electric mist

where grace lives

I passed a man at a shelter the other day. He was tall and lanky and sunburned, dressed in cut-offs and a soaked blue t-shirt, with a grubby baseball cap shoved on top of muddy curls. There was something about his lean, sinewy body that made me think of the shrimpers I've seen down in Cocodrie -- it's a hard life and it makes for no-nonsense, self-sufficient men.

He was sitting in a metal folding chair, slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, and the exhaustion in his shoulders made me ache. Between his feet was a medium sized box, and he was staring down into it. The box held some basic necessities: toiletries, canned goods, a pair of socks, and a pair of underwear. I realized, then, that he was barefoot -- the grime around his ankles marked him as having abandoned his shoes somewhere along the way. His large feet were probably too big for any of the donated shoes stacked up at a one of the neaby tables.

When I looked back at that box, I wondered what he must be thinking. My first thought, without seeing his face, was that this wasn't much to give a man after he'd lost everything. This wasn't much to hold onto for a man like that, and maybe he was angry at having lost everything, or frustrated that this is what he'd been reduced to. I had no words that would be of use, no words which could do any good, and I began to turn away when he suddenly looked up and caught my eye.

He had tears on his cheeks. When I stood there, not sure what to do, he shrugged and said, "I can't believe how generous people are. I can't believe total strangers would go out of their way to help so much."

I mumbled something about it being the least we could do, as neighbors, and I moved off into the crowd, feeling wholly inadequate and humbled in the face of such grace.

A few days later, we located a guy and his family who'd had to evacuate New Orleans. Their home? Right near where that levee broke. It was under ten feet of water.

I wish you could meet Keith. We'd hired him before as a sub-contractor when we had work in New Orleans, and Carl had always been impressed with him as a very hard worker. He is one of those rare, wonderful stories, where the guy grows up in the ghetto, makes a choice to change his life and better himself, works hard, has a family, and is slowly climbing out of the pay-check to pay-check rut. We'd gotten a phone call when he was evacuating, but couldn't receive the call (it went to voice-mail) and then couldn't find him afterward. Finally, after a few days, his phone was working again and he got in touch.

When Keith and his extended family complied with the forced evacuation, they believed they'd be going back the next day. After all, they lived in the inner city, in an apartment. There might be wind damage and a little flooding in the street, but they'd be home by the next day. They took nothing but the clothes on their backs. It was an extended family evacuating -- cousins and their families all hitching rides together -- and there simply wasn't much room in the vehicles to carry anything extra with them. They never dreamed they'd see their street on the TV News, completely under water.

Keith told Carl where he was staying. They'd run out of money, there was no room in the shelters, and no place to go except for the home of one lovely, wonderful aunt, who took them all in. All of them -- cousins, spouses and kids. All 45 of them, in one house, which has maybe a thousand square feet of living area. They were living in tents in the back yard, completely unsure what to do next.

We brought a few supplies from our home, and a couple of boxes someone had generously sent me which had diapers, baby wipes, new underwear, toiletries and a few toys inside. Keith's wife was careful to count the toys and remove the extras for us to give to other kids. These two boxes probably could have made a family of four or five slightly more comfortable, but this big family of 45 carefully shared everything and made it seem as if we'd given them manna. One mom picked up a bag of diapers and underwear for her kids and clutched them. She turned and gave me the biggest hug, the warmest smile.

For the kids, the one new toy they had was like Christmas. They finally had something to do,, instead of wondering why they couldn't go home, why couldn't they have their bike or their doll. Not understanding that everything back home was still under ten feet of water that was growing ever more toxic by the minute.

We stayed a while, listening to their stories, listening to the kids play, taking photos (the cutest kids ever). Most of the adults didn't know what was going to happen to their jobs. Several had seen their place of business destroyed by winds or water; others couldn't reach their bosses and had heard they weren't going to move back and try again. In the midst of all of this pain, in the midst of the stories, there was a moment where they all stopped, looked at one another. Then the aunt said, "But all my family is here. We're all alive. We're the lucky ones." And they all nodded.

I was in awe.

