Welcome to Oklahoma, Hunker Down

Growing up in California, I thought I had natural disasters figured out. Earthquakes? No problem. Fires? Annoying, sure, but manageable. As a kid in L.A., earthquakes were like impromptu recess drills. The ground would shake, and we’d run outside, laughing, pretending we were part of some action movie. Fires? Well, one of those did burn down my house when I was 22, but I chalked that up to a statistical fluke. Every year after that, it was just the same smoky summer air. Nothing felt life-threatening.

Fast forward to 2006, when I moved to Atlanta. That’s where I met my first tornado warning. Tornado? What even is that? I remember sitting there, glued to the TV, listening to a dozen meteorologists all yelling at me to “hunker down.” They said it with such conviction, like this was a skill everyone just had. Spoiler alert: I had no clue what it meant. Did I crouch? Sit? Hide under a table? I didn’t know, and honestly, I wasn’t too motivated to find out.

So, I moved on with life. weather warnings came and went. “Flooding possible” or “high winds in your area” became background noise. Then, this fall, I moved to Oklahoma.

Oklahoma is Tornado Central. I’ve been here before—I even filmed a movie here earlier this year. One day on set, the sky turned green. One of the actors said, “Looks like a tornado might be coming.” I shrugged and gave the most Oklahoman response I could muster: “Eh, we’ll just hunker down.” Still didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded confident. The tornado missed us, but it left 30 houses flattened nearby. That should’ve been my wake-up call. Instead, I doubled down on my blissful ignorance.

Then, a week into living here, it happened.

At 4 a.m., my phone buzzes with an alert. I ignore it because, come on, those are never about me. But Tonya, my wife, leans over and reads hers. She lets out a deep breath and says, “We should get dressed.”

“Why?” I groan, still half-asleep.

“Tornado warning.”

At that moment, I hear them—the tornado sirens. Sirens, people. Like we’re in some apocalyptic sci-fi movie. “Well, that’s not good,” I mutter as I throw on a shirt and shuffle to the living room.

Now, let me paint a picture for you. We live in the heart of Tulsa. This isn’t farmland. It’s all houses and neighborhoods that have been here since the 50s. Nothing ever happens here, right? Wrong.

I glance out the window. High winds whip through the darkness, and every local TV channel is screaming the same terrifying mantra: “Tornado, tornado, tornado.” The map on the screen shows the storm’s path cutting right through our neighborhood. My first thought? Should I be hunkering?

Tonya, much smarter than me, yells, “Get away from the window!” Oh, yeah. Good idea. We stand in the middle of the room, eyes glued to the TV. The reporter on the scene is literally one block away, showing live footage of flying debris, power line explosions, and general chaos. I could’ve run out and waved at him—if I was stupid enough.

Then Tonya says, “Get your shoes on.”

Shoes? Oh, sure. I run to the bedroom and immediately grab a hat. Because, obviously, if a tornado destroys our house, the most important thing is not my safety but avoiding being on TV with bedhead.

“Shoes!” she yells again. I finally comply.

Ten tense minutes pass. The tornado veers off, leaving us unscathed. My phone buzzes with texts from my new Tulsa friends, all with the same cheeky message: “Welcome to Oklahoma.”

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Tornados are no joke.

“Hunkering down” means staying away from windows (and, apparently, wearing shoes).

Always grab a hat. You never know when you’ll need to look respectable while recounting your brush with death on live TV.

So, while I’m officially a Tulsa resident now, let me just say—I’ve been close enough to a tornado for a lifetime. No need for a repeat.

Stay safe out there. And remember: shoes, windows, and hats.