Sometimes, when I feel like this, I wish there was a food I could eat, an activity I could start, a book I could read, a chore I could do, that would make me feel better. Maybe I want the life I want because when I’m living like that, there is no time to feel like this. When it hits, it’s usually when I’m making breakfast, when I have a much-wished for day to myself, and then it lingers until I go to sleep at night. It’s its own presence, almost a companion rather than a feeling, and it makes me want to run, or sleep, or drink. But I don’t run, or sleep, or drink, I just sit with it, and fruitlessly hope it goes away.

Two years ago today, I moved to the Napa Valley. Of all the strange leaps I’ve made in my life, this was strangest. At the time, I was poised to go to Africa in Peace Corps; two years earlier, I’d found my calling in relief work; one year earlier I’d spent the summer in the wilds of the American West on a 3-month trek through public lands as the team medic; two months earlier I’d quit my job of three years working at one of New York’s best restaurants. I moved out here as a wanna-be writer, wanna-be EMT, wanna-be wine geek, wanna-be Peace Corps volunteer, wanna-be disaster relief worker. I say wanna-be on all counts because I was no one thing fully. Two years later, I am none of these fully, all of them partly, just like when I came, except now I am a hundred more things than I never would have been had I not moved here. (A hundred things, good and bad, or neither, just different.)

My work here is some of the most exciting of my life, and exciting even more because of where it will take me. And I am thankful for so much- a laundry list of help, guidance, support, love, and challenges. Two years ago yesterday, as I slept my last night in my brownstone studio apartment in Brooklyn, New York, as I looked around at the bare walls and the two packed bags, I was terrified about the choice I’d made but I leapt, praying to all ye gods that a net would appear.

And so it did. It’s Sunday afternoon, Napa Valley fall, I have stock simmering on the stove and tomatoes from my garden waiting to become sauce. I’ve spent a few hours on a grant proposal, a few more hours on a major fundraising drive, I’m looking forward to a date with a puzzle, and I’m still in my pajamas. I was in the city last night with six dear friends, celebrating a birthday. I could say I’ve built a life here, but what’s really happened is I’ve rebuilt myself here. I am still discontented and frustrated and nuts and flawed and whatever, but I’m a hundred times more aware of the possibilities in my life, and next time I leap, it is going to be towards something, not away from something. And my, oh, my, am I excited for that leap.

Day One

Interesting to me that I haven’t been writing in my journal or blogging. I don’t know if I’ve had such a tired month, ever in my life. Every minute of every day, practically, I’ve been exhausted. It’s been 26 days since I first decided to go back to the Red Cross, and here I am on a flight to Alabama, where I’ll be deployed- somewhere, to do something, but I don’t know what. It could be days before I’m in the field. I’ll be coming back sometime in the second week. Beyond that, I know nothing, nothing. An hour and a half left in this flight, then another flight to go, and then a night in a shelter or a hotel, and then I’m in the hands of the Red Cross.

(later)

Yesterday, at 2PM, I got my deployment call. Tonight I’m in a hotel in Montgomery, Alabama, a place I’ve never been and one I’ll most likely not really see. I have a huge room to myself- larger than any apartment I had in New York, with a king-sized bed. Propped up on one side, near the night stand, with my knees up, I take up not even a quarter of this massive bed.

We’re not allowed out of this hotel. There was a shooting outside last night, so we are to stay in our rooms until they come and get us in the morning. I met two women on the tiny plane that flew us from Atlanta to Montgomery, both from California, both here to serve for three weeks. Both kind and smart. Looking forward to breakfasting with them in the morning, and having friends for the day. We aren’t staying here. Montgomery is the main HQ for Katrina, but it’s too far away so they are moving us to Mississippi. Or, that’s the rumor. Already there are rumors abound. And these two sweet women said they were taking a little solace in meeting me, since I have some idea of what to expect. But really, what I know is that none of my expectations will come to pass, so I try not to expect anything. I’m so curious about tomorrow, and I pray to the gods of sleep to bless me tonight, in this possible last night in a bed… at least for two weeks.

Day Two

We’re already on the road, 1:30 PM of Day Two. Leslie, Katie, Michael and I got to HQ this AM about 8:30, where we went through numerous stations- orientation, staff health, card services, then client case training, and then we were basically instantly deployed to Mobile, AL.

at the center in Montgomery (click on any image to enlarge)…

Since I was deployed as a supervisor, I’ve already been asked to assume that role with a crew of eight. We are all going to be case workers, which we are told is the first and main contact that many victims will have with the Red Cross. It’s hard to believe that so many people still have not had any contact. But to get services, folks need some sort of ID, and some are just now being let back into their homes or they’ve had to reapply for state ID or licenses. Or they’ve just not been able to get to us yet. Or they are scammers.

