By any measure, America’s great institutions are crumbling. Congress is gridlocked, the post office can’t deliver mail on time, and the nation’s once-mighty supply of Bud Light commercials has been reduced to cultural warfare. But perhaps no decline is more symbolic of our national unraveling than the fate of our hurricanes.

There was a time—not so long ago—when a hurricane meant something. Not just rain, wind, and destruction, but drama. They came with names that carried weight: Camille, Agnes, Donna, Katrina. They weren’t mere meteorological phenomena; they were forces of nature wrapped in the aura of a scorned lover. You didn’t just survive Hurricane Camille—you endured her, and she became a part of your family history, whispered about long after the roof was patched and the insurance claim settled.

But then, in the feverish rush to appease modern sensibilities, the National Hurricane Center caved to “fairness.” No longer content with the elegance of female-only names, they tossed men into the mix. And thus, with bureaucratic cowardice disguised as progress, the American hurricane lost its mystique.

The Tragedy of Male Hurricanes

Let’s not mince words: hurricanes with male names are embarrassing. Hurricane Bob? Hurricane Larry? Please. These sound less like cataclysmic weather events and more like the guys who fix your gutters or coach your kid’s Little League team. Even Harvey—a storm that caused billions in damage—still evokes the image of a jolly neighbor offering you a hotdog at a backyard cookout. It is impossible to cower before a storm named Fred.

The absurdity is obvious: hurricanes are supposed to terrify, not underwhelm. Male names make them sound like temporary inconveniences. “Hurricane George is approaching” doesn’t strike fear; it sounds like Uncle George is pulling up in his RV and might block your driveway.

The Lost Art of Storm Naming

What made female names so effective? They carried both elegance and menace. A storm named Camille wasn’t just a weather event—it was destiny barreling toward you. Agnes didn’t ask permission; she flooded your town like she owned it. And Katrina, for better or worse, etched herself into the American psyche forever.

Female-only names gave hurricanes their narrative. They made them memorable, almost mythical. You respected them. You prepared for them. You remembered them. Male hurricanes, on the other hand, are destined to be forgotten—footnotes in NOAA reports, lost among data tables and budget hearings.

A Call for American Hurricanes

And while we’re at it, let’s confront another tragedy: the internationalization of hurricane names. The lists now include names like Omar, Yvonne, or Gonzalo. Worthy names, perhaps, but not distinctly American. If we’re going to rebuild cities, lose power grids, and argue over FEMA funding every few years, the least we can do is ensure our hurricanes sound like they’re made in the USA.

It’s time for a naming convention that reflects the true spirit of this country. Give us hurricanes named Cheyenne, Savannah, Brittany, and Crystal. Names you can picture etched on a rhinestone belt buckle or spray-painted on the side of a Jeep Wrangler. Names that scream small-town pageants and Friday night lights. Imagine the Weather Channel solemnly announcing: “Category 5 Hurricane Tiffany has made landfall.” That’s an American storm worth evacuating for.

Preempting the Critics

Of course, the critics will howl. They’ll call this proposal “sexist,” “outdated,” or “culturally insensitive.” But isn’t it more sexist to deny hurricanes their natural femininity? To strip them of the very mystique that made them legendary? Hurricanes are not bureaucratic entities to be filed into tidy gender-equal lists. They are feral, untamed forces of nature, and they deserve names that honor—not neuter—their legacy.

We don’t rename grizzly bears to be more equitable. We don’t demand that tornadoes alternate between male and female pronouns. Why, then, should hurricanes be reduced to an alphabetized rotation designed by committee?

Restoring Order to the Storms

The National Hurricane Center must stop bending to international committees and cultural fashions. Bring back the tradition. Make hurricanes great again. Let them bear names that carry both menace and myth, names that respect their destructive power while anchoring them in our cultural memory.

If America is destined to lose its coastlines one subdivision at a time, we might as well do it with dignity. When the seawalls collapse and the lights flicker out, let us at least hear the newscaster say: “Hurricane Crystal has claimed the boardwalk.” That way, when we tell our grandchildren the story of the storm that defined our lives, we’ll have something better to say than, “Well, Larry blew my roof off.”

America deserves better. America deserves hurricanes worthy of the name.