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This October Monday brings to mind a phrase: Back to the Grind.  It’s such an appropriate phrase.  I think of two barges crashing together in the Mississippi, their metal grating and ripping against each other.  I think of my uneven door scraping against its metal fittings to make the high-pitch closing screech.  I think of cars going through a trash compactor.  Needless to say, I love October.

I remember being a student, right around this time, and settling into the heavy workload, the daily trips from class to cafeteria, the nights I closed the library.  The phrase seemed appropriate then, and somehow I feel it now.

 There is no longer the flashy title of Disaster Response hanging over my work.  My friends know enough about my job to know it’s Red Cross and something helpful they’re sure, but the question comes up enough to be redundant, “Now what do you do again?”

 I conduct site surveys.  I fill out forms for assistance so that people can get the food and clothes they need.  I track inventory.  I update my Disaster Action Team kit.  I write blogs?

There comes a point at which doing the dishes, even with your father, does not bring up the excitement it once had.  Follow me through with this analogy.  There is a time when your office is not a staging ground for great works, but paneled cubicle to sit and be cold in.  It doesn’t matter that the work is the same good work you’ve been doing. 

“That’s one of our jobs,” Kay Wilkins told us today.  She was meeting with the six AmeriCorps here at the Chapter.  Our CEO explained that we must focus, as a Red Cross, not on the office where we work but on the people we serve.  It’s their need that keeps us working, that keeps my fingers plinking to revise the next Shelter Facility Survey form.

She acknowledged that it is easy to lose sight.  And she’s right.  “Those people who we’ve walked with side by side, who I saw at that home opening.  I want each person in our organization to see that, and remember it.”

Their need is going to do it then.  It will be the excitement in my routine.  It will be the motion of my fingers.  It can even be the heat in my home.  Because you know I haven’t turned that heater on yet.  Not in October, no sir.

I really do not care much for writing. Maybe that is an obvious fact due to my conspicuous lack of blog entries; or maybe it was just my parents who picked up on that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve written a mean essay or two in my career as a student but when it comes to the more expressive genres my mind and my fingers draw a blank. For lots of people, like some of my wonderful colleagues, writing is a profound way of expressing themselves. By arranging words on paper they are able to order their thoughts and feelings in a way that provides deeper meaning and personal revelation. I, on the other hand, find searching for the right words a limiting factor. Maybe it’s because I think more in images then words, or because I think a lot faster then I can type. Or maybe it’s just because I’m a terrible speller. Who knows?

What I do know is that it’s about time I sucked it up and wrote about my own experiences and my own life instead of letting my teammates do it for me. Plus the others’ blogs always get me in trouble. “Lauren what does this mean ‘excepting amorous volunteer’s advances’?” Or “Gosh Lauren your taste in music makes your friends think we’re country bumpkins!” For the record I listen to a lot of different music, but yes I love some “Wagon Wheel”. But I’m missing the point.

The point is . . .

Atlanta was an interesting yet complicated experience. I worked in Headquarters the entire time. Yes I was disappointed and more then a little frustrated. I did not really see any water or destruction. I never spoke to anyone who was affected. Instead I rarely left my makeshift desk in the Atlanta office. I spent my ten-hour days ordering supplies, answering questions, counting items, dealing with tensions among the leadership, and filling out lots and lots of paperwork. I also spent a large amount of time being bossed around by people outside of my department who assumed that because I was young I was their personal secretary.  Parts of my day were so boring I prayed for the phone to ring. Other times were so crazy I that I didn’t have time to eat or use the restroom. It was certainly not the glamorous and exciting experience that I assumed a DR would be. Sometimes it was hard for me to believe that there really was a disaster at all. I could not see it or feel it. I had no contact with the people we were supposedly helping. I did not even have contact with the supplies that I was ordering to give to them. I ordered hundreds of “Clean-Up Kits” but I never gave one out. To me it was all just numbers on paper. Being so far removed made it easy for me to forget the point.

The point is that there were thousands of people whose lives were forever altered by circumstance and water. The point is we were there to help these people as best we could. Could it have been better organized and more efficient? Absolutely. Could we have helped more people? Definitely. Could I have had a more exciting and rewarding experience? I hope so.

But in the long run I believe we did make a difference. We did help. My job may have been tedious and thankless but I did my part. We all did our parts. Next time we’ll just have to strive to do them better. Because in the end it really doesn’t matter if we had a pleasant experience; what matters is that we improved the experience of others.

By the way, my time in Atlanta wasn’t all bad. In fact I rather enjoyed myself. Yes my job was frustrating but I learned a lot. Moreover I met some wonderful people. Whenever I started to get disillusioned and started to forget the point it was these people who helped me remember why I was there. The hilarious and genuine Charlie Parker, my fabulous boss Jacqui, and all the other wonderful characters that are Red Cross volunteers made my experience richer and meaningful. Take for example the volunteer who asked me to climb up the side of her RV, in through the window to get her keys which she locked in her RV so that she could feed her cats (who by the way were also in the RV and not too happy to have a visitor breaking in through the window). An interesting experience to say the least but truly the highlight of my day that day. I can’t forget the fantastic SELA team – Chris who always tried so very hard to help. Collins who had an unpleasant experience but used it as inspiration to try to make things better. And last but not least the beautiful human being that is Thomas Butler who was always there to make us laugh, inspire us, and occasionally fight for us.