The Red Cross has already provided assistance to more people than the entire populations of all the states in the Gulf Coast. Apparently, people are borrowing each other’s kids to claim dependents; scammers are hitting numerous shelters in the same day, before the paperwork can be processed, claming need and receiving benefits at all of them. We’ve been told that the National Guard is patrolling the lines of people waiting to get seen, that the lines are violent- people taking out other people to shorten the wait. Our trainer said that people were throwing bricks from cars to knock out others in line. It sounds awful.

I don’t know why, but for the first time in years, I don’t know how I feel about being a supervisor, about being in charge of anyone or anything other than myself. I know I’m qualified, but for some reason, I’m hedging, I’m uncomfortable with it.

(later)

In Mobile, AL. We’re in a Ramada Inn- no shelter yet!- directly next to the Civic Center where we’ll be working tomorrow. I have a supervisor’s meeting at 11 AM, and then I start client casework at 1 PM. I’m hopeful about the day. It’s such an easy day, since it’s Sunday, and the center is only open from 1-6. I have a feeling that the following days are going to be exponentially harder.

I’m curious about these people here with me- the ones I traveled with today. Everyone is very nice, but it feels as though no one is opening up quite yet. I know I’m not, not really, not yet. Before we got here to the Ramada, we were at the Red Cross chapter here in Mobile, waiting endlessly to find out where we would be staying tonight (and going through yet another orientation). We were debating the southern snacks- moon pies vs. other Hostess delicacies- when one of the people on my team asked what I did back home. I told her I was the director of an arts non-profit. And she nodded and smiled and listened and said, “So what makes you qualified to be a supervisor?” She didn’t ask it unkindly, but it was, in a way, a challenge.

Usually I step up to that challenge. Being a woman, being young, and being blonde and everything else I am, I’m used to having my authority questioned at every turn. Even when I’m obviously qualified, even when I’m actually running the show, I’m questioned, I’m doubted- sometimes even by my own friends. But in this case, there was no doubt. I worked for the Red Cross in New York City. I responded to more disasters there in my short tenure with them than most workers do in a lifetime in smaller towns. Beyond that, I ran staging grounds at Ground Zero after 9/11. Beyond that, I run a non-profit. Beyond that, I’m organized, capable, smart. Beyond that, I was chosen.

But… this time was different. She asked what made me qualified, and all I wanted to say was, “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to do it anyway.” But I didn’t. I mumbled something about my past work, and left it at that. I don’t know. I guess I want to find out what is going to be happening here before someone else decides I’m in charge of anything. It’s not that I’m fearful, I’m just… I want to see this from the other side, somehow.

Day Three

Too depressed to write. Lovely things are happening with my team.

team 8…

Really difficult things are happening in our work.

We are all case workers here, and there must be well over a hundred of us. We have banks of tables that we share with other case workers and where clients, who wait first outside for hours upon hours and then inside on rows and rows of white chairs, come to see us in a never-ending stream. As we finish with a client, we raise our hands and the next one is already making his or her way to us down the long rows of tables. We fill out forms that details their families and their damages, and then we ask them to tell their stories, and then we ask them about their emergency needs, and then we direct them to the appropriate resources. If only it was as smooth and simple as it sounds.

Yesterday was exhausting and we only worked a half-day in an air-conditioned center, where we provided assistance to everyone who came in the door. Today we moved into a huge new mega-center- an abandoned Wal-Mart- where the heat and humidity were like a moist, hot blanket and where they changed all the rules and almost everyone who came for assistance was turned down.

early-morning shot, before we open, of the chairs for the waiting clients…

… and the tables where we work with them. Not pictured: horrible dripping heat

It was terrible. Everyone’s neighbors have received assistance, everyone heard how much we are giving away, and then suddenly, today, everything changes. We turned away people with cancer, people who were homeless, people displaced from their homes. We also turned away scammers and those who had appropriate food, clothing, and shelter, but they hadn’t been turned away before… it was so hard. I turned down an elderly grandma, black, who was taking care of four kids and whose life was extremely difficult long before the storm. She was absolutely lovely, and when I denied her, she took my hand and thanked me, because basically she was accustomed to getting screwed at every turn her whole life. My next client was a middle-class white mom with minor roof damage, and no emergency needs- but clearly someone used to getting her way. When I denied her, she became livid, shaking with rage, saying she was going to “make some calls” and calling me some rather ugly names. It was so brutal, and so telling about the way this country works.

