The Rain Whisperer

I thought this to be simply bad luck. Despite the weather forecast, the rain seems to begin its sprint to the ground only when the sky senses my elfin moped and me in proximity. One night, when I lived in a sequestered and outdated house on North Decatur Road until February of this year, I turned my scooter on to head to McDonald’s; almost immediately, I was struck by unforeseen drops of intense rain. This irritating concurrence had already taken place numerous times, but this particular moment originally made me wonder, “Maybe this isn’t a coincidence.” The suspicion gradually turned into a reality, as I would repeatedly start my moped seconds before heavy rain and hop inside seconds before the end. When I go shopping, the clouds oftentimes send their sticky army to the ground when I am transporting thirty to forty miles per hour until my clothes are irreversibly flooded. On my way to church hours after my most recent marathon in March, the rain resumed and soaked me that I could hardly sit or focus on the gathering. Following my weekly meeting with my internship supervisor, I hurried over to church to serve at a monthly conference for women, and with two minutes left on the ride, I was mauled by a random thunderstorm, giving me no choice but to volunteer the entire night in my utterly wet and gross shorts and T-shirt. Minutes after I began serving outside, the rain left and the sun reappeared.

The inadvertent rain whisperer I am.

I became convinced that this series of unfortunate incidents was staged, and last week reinforced my theory. Only when I stood up to leave work on Monday did I see the resurgence of thunderstorm. I had no choice but to suck it up and ride back in the rain, except the traffic doubled from usual and I took a free shower in my cheap outfit for forty minutes. Three days later, I attended my best friend’s brother’s high school graduation, and towards the end of the celebration and party, I told the friend, “It’ll start pouring as soon as I leave. You just watch.” After saying goodbye to everyone on the scene, I skeptically walked to the exit only to observe another overwhelming thunderstorm. I remained inside for twenty minutes, but the dark clouds conquered the sky and refused to leave anytime soon. I sprinted to my moped and took off, and within seconds, my entire body was waterlogged. The rain slowed down when I became wet enough to give up on feeling dry, and upon my arrival at the North Decatur Building at Emory University to receive my new I-20 and travel signature for my next week’s trip to Iceland, the pouring stopped. I told my international-student advisor and brother, both of whom work in the building, that the rain will continue when I am ready to leave, and I was unsurprised to see me accurately predict the future again. The rain halted soon after I returned to my apartment. On Sunday, a close friend and I had lunch across the street from church. Towards the end of our dining, the rain reentered the scene; I told him to refer to me as “the rain whisperer,” that no matter when I leave, the rain would explode as soon as I get on my scooter. The friend left first, while I waited until the rain paused. Like I foretold, seconds after I got on my moped and rode off, I was inundated until I reached home in twenty minutes. Again, the rain stopped as I walked inside.

People with whom I share these stories laugh. I do too when I think of how ridiculously hyperbolic these events sound in words, but sadly, I never lie. My post-college life has been filled with rejection after rejection, misery after misery, and nightmare after nightmare with hardly anything to celebrate, and I do not believe for a second for this unintentional rain-whispering to be coincidental. I asked God and Mother Nature each of the countless times the rain blew me away, “Are you having fun?” At least individuals can be entertained by my grief and discomfort. I might as well make the most of this unwanted gift and visit regions in the world that do not receive much rain on my moped. I would become an instant hero.

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