Thanks y’all. Now back to the real world.

There is a certain sweetness in missing home.  In the middle of the longing and the sense of displacement is a subtle feeling that there is, even if elsewhere, a place where I belong.  I held to this taste on the drive home from the Disaster Response in Georgia.

We left the Atlanta chapter on 12:30 Wednesday.  That morning we typed and organized reports on every order, distribution site, warehouse transfer, and hot-shot run during the DR.  I had worked many aspects of this assignment, but hot-shot sounded like my perfect job before I even knew what it meant.  There are many drivers assigned to the warehouse and delivery between distribution sites.  The hot-shot, however, gets driving assignments task by task straight from the Mass Care Supervisor.  Thomas and I started as hot-shots about a week in, and loved every day of it.  It showed most of the city, its best vistas and busiest traffic, with the least intermediate steps.  And it gave me the opportunity to drive air breaks, which is a real gas.  I’m hilarious.  No, no I’m not.

We split the drive home, but Lauren took the bulk of it.  She was one of the few in Bulk Distribution who didn’t drive a truck, leading to an indifference if not eagerness to sit behind a wheel.  She had spent our 12 days answering requests for supplies and letting the warehouse know where to send materials.  She also answered community questions, gave directions to lost drivers, coordinated Jacqui’s time, avoided uncomfortable headquarters romances, and ran the papers to keep our operation running.

It was an essential job, excepting the amorous volunteers advances, but one that lacked even the glamour of box trucks.  I had offered early in the week to relieve her of the desk work, but ended up involving myself in ferrying a mental health worker that day.  The next day I was tied up with a Latino community.  And so it went.  My offer showed itself to be hollow and Lauren followed through to perhaps do the most work in our department.

The drive is 8 hours, but there is a particular bridge in Mississippi where you think you’ll come down into the Upper Ninth Ward.  Maybe it was the bayou, or the road arch, or maybe just nostalgia.  It’s hard sometimes to separate experience from expectation, so I end up guessing a lot of the time.  Was it really warmer in the city when I arrived, or did I just think New Orleans would be a heat trap?  Was my kitchen waiting eagerly for me, or had someone just prepared beans by coincidence?  Had we really helped in Atlanta, was it my imagination, or were there really those moments of need and my own response? 

The memory, already, doesn’t seem definite.  Carpets crumpled at the curb.  Mud on the trees.  A dumpster in the driveway filled with mattresses and couches and clothes.  My hands passing a cleaning kit through a water-stained door.  It is hard to believe these snapshots are real.  Passing case after case of water off the truckbed.  It happened, and it’s over.

Now I have New Orleans, this city my home more than anywhere I have been.  And I never want to see anything but rainwater touch these oak trees.

Back to two-armed life, slowly at first. My past two and a half weeks have been varying mixed levels of immobility, pain, dependency (humbling dependency), frustration, and progress.

If you check this blog often you probably have figured out that I got injured a few weeks ago, breaking my collar bone and shoulder blade; I like to think of it as a brilliant two-for-one (blue light special...anyone?) injury feat. As it turns out, I specialize in these types of injuries; two years ago I broke my wrist, taking out two bones from one bike crash that time too. Yes, my family is proud. Everyone has talent, this is mine.

Depending on friends, co-workers, and roommates to adjust and help you perform simple tasks is tough. You need their help to cook, eat, or get places, but you can't help but feel like you're a burden. I know that most of these supporters don't feel that way, but you can't help the thought. So you adjust; only cook and eat foods that you can wrangle with one arm and use the "opportunity" to master the one hand cross-over shift with knee-to-steering wheel assist on your straight-drive Mazda6. Dangerous? Yes. Really interesting on the beat-down and busted roads of New Orleans? Definitely. (**Mom, that was solely for entertainment, it's not true. I've really been taking the bus...Yeah, the bus.)

So life has been full of adjustments lately, call it character building. Progress is good, I've been starting to move the shoulder since Monday and it's getting better. Everyone here at ARC-SELA has been awesome as expected; empathy and a willingness to help and adjust are basic entrance requirements to the Robert W. Merrick Building (and everywhere else American Red Cross operates for that matter).

Of course the second floor dwellers (Emergency Services Dept, see Tess's entry "We miss you here...") have jokes...and nicknames. I wonder if Thomas will be calling me "Broke Wing" all the way through next June. Either way, it's great to have them goofing with me; laughter is the best medicine, right? Maybe I'll just hang out down there for the next few weeks. If that old saying is true, I won't need physical therapy, or another orthopedist visit for that matter.

More informative, work-related post next week...maybe.

The Atlanta chapter is large and official looking.  It belongs in movies or PR flashes.  There is a swarm of Emergency Response Vehicles, called ERVs, and rental cars and box trucks waiting eagerly to be loaded up and delivered.