And yet, my team, my team. We were all working near each other today. I was at a table with Rob. A supervisor came by to ask Rob if he had any construction experience, and if so, would he be willing to do damage assessments in the field? Rob is a woodworker, with extensive construction experience, but he had told me the night before that he wasn’t interested in doing that kind of work here- that he wanted to be immersed in something totally different. He started to worm his way out of doing this work when I piped up and said I’d done damage assessment in New York. The sup then asked if either of us would be willing to be on a damage assessment team… and then she asked if we were together, and without missing a beat, Rob said “yes”. He claimed me.

Although my life is strangely solitary, although I spend vast amounts of time on my own and need it that way, I really am tribal by nature. I really do want to have access to a group of people who share my goals and needs and who love me. I could not have wished, could not have forseen that I’d end up with such an amazing team out here in Alabama. And when Rob spoke that “yes” after knowing me for barely a handful of days, that gaping hole that resides in my chest felt a little less empty.

So tired, off to bed. Maybe tomorrow we can do some good.

Day Four? Five?

It seems as if we’re almost out of clients. Word got out that we are no longer giving away the store, that you actually have to have current emergency needs- and that we are catching the fraud- and the stampede has turned into a trickle. I spent all day in the van yesterday doing damage assessment and did not enjoy it… because there was so little damage to assess, meaning that the folks who tried to claim benefits weren’t really eligible, and also being isolated from the whole group all day. There must be a hundred case workers here right now, all of them, well, most of them sitting idly. There is a new rumor that from here, we go to New Orleans. There is also a rumor that we may be sent home. I don’t want to go home yet- I’m not done here, not with my clients, not with my team. Clients approach…

(later)

This is a whole new brand of tired. I could lay my head down on this table and sleep, sleep, sleep. We have caught so many fraudulent people today, arrests, even. Some people have stolen five, six, seven thousand dollars. Trying to keep my head up.

(later)

And yet, I look around, and see so many faces I’m growing to love. In the midst of all of this, of the madness and anger and tears and heat and exhaustion, I’ve connected with a man. A sweet, lovely, confusing, man whom I’ve not even begun to understand. It’s interesting to watch from the outside- he likes me best when I’m feeling quiet, but I think he’s fascinated by my mania… well, fascinated and repulsed.

Day Six

It’s hard to find time to write. Karissa and I wake up at 5:30 every morning to enjoy the luxury of a shower and a bowl of Raisin Bran before getting to the Center by 7 AM. It has escaped neither of us that 5:30 here is really 3:30 our time, and the bags underneath our eyes are sprouting bags of their own.

I’m starting to understand what it is we are doing here. The last couple of days have been so difficult, so unbearably hot, and filled with angry, disappointed people, and yet, it’s getting easier.

First, the heat. I hear it might break tomorrow, but I doubt that will have much effect inside the center. This old, abandoned Wal-Mart probably once had air conditioning, but that was a thing of the past. We leave the hotel while it is still dark out, but dawn breaks by the time we get to the door, and it is muggy but breezy outside. We walk into the center and the heat is like a wall. Within minutes, sweat is tricking down my back, quickly soaking everything I’m wearing, trickling down my calves, pooling in the crooks of my elbows. I look around me and everyone looks like they just got out of the gym- hairlines are soaked, shirts pitted, everyone glistening from the weight of the heat. And that’s just the caseworkers. Our clients have been waiting outside, sometimes since 3 or 4 in the morning, soaking up first the outdoor heat and then waiting in a bank of chairs in the center, all of these bodies- hundreds of clients, hundreds of workers, adding to the heat, the smell. I’m drinking more water than ever in my life, and I can almost feel it go directly from my mouth to my pores. I walk to the bathroom at least once an hour, to stretch my legs and clear my head, but peeling off any layer of soaked clothing- knowing it’s going to right back against my skin- is a disgusting sensation. And, of course, one of the toilets in the women’s bathroom backed up and made quite a mess, but where else can we go?

