IOIIT: Introduction

Spring 1991

The Florida panhandle is an odd place. It’s unlike the rest of the state in various ways. You can reach Georgia or Alabama in an hour or less from most places. The majority of Florida is relatively flat, but the panhandle is dotted with hills, which act as a holding area for humidity in the summer, resulting in highly oppressive summer heat. But spring, well, spring is the best time to be outdoors in Florida.

I can still feel the chill in the air that hit me as we stepped out the door for church each April for Easter Sunday services. My sister Juliet and I would stand in front of the azalea bushes for family pictures dressed in our brand-new Easter dresses and giddy with excitement for hunting eggs and consuming too much sugar the rest of the day. When I was little, I knew spring was here when I went outside and saw the azaleas were beginning to bloom. I would have goosebumps from the slight bite in the air that would dissolve within an hour when the spring sun warmed the air just enough. April of 1991 was just as beautiful as every other spring, but the series of events ahead would be drastically different.

My father and stepmother lived in a rural town an hour west of the capital city of Tallahassee, which is halfway between Jacksonville and Pensacola. It was Easter weekend, and the weather was splendid, with temperatures in the 70s and no humidity. The sultry, sticky summer was just around the corner, making me appreciate this last taste of weather perfection.

My blended family and I had just arrived home at my father and stepmother’s house from a camping trip that weekend. My sister, three stepsiblings, and I were still basking in the post-vacation euphoria after what many would deem “wholesome family fun.” An April breeze blew through the open windows as we began to unpack.

Upon walking into the living room, a vase sailed across the room, hit the wall, and shattered, raining shards onto the ornate white carpet, pulling me back to earth and into reality. As I got my bearings, I noticed my mother standing next to the kitchen, which was peculiar because she rarely came to my father’s home. My mother and stepmother were screaming at each other, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. As the two women kept shouting, I ushered my seven-year-old sister outside, where I noticed my stepfather standing next to his car, looking bewildered.

The memory of this incident has been tattooed on my brain for the last 30 years. I intermittently wonder if my stepmother ever replaced the crystal vase that broke against her living room wall.