By the next day, more boxes were showing up here with supplies. More and more people wrote to ask what we needed. More and more people were as outraged and frustrated as we were here, and they wanted to help. I know many donated to charities, but these boxes -- they keep showing up, filled to the brim with things people need, with supplies damned near impossible to find in some of these areas. I get to bring them to the shelters and to the people who need them, and the recipients treat me like a hero, but it's not me. It's you. It's every single one of you who sent a box or a prayer or letters of support.

I don't know how to explain it. There is the immediate help, of course. So many things needed by so many people. Baton Rouge has doubled in size from evacuees, and for those who can get to the stores, they're crowded and often stripped of goods. I've seen clerks stocking shelves only to have items plucked out of their hands before they could even set it down. I've had to go to four or five stores sometimes to find things that we need, though that's easing up a bit now. And while it's helpful and useful and much needed, it's more than that.

It's that we're not alone.

The rage I feel right now is palpable (and Miss Alli expressed it so freaking well). I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that we live in a country that can put men on the moon, which can help build an international space station, which can go to other countries with every sort of aid, but we could not get water to people trapped on an overpass for days. I cannot wrap my mind around why they were trapped in the first place, since there were trucks passing them by. FEMA trucks, who wouldn't stop. I don't understand that. It's just one scene of so many, and it makes no sense. People died on that overpass, when help just drove right by them.

I cannot understand how we can have media crews showing the devastating events down at the Convention Center and the Superdome, and FEMA not "know" they're there. How do we live in a country which can drop aid to everyone else in the world, and no one could drop water and food to the people trapped there? How can we handle going in to war-torn areas and get aid to people there, but a few thugs prevented us from helping Americans? How?

And how is it that now, more than two weeks later, I'm still getting reports from the outlying areas that FEMA still hasn't shown up?

Still. Hasn't. Shown. Up.

Even with all of the publicity, even with all of the realization of the screw ups, even with all of the common knowledge of the devastation, there are still shelters where there are elderly and families with newborns and they have only gotten help from people like you and me and, in some cases, the Red Cross. Four days after the hurricane, when I had discovered that neither FEMA nor the Red Cross had made it to Covington, I cornered the FEMA guy in charge over at the LSU / Triage area and told him about the need. He really didn't look interested. I badgered him. (I am good with the badgering.) He was a big guy, hulking over me, and I had the sense that he was barely refraining from swatting me like an incessant fly, but I kept up with the badgering and only when I mentioned that the people were in a depressed (read: somewhat poor) area did he actually start paying any attention. Well, "attention" is generous. The man had me write down the information in a notebook, promised me someone would get out there soon, especially to evacuate those with medical needs. Then he clapped the notebook closed, turned to another person standing there and started chatting.

When I went to the shelter Saturday, I asked the Red Cross Volunteer (who'd arrived on day seven, three days later) if FEMA had shown up. She said they had driven by once and dropped off some ice (which was gone in an hour) and they hadn't been back. At that point, it was day twelve.

The newspaper, the following day, showed another city entirely forgotten: Bogalusa. No one had been there, no one had called, no supplies, lots and lots of damage.

I don't understand these things. I know I live in America. Well, last time I checked, Louisiana was still in America. Maybe something happened somewhere that someone forgot to mention to us, but yeah, pretty sure we're still in America. And the magnitude of the inept response (including local) is staggering.

It was like watching someone I love get gutted and lie there bleeding and knowing that help was standing a few feet away, talking about golf scores.

So when I say to you that you've made a difference, I don't mean it lightly or in any sort of frivolous way. When it suddenly became clear that we were the ugly, unwanted step-child of the government, or worse, the beaten, neglected child of the local officals who were hastily trying to cover up their long-term abuse with loud excuses, you made us feel human again. So many of you -- giving, calling, writing, trying. Feeling the outrage on our behalf. Knowing it belonged to you, because you were us, we were a part of this country, and you cared. We needed you, and you were there, and the outpouring of that grace and hope helped to get us through the worst of the days when we were watching in horror as our own people died, as our friends and family were left, as people were treated worse than we'd ever ever treat an animal.

You made a difference. A big difference. And I thank you.

Posted by toni at September 13, 2005 03:44 PM