And then the clients. For the first five weeks of this disaster, the Red Cross was throwing money at the victims, often asking few questions, and often not demanding extensive ID. It’s one of the things I like about the Red Cross- if you’ve been displaced, if you have emergency needs, you will get funding, regardless if you are rich or poor, old, young, black, white, mean or kind. If you are in trouble, they will help. The Red Cross is the bridge between the immediate effects of a disaster and the agencies that will help you rebuild your life. But they went too far this time. The response was so large, the disaster so huge, that the Red Cross went overboard providing assistance. Folks who did not necessarily meet the criteria- folks who maybe had a little damage and lost the food in their refrigerators, but still had a place to live and resources at their disposal, were still given assistance. And many people, as I mentioned before, out-and-out lied about their circumstances, claiming damages that never happened, children who weren’t theirs. One of the fraud cases w
e caught today had taken the Red Cross for over $7000. Considering we give about $300 per person per household, this scammer was pretty successful. Thankfully, the FBI is taking over all the fraud cases- I can’t imagine the amount of money and the PR nightmare if the Red Cross had to pursue them.

So now the reins have been tightened. It’s almost six weeks out, and people have to prove where they live, prove their damage, and prove that the people they claim live with them. Beyond all that, they have to prove they have emergency needs. Which is hard to do, six weeks after a disaster. These are the guidelines of the Red Cross, but no one was following them up until now. Which means that many of these folks here this week have neighbors with minimal damage who have been assisted. All of these people expected to walk out of here with debit cards. And when we turn them down, they are furious, or frustrated, or worried, or deeply depressed. It’s money they were counting on. And they take it out on us.

But the thing is, we have numerous other resources for them: housing authorities, Salvation Army, emergency food stamps, FEMA information (although that’s a whole nother mess), food banks, unemployment hotlines. But these are resources that will help these people help themselves, as opposed to just handing them a debit card to buy whatever they want. There are stories of the scammers claiming five people, getting $1500 and going to buy a new computer. These stories are hard to take, particularly when I’ve got a client in front of me who does not qualify for Red Cross assistance but who certainly needs help.

That’s the difference, though. We are not a social service agency. We are disaster relief. The disaster has passed.

BUT- and this is a huge but- so many people needed us but just couldn’t get to us in time. I had a man in today who had minor damage to his home, but the damage included losing most of his family’s clothes and food. He was too busy rounding up his loved ones and dealing with making his house livable to even call the Red Cross for three weeks. When he finally got through to us, he was given an appointment two weeks later. That appointment was bumped a third week, at which time, he came in, and sat down in front of me. He had a hard time talking to me- I really had to draw his story out of him- but when he finally started talking, I could see the shame in his eyes. He did not want to be there, asking for help. He did not want to be asking for a handout. The last six weeks since the storm, the bad news in his life had snowballed. A few days after the storm, he was patching the holes on his roof when he was bit by a brown recluse spider. His leg swelled to twice the normal size and he couldn’t walk for two weeks (another reason why he hadn’t gotten to us). He had lost his job because he couldn’t walk- he was in construction- and he’d used his food money for medicine. He had four kids, but he didn’t try to claim them because they didn’t live with him, but he and his ex-wife had pooled resources to try to feed them after the storm, and between that and his medicine and being out of work, he was now unable to pay his bills. He’d gone to a food bank for food, as well as applied for emergency food stamps, and the Salvation Army had helped him with clothes. But now he was basically destitute, living with tarps all over his roof because the deductible was too high to get help from his insurance company.

After he told his story, he looked down, and said, just once, quietly, “I would not be here if I had any other options. I am not someone who asks for help.” He looked back up at me, sweat dripping down from his brown hair, face creased from working in the sun all his life, blue eyes bright with shame. And yet, he did not qualify for Red Cross support. He had food, clothing, and reasonable shelter.

So I went to my supervisor, told his story, and utterly broke down. I can barely write about it now. I asked her to talk to him, asked her if we could make an exception. He was entitled to a measly $360 if he qualified. She went over, sat down across from him, and I went outside to try to calm down. He was my first client today, and while I’ve grown accustomed to losing my shit here on almost a daily basis, this did not bode well as I had ten hours to go.

Ten minutes later, I walked back in, and she was still talking to him, so I made the rounds to check up on my team. Rob was with his own damage assessment team- I had chosen not to go out again- and he was pouring over a map to find all of the houses he had to visit. Karissa, Vicki, and Arlene were deep in conversation with clients; Leslie had her back to me, typing away on a computer, checking new cases for fraud; and Katy was now “map girl”- one of the workers who checked client’s zip codes to see if they were in an area of major or minor damage. Terry, the eighth member of our group, had gone home the day before. The system here did not work for him; the management, uneven at best, was not something he wanted to deal with, so he went home to volunteer through his church.

When I looked back to my table, my client was gone, and my supervisor was walking away. I ran to her. “What did he say? What happened?” “He almost had me in tears,” she said in her Mississippi drawl. “Almost had me in tears.” “So what happened?” I asked again. “I denied him,” she said, and walked away.

