s basement bomb shelter.

When found, Jackie’s mom hurries us out of the hideout. Walking up the steps from the gloomy basement into the light, I see a vision of an exploding bomb. A fiery mushroom cloud rises from the earth, billowing, blocking out the sky. The earth rumbles, shock waves travel across the land. I see a clear image of wind blowing the cloud of grey smoke through the neighborhood, and everyone hiding inside for a few days. Then they will come out believing that everything will be OK.

I don’t understand how adults don’t see the long-range implications of nuclear warfare and radiation.

A few weeks later, after watching the world’s first hydrogen bombs explode, Dad returns home from the South Pacific. Gone for thirteen months, he brings exotic gifts I’ve never seen before, coconut, fresh pineapple, plumeria and gardenia leis, and grass hula skirts.

It’s painful to sit still at dinner. My father’s looming presence dictates a no-nonsense attitude. Wiggling around is not acceptable. The hard wooden chairs are uncomfortable. I squirm, shaking my pigtails, stabbing my fork at my bland, dried-up fried hamburger patty. Hiding my frozen peas under the minute mashed potatoes, I pipe up, “Who will clean up the mess?”

I see another vision of an exploding bomb. Energetically, I pick up everything from my Dad. Even though my five-year-old mind can’t understand the implications of what I’m seeing, the image is distinct. I can’t figure out how to separate the radiation from the water, soil, and the inside of the plants.

In my innocence, I ask Dad about how to remove the radiation from the water and plants. A heavy silence fills the room. He slides back his chair, stands up, points his finger at me, and for the first time ever, sends me to my room.

Hugging my knees, scrunched in the tight space in the corner between the wall and my bird’s-eye maple dresser, I feel alone, frightened, and know I should keep quiet. I can’t figure out why adults are so stupid and don’t fathom the mess they are creating.

That night triggers the trajectory of my life; an internal spark ignites while I hide in the corner, feeling scared, powerless, and worthless. Even though I’m just a girl of no value, I want to stop the fear and violence.

The imprint of exploding bombs awakens my awareness of the astonishing depth of hatred, torture, and cruelty people inflict upon each other. At the time, I didn’t understand humanity’s collective unconscious filled with fear, horror, and torment that perpetuates war and violence.

That night, my lifelong search of discovering my worth and why people kill each other switched on. My life is a windy path through bliss and torture as the outer violence turned inward. The external brutality of the world is wired into the cellular structures of my body.

I keep quiet. I hide my brilliance, even from myself.

This is an excerpt from my book Unseen Connections: A Memoir from Pain and Violence to Joy.