Growing up a South Florida native, I was never taught to fear the word “hurricane.” Growing up as a Miami-native and the daughter of Cuban-born immigrants, “hurricane” was synonymous with “surprise vacation.” My family came from a country that was never prepared for natural disasters (their government being its own variation of one), so when they moved over to the United States, hurricanes became seemingly less fearsome. That’s because this country was different and was prepared — especially after Hurricane Andrew.

As a child, I got to live through a few hurricanes. One of them went by the name of Katrina. Now, I must say that that hurricane brings about the fondest of memories. Yes, it absolutely sucked not having power for three days and having to sleep in the blistering 90 degrees, but it was also fun to have three days disconnected from the world. Yes, the power was down, but so were the phones and the internet. For three days, nobody who lived in the 14 houses on my block cared about the world outside of it. I distinctly remember playing with the other kids in the neighborhood. We would ride bike, play tag, and play hide-and-go-seek. It was a blast. The adults all pulled out their barbecues and cooked all the perishables in the fridge.

Hurricanes brought about the best, spontaneous block parties. They’re the only ones we ever had in my entire life growing up there. So when a storm like Hurricane Matthew comes around, a little part of me can’t help but think about those few days where a disaster brought out the most beautiful part of the human experience.