I went back to my table, sat down, wiped the sweat off my face, took a long drink of water and a deep breath, and raised my hand to take my second client of the day.

me, the case worker. Not pictured: me totally losing it

Katy, or “map girl”, as she came to be known

Leslie, or “fraud buster”

Day Seven

I knew when I came here that I didn’t know what to expect. But I never could have imagined I’d meet someone like Rob.

The past four years have been riddled with strangeness, with newness, with dead ends and despair and new paths and renewed wanderlust. The last year and a half, in particular, has been actually zany, weird, in how things have come my way- probably because I begged the universe for change, put all of my thoughts and energy in that direction, and change finally found me. But to be here, in Alabama, and to meet someone who alters my thinking, who helps me begin to clarify what I want to do with my life, who looks and sees everything almost effortlessly, who seems to know my heart better than most people who have known me for years- this I could never have expected, not even wished for.

Most of what he said to me last night will remain locked in that space in my chest, for me to think about, for me to explore. Suddenly it makes sense that I don’t sleep, that I’m plagued by nightmares, that I wrap myself up in my job so I don’t have time to stop and think about what I really want in my life. I’ve been clamoring, digging, scratching, begging, working so damn hard that I can’t see the forest for the tiny bit of bark I’ve been examining, let alone the trees, and I realize now that I need to get quiet- something one of my coaches here in N
apa has been telling me all along- so I can figure out what it is that I really, really, truly want to do with my time. What battles I really want to fight. I get it now. Or, at least, I’m willing to think about it and explore it until I get it.

Rob has been gently trying to turn me towards him for days- for whatever reasons, I’ve been a little scared of getting close to him- and finally, he succeeded, and in return, he has given me this beautiful gift, those hours of conversation when he briefly bared both of our insides.

Sadly, in one way, and one way only, my experience with him is not unusual. Like so many others before him, he worked to turn me his way, and as soon as I did, as soon as I began returning his kindnesses, as soon as my craggy, cobwebbed heart started to creak open, he put me at an arm’s length. This turnaround, so familiar to me, is so disappointing, but it’s also different than it’s ever been, because it’s almost as if we were both thrown together in this experience simply for those hours of conversation last night. The rest of it, is, perhaps, irrelevant. And, unlike any man before him, he takes the time to explain himself. It’s not as if we could have anything outside of this experience- our lives are so different, on entirely different paths, half a country away- but my ability to compartmentalize seems to be rather unique. He’s wise to make this choice, though- this choice that I’d never make- and in a way I’m thankful to him, because if my heart were allowed to fully open, if any feelings for him were allowed to blossom, I’d just be heartbroken by the loss of him in a week. I’ve never spent time with a man like him. Never. And he confirms that men like him exist- by this I mean his wisdom, kindness, smarts, and gentleness- and so it helps me in my conviction to not choose badly again, to wait, or to just be alone rather than be with the wrong person.

But sometimes I feel like I’d rather not have that space filled at all if it’s just going to be empty again so soon.

When I got back from work tonight, my duffel bag was filled with fire ants. Fire ants are bad. They were coating every piece of clothing I brought. So what did I do? I left my bag and went out for a beer with my team. Ah, solutions.

Day Eight

We had the day off today- my first and only day off- and we are driving back from Gulf Port and Biloxi, Mississippi. I’m not sure I can truly write about what we saw. I do not want to forget the casino ships that were strewn about on land- massive, MASSIVE ships, hundreds of yards long, football-field-long ships, raised from their moorings, sailing inland, tearing down everything in their paths, settling down on top of trees, restaurants, hotels, homes. The destruction in places were pervasive and complete. And entire Vietnamese fishing community was leveled- literally- as if everything below the roofs of the homes was cleared away and the roofs tumbled down flat.

just in case you were unclear…

pics of what used to be a neighborhood close to the water near Biloxi, MS…

far from its natural home…

a beach house on tiny Dauphin Island, where a whole community is gone

Survived all but the last

fishing boats in Bayou la Batre, MS

Gulf Port, MS- this is… was a casino ship

another casion ship- notice the building to the left of the pic…

… it was a hotel

the one ship we saw that stayed in the water

I don’t want to forget James M., the seminary student who moved to the 9th ward of New Orleans 15 days before the storm, who lost everything, who a week later had open-heart surgery, who was rejected from his mom’s house back home in Alabama because his stepfather hates him, who was, until today, living and convalescing in a warehouse. He was my client yesterday, and he’s the one I’ll take with me when I go, that made this whole trip worthwhile. I got him assistance, got him a place to live, hooked him up with a local church, hopefully at least giving him a chance to start rebuilding his life.

