Charles van Heck's Woodhull Journal

Friday, 29 August, marks a dark anniversary. Ghost-like memories rise of the people and places of New Orleans, Houston, Beaumont, San Antonio, and places in between. There is no “I” in these recollections. There is only “We.” There are odors that linger in the nostrils. Sounds that can still be heard. A sense of touch that is another’s hand. These invoke the memories of twenty years ago.

Katrina.

The stench of rotting food in a grocery market. A man in urine-soaked clothes lying on a cot. A woman waving her arms. Her face was bright with a smile. “Why are you so happy?” she was asked. “We had grits today. Praise, Jesus. We had grits today.” An older man, a widower, constructed runways on a base in the Philippians with the Army Corps of Engineers during World War II. He wanted to be in the Army Air Force, but was denied the opportunity because he was a Black man. “I lost everything. I’m not staying here. I’ll go home to start over.” A woman who drove forty-five minutes with her children to pick-up food and diapers. She arrived home to discover she already had a sufficient supply of diapers. Getting back in her car, she returned to the distribution site. “I have more than I need. Please give these to someone who needs them,” she said. The gangbanger, his body crippled and scarred by bullets. “Can you help me take a shower?” While bathing he said, “I ain’t goin back. I’m goin to San Francisco where I got family.” A woman, abandoned by her older children, that we helped make arrangements for a move to Florida. The lines of people sifting through racks and piles of clothing, or waiting to be fed. A schizophrenic pleading for help and a nurse who, with the assistance of two police officers, got him to a hospital. Others with AIDS. The politicians and celebrities walking into shelters for a photo-op, then, after a few minutes, driving off in limousines.

These are but a few of the people we saw. We. Who are the “We?” The Los Angeles Search and Rescue Team. Nurses and doctors who requested time off without pay to volunteer. Police officers who worked during their off-times in addition to their regular shifts. Electric company crews, and EMS response teams. Fire fighters. Canadians. A priest from Los Angeles who exhausted himself giving comfort to strangers. A crew of Indigenous fire jumpers. National Guard troops, one group just back from Iraq, and another group who would soon leave for another war zone from the one we were in. We were in a war zone. As one Army veteran said, “This is a war zone. The only difference is we can’t shoot back. We’re fighting nature.” The Mexican Army, Salvation Army, and restaurant chefs who cooked for us. An enterprising, renegade group known as the Texas Trash Haulers that traveled around Texas, stopping at corporate food warehouses, then in their convoy of U-Haul trucks and tractor trailers brought supplies for distribution. The Red Cross, FEMA, and other organizations who worked to establish order in, what was at the time overwhelming chaos. Angie, a nurse who showed up one day asking what we needed, brought us a coffee pot and other nurses to care for those who were ill. A woman dying of cancer. Her husband asked if there was anything we could do to ease his wife’s pain. Angie not only obtained a special bed, but found a way to have her treated at a local hospital. The women who assisted with translation.  A Baptist minister who showed up one morning asking what he could do, then went above and beyond. The kitchen staff at the Sandra Day O’Connor High School that prepared meals for approximately 300+ people. The school’s football coach who arranged for showers for those in the shelter. Volunteers used their vacation time to assist for a week or two. They found themselves in hell at times, and glimpsed heaven in other moments of ten to fourteen hour days. Sometimes longer.

My thoughts turn to the young woman volunteer nervously coming out as a lesbian (people seeing what they didn’t want to see and inflicting pain on her), members of the crew who after they ate their meals always saw that the “leftovers” were distributed to the homeless. The Detroit Pistons basketball star who didn’t want publicity. On arrival he asked what he could do, then organized a sports camp for the kids. A young lieutenant in charge of restoring power to the center near Beaumont. Two pregnant Latino women and their husbands who for some odd reason decided they were going to name their babies after me. To this day I wonder how those children are, what became of them and their parents. The bartender who greeted me everyday with a large glass of freshly squeezed lemonade when I came off the line. The Sandra Day O’Connor custodian who insisted I have a private place to shower. The Army veterans who jokingly framed going to our five o’clock morning briefs like they were parachute jumps. The social workers who were checking our mental states, to see if we were burning out, and the practical jokes we played on them. They flipped it on us one evening during dinner. And the nurses, always the nurses, were tirelessly giving of themselves. The police officer who stopped me one day to ask when was the last time I called home. I hadn’t in two weeks. He called my wife at work, almost giving her a heart attack when a colleague told her the Houston Police were on the line. “I’m calling to tell you I saw your husband. He is doing fine.” The next day he gave me his telephone to call her. The Mormon social worker who arranged for my clothing to be shipped home. Two hurricanes later, I came home.

These are but a few of the people forming the “We.” There is no “I” in these memories. There is only “We.” The faces and deeds of an “us” is what I carry in my heart. We supported and looked out for one another, made certain we slept and ate. Afterwards, our lives continued, changed by the tragedy. Your life is never the same after such an experience. This is how it is for anyone who endures the ordeal of a natural disaster.

The “We” is an aspect of our lives that is becoming lost in the Trumpian Age. Black, Latino, Indigenous, White, Asian, Middle Eastern, straight, LGBTQ, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, agnostic, atheists, conservative, moderate, liberal, socialists, our employment status, and our ages are labels. Our Common humanity is too often forgotten with the use of labels.   

Katrina unleased misery, suffering, and damage, as did Rita and Wilma, and the natural disasters that have followed. But on this anniversary, and in the days ahead, let it be a time of reflection on our common humanity.

This Post is dedicated to those people whose lives were brutality upended and fled the devestation, and to those who served during hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma. What is written here doesn’t even begin to tell your (Our) stories. I gazed into hell and saw the faces of angels.

Image credit: GOES 12 Satellite, NASA, NOAA