Also profound was my choice not to be a leader here. It’s almost as if it was the beginning of me settling down inside, to really see the situation before I bulldozed ahead.

I wonder what is going to be next, back in life.

We’re done in Mobile after today. Back to Montgomery, not sure where to go from here. Rob says I’m running out of cute. He’s calling me o
ut on relying on the cute rather than relying on my true capabilities. He says that every time I use the cute, I’m denying my development as a person. He also said that here, we are not doing good, good is being done to us. Why, where does he get all this information? How does he see like he does? I’m baffled.

Day Nine

We are on the way from Mobile back to Montgomery. I’m, as always, sitting in the front of the van, next to the dad of the family (the team refers to Rob and me as the parents) with everyone else in the back. We have no idea what is next- we are to report to Montgomery to be reassigned… or to do nothing… or to go home.

The only hours I’m alone are when I’m asleep. Its strange, but also, good. And now I know I’m going to be okay when it’s time to go home. I don’t know when I turned that corner. But I did, and I am thankful. The last two days have been stunningly beautiful here. The summer heat has finally broken, the sun is out, there is a breeze, it’s still hot, but its… it’s been perfect and crystal clear for us to see all the immense damage and destruction. I will leave here changed. I’m wearing the socks I wore on the Northeast AIDSRide. Thankfully, I’ve had no real health issues- my knees have been kind to me- since I got here, other than a powerful tummy ache right now. I am able-bodied when I need to be, and I’m thankful for that.

I regret that during 9/11, I didn’t stick closer to my friend Hayley. She needed me, and I let her down. But even then, I knew I could do this alone. I knew that that was the beginning of what I’d do for the rest of my life, and that I didn’t need anyone to do it with me.

Day Ten
Still in Montgomery

Sitting in line waiting for a computer. Here in Montgomery, where everyone from all the closed centers has flooded to try to find a job. Leslie and Katy are going home tomorrow. I’ve got two days left but if feels as though it’s already ended. Rob just kissed the top of my head.

I still haven’t found that place, that place my sister-in-law Tessa spoke of so many years ago, that place where she and Ian come to visit me and I’ve found the life I was looking for. But each adventure takes me a little closer. I am so grateful for everyone here, so thankful for Rob and Karissa and Katy and Leslie and Vicki and Arlene, hilarious Arlene, so excited to see Katy and Leslie in California, and everyone else when next we meet. I’m so curious about the next step. I do not love where I live now, I do not feel I’m doing what I should be doing. I appreciate all that I am learning and I know now that all of it is just the next step. I appreciate the love I see in everyone when they look at me. I appreciate being able to sleep, and the moments of peace.

Day Twelve

Last Day
Montgomery Airport

I’ve been gone two incredible weeks. I have so many feelings and so many things I want to remember that I hardly know where to begin. My flight has been delayed twice. I want to wear boots to work. Well, no, that’s just the details- I want a job that feels like this every day. I want to be surrounded by common vision. I want to leave this life and find the one more extraordinary. I don’t 100% know what it is, but it is out there. I know it is. A life that will fill me. If I could have that- if I could have the “job” that made me feel like this every day, I’d give up the chase for the rest of it. It is more important to me to do this work every day than it is to have anything else, including companionship. And nothing, exactly nothing ever happens to me if I’m looking for it. I never, ever expected to feel like this at the end of this trip.

People will say what they will about the Red Cross. I am still a fan, still in love with the organization, even though this whole response was its own disaster, in a way. What I think is far more worthy of our scorn and anger is how the poor are treated in this country. How this country is designed to make sure that poor not only stay poor, but get more and more screwed as the generations go on. I cannot believe how so many of these people lived, even before the storm. I cannot believe how, in this wealthiest country in the world, most people live in constant fear of hunger, or displacement, or unemployment, or not having enough money to take their sick kids to the doctor. So many people down here- the vast majority of the clients I worked with- clearly had never seen a dentist. A dentist? Who has time or money to see a dentist?

How did this happen? Why does it continue? Why are our social service agencies such utter fucking messes? Why do we allow the foster system to continue as is? Why are we determined to hand out diseased fish as opposed to teaching anyone how to fish? How did all of this go so terribly wrong, and why does this country insist on throwing more and more good money after bad as opposed to actually changing anything? What is so racy, so unthinkable about change?

These last few days we’ve been on the phone banks in Montgomery, doing follow-up work on cases that had not yet been closed.

Arlene and the phones

Basically, somehow, the paperwork on thousands upon thousands of cases were not properly filled out, and folks who might have needed assistance were still out there waiting to hear from us. However, since it’s now six weeks out, most of those folks who needed us then no longer had emergency needs, so we were still denying folks left and right. Except, for some ungodly reason, we were not allowed to deny them on the phone. No matter that most of us came from Mobile where we were denying furious people to their faces… but the rules had changed, again, and so instead we had to tell them we’d “be in touch”.

I had one case of a family who no longer had emergency needs, but who clearly needed assistance of many kinds. The mom I talked to had been approved on the spot by the case worker she saw in Pensacola, Florida, and then was also visited by a damage assessment team, who approved her for assistance as well. But for some reason, she’d not received the check that was supposed to be in the mail over a month ago. And somehow her case found its way to me. After talking with her for about fifteen minutes about her damage, about her life, and about her needs, I gave her the line that we’d “be in touch”. She said, “Wait- are you saying that I might no longer qualify? I was told this money was on the way!” She was becoming frantic. She had been approved for $1500 and she’d spent her fixed income on medicines and paying bills and for a tarp to cover the holes in her roof, and was relying on that money for food and to go to the doctor again.

I told her I just didn’t know, which wasn’t the truth- she no longer qualified for Red Cross assistance. And eventually I got off the phone with her, having given her all the other resources and as many apologies as I could muster. But I couldn’t let it lie. I went to my supervisor, who sent me to her supervisor, who sent me to the admin liason for all the case workers, who sent me to the top dog in the CLS department in the center. And I said the same thing to her: “I realize this woman, under regular Red Cross guidelines, probably wasn’t eligible for our assistance in the first place. But her case worker told her she was, and then the damage assessment team told her she was, and then she spent her fixed income on other things because she thought this money was on the way. Do you realize we are endangering her family by not sending her this assistance? By promising her m
oney that she’s never going to see?” And the top dog gave me a big smile, told me she knew the Red Cross was asking me to do a very difficult job, and how much they appreciated me, how important I was, and thanks so much! And then a big hug! And I was shuffled on my way, having gotten no answers.

It may be hard to believe, but I still love this organization. They do so much good, but their foolishness and lack of organization creates bad that makes the good hard to see. It’s romantic and lovely and whatever that it’s a 99.9% volunteer organization, but if 5% of that population were actually trained, paid staff, that really knew what they were doing, we’d save millions of dollars and millions of volunteer hours and it would be 100% more efficient.

The point is, I’m still a “Red Crosser”. I’m still dedicated to this work, and this organization. But I’m not going away without answers ever again. Should I have been that woman in charge? Nope. I should be her boss.

me and Karissa, also known as “lil’ bit”

Epilogue

It is very strange to be home.

After a harrowing drive home last night, slapping myself to stay awake, I pulled in to my driveway and saw the wink of flowers in my headlamps. I grabbed my two bags and lumbered my way inside and looked around the home I’ve lived in for a year and a half. My mother had left me irises and soup.

I dropped everything, stripped my clothes off and fell into bed and immediately began dreaming of the people I’d just left. Not the victims, but the fellow workers. I went over conversations in my mind, thinking about what had been said and what had been done and slept uneasily. At 6:15, I was suddenly wide awake, having slept seven hours- far more than I’m used to at this point- and looked to the window for dawn, but it was still pitch black. And I realized that two time zones away, my friends were already at work. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep more, or if I should give up and make a pot of coffee and wander around my dark house. And the conversations started again, the late-night banter, the early-morning bleary smiles, and then I woke to bright sunlight, over three hours later.

Today I’ve been silent, unable to bear more than the briefest of phone calls from both my parents. I’ve laundered everything I brought and more, put my bags away, organized all of the receipts and what will now be keepsakes of this journey and hidden them away. My house looks like it always has.

I feel an emptiness so deep I don’t know how to describe it, and yet, it’s not debilitating, it’s not even really sad or hard. It just feels empty to return to this life after finding a very different one these last two weeks. I could call all my friends, go find some family, surround myself with the people here, but right now I’m not ready to let go of the people back there, hurricane victims and Red Cross workers alike. That is the company I would choose, if I could, so instead, I’m here, quiet.

I’m not remotely ready to return to my work here. I’m not remotely ready to even think of what lies immediately ahead. But I am ready to think about the big “next”.

The violence of the storm is what silences me now. I just went through and named my photographs, and I still cannot wrap my head around what it must have been like during those awful hours of fury. I cannot imagine the force it would take to blow through homes, trees, ships, cement, metal, as if all of it were paper. I still can’t imagine it, and I’ve seen it. It was worse than I thought it would be.

As I get older, things don’t necessarily get easier, but they make a little more sense, and so things aren’t quite as hard. The separation I’m feeling would have torn my heart to shreds five or six years ago. But my heart was torn to shreds while I was there, seeing how so many people lived even before the storm, and then seeing how even the smallest bit of damage, the smallest loss could topple a family already in trouble into despair.

Looking back over this journal, there are so many things I didn’t write down, so much that happened that I can’t describe. Mostly about what it felt like to wake up every morning into that world, and with my beautiful, wonderful team. But I know I’ll find it again, now that I know what I’m looking for.

It’s my last full day here. I’ve already outprocessed, and really, I could be back at the hotel- we are staying at a hotel!- sitting poolside, but I didn’t come down here to sit by a pool. I’m working tonight, and then a half-day tomorrow, and then I say goodbye to my friends and to this life and I get on a plane to go home.

Sean and I used to gauge the places we were living by how easily we could walk away. We’ll have been living in a town for a year or two and casually one of us would say to the other, “Could you leave today without saying goodbye to anyone?” and the other would, invariably, answer yes. If I left here without wrapping my arms around everyone I think my heart would truly break, and god knows that there are already cracks waiting to split in my chest.

The fire has been lit in me again. The fire that drove me to Peace Corps. But now I’m glad I didn’t do Peace Corps because I know that I can have a greater affect on the world than on a village. I know this. I have to find out what it is, what is next, what is the thing that I could do every day that would let me sleep at night, because I know now that while I’ve been on the path, I’m still far from the destination and I’ll be plagued until I reach at least the outskirts. I have to go home and figure out how to care about my job again. I have to go home, after what I’ve seen, and return to my work advocating for folks who have, comparatively, the world in their hands. I have to go home and, well, figure out how to get through the next few days, and then next week, and take it from there. I can’t help it, I can’t stop it, I belong on the map where the dragons live. I can’t apologize for it anymore, can’t romanticize it anymore, can’t pretend that there is anything else I want to do.

Every night on the way home from work, my team asks me to sing them a song, and every night, I do.

Back to work.

So much to say, and only five minutes on a computer- the first time in ten days that I’ve sat in front of one. Many apologies to my family and friends for not emailing them directly, but I have no memory for email addresses…

I’ve been in Mobile, Alabama for the last week. I’ve been working as a case worker, helping clients affected by Rita and Katrina. It’s been unbelievably frustrating, unbearably hot, long days, extremely hard work (filled with daily breakdowns), and more granola bars than any human should have to eat. It has also been the best vacation- yes, vacation- of my whole life. When I get home, I will try to describe these days, this work, and these people- our neighbors down here on the Gulf Coast- but I’m afraid I’ll never really be able to. Within minutes of getting here, a team of eight formed who have colored and enriched this experience in every possible way. Indeed, I’ve had a total of perhaps- and this may be a high estimate- of five minutes entirely by myself.

The experience I need to write about at this moment, as there are a hundred people waiting to use this computer, is our trip yesterday. The whole team somehow got our first and only day off and we went down to Biloxi and Gulf Port, Mississippi. The pictures you’ve seen on the news do no justice to the utter devastation, the utter flattening of whole communities. I have never seen anything like it. Right along the coast in Biloxi, we were driving down what used to be a boardwalk and noticed these massive buildings that seemed incongruous… it turned out they were the casino ships. These ships must have been twice the length of a football field- so huge you couldn’t wrap your mind around them- and in the violence and madness and surges of the storm, they were lifted from their bearings out in the water, washed inland, tossed, turned, wrecked, ripped, and then eventually laid to rest several hundred feet inland, landing on top of everything that was there. I have a picture of one of them that landed on a six-story hotel, and clearly, it was so high it just settled directly on top, shaving the side of the hotel clean off. We could see into the rooms whose walls were sliced open. You’ve never seen anything so large, so destructive, these massive ships covered in barnacles from being in the water for so long, sitting completely on top of what used to be homes, restaurants, lives.

Anyway, more to come. I am well, and safe, and exhausted, and hot, but loved- very much loved- and very much changed from once again being where I want to be, where nightmares don’t haunt me and sleep finds me, even if I only give it a few hours a night. I love all of you, and I’ll be home soon.