We walk in the entrance.  The mishmash of the parking lot is quickly overshadowed by the zigzag of volunteer lines, the bustle of National Red Cross directors trying to place them, the Atlanta staff trying to house them, and HQ managers trying to continue the operation.  Usually, when enough people assemble and lose purpose, they grumble and slowly begin to resent losing their time to waiting.  But these volunteers spent these moments hugging old friends and joking around with "the fine woman I worked 21 days with in Texas" or their old boss, "a yard dog and I barked right in his face."

It's funny and it's strange, this culture of nation-wide volunteers who assemble.  Some mixture of numbers, cultures, and abilities forms this into a Disaster Response. 

A lady in the basement informed us what we would be doing.  Bulk Distribution, our division, would transport the supplies from distant warehouses to drop sites and shelters close to the disaster.  My fellow Louisiana Red Crosser, Collins, and I jumped on a box truck our first day and shuttled small supplies from headquarters to Fort Gillem.  We didn't see anything affected by the waters.  It rained, but we barely got wet.

We didn't really have work the rest of the day.  I read a good book.  The Response, I'm finding, doesn't center around me feeling good or productive, but around something else.

There's a bit of an image one has when arriving, that every moment will be spent pulling people from the waters, giving them dry clothes and feeding them.  I knew it was an illusion, a little bit.  I'm understanding, now, that there is much more to mobilizing a response than just having good people on the scene.

There are good people here.  And some are right there, giving out a hot meal to someone who can't return to their home.  Some volunteers are opening shelters, today, a couple miles from my new warehouse site.  But I'm proud to do my part to contribute, whatever it may be.

Today, we were scouting an area that we heard had been inundated.  Collins and I reached the neighborhood, and people were waiting in the street for the next feeding ERV.  We talked to people, we told them when help was coming, we told them what we could do.  We spoke in Spanish and we used our knowledge to put them at ease.  Later, driving through another neighborhood, I handed a Cleanup Kit to a man standing in his garage surrounded by his belongings.  We talked for ten minutes.  He told me about his recent operations.  He told me how his friends were helping to bring him home.  He told me he couldn't leave this house, because he needed the machine to open his lungs.

"I'd shake your hand," he told me, "But I don't know if my radiation treatment is dangerous.  They said I shouldn't ride home in the same car with my granddaughter."  He was shaking.

I reached out my hand.  "I'll take a chance."

Today the office is quiet.  Mr. DAT Captain Thomas is off in Georgia responding to a flood DR.  Normally, he sits right across from me on the 2nd floor and I can hear him coughing, yelling, laughing, and singing all day long.  I can hear him mispronouncing people’s names and making jokes about everybody in the office, right to their face.  Everyone knows Thomas is full of love though, so nobody ever takes it personally.  If he teases you he must love you.

Three of my fellow NPRC are in Georgia as well.  Three of us were left behind because life in Louisiana goes on.  Dan and his bum arm, and Michelle and I are trying to hold down the fort and work twice as hard in our departments to keep things going. 

A lot of unexpected emotions come up in this kind of a work environment.  When you’re dealing with disasters you’re dealing with the inevitable and the unannounced.  It feels like no one has enough time. 

Why do I love Thomas so much?  Despite his outspokenness, his music taste, and his refusal to pronounce people’s names correctly, it’s the fact that he at least pretends to have enough time to listen to everyone and to treat us all as equals.  Whether you want to complain about your personal life or order McHardy’s chicken for lunch (see:  Gospel Bird by Collins), he will stop the whole world for a couple moments to hear what you have to say.  All the while, his fire phone might be ringing that distinctive fire truck siren ringtone.

What made such a delightful open-minded man?  I don’t know, you’d have to ask him.  I just know it’s a pleasure to work beside him.  It’s humbling to know that he answers fire calls after hours, after coming to the office to work all day, and does it all for free as a volunteer, as if giving were natural to being human. 

If anyone embodies what the Red Cross strives to be, it’s Thomas.

This has been a good week for seeing how eager some communities are to support New Orleans and Louisiana in general. 
I helped a coworker survey a large church in our area yesterday, and while we were walking the administrator gave us a quick summary of the activities in each room.  “This is the feeding ministry.  Here we house visiting volunteers.  This is a gym for people in the area.  Would you like to join us sometime?”

The church’s eagerness both to inform and accept us into their work and community was impressive, if not a little forceful.  Sometimes, I find, in striving to help our neighbors to the highest degree, we press too strongly for others to join us.  Other times we do not press hard enough.

I gave a short talk to Tulane’s School of Public Health students today.  There is a young club growing in both the undergraduate and graduate programs, and I hoped by holding a little talk I could gauge and even pique student interest.  My little talk introduced myself, gave a quick summary of the Red Cross Southeast Louisiana Chapter, and the proposed roll of the Red Cross Club at Tulane.  I figured students would be eager to leave, so I wrapped it up at 15 minutes and asked for questions.

I underestimated Public Health students’ interest in their activities.  I spent the next hour answering questions, explaining my personal work, and promising to inform these students on how we could involve them with the DAT team, with Disaster Responses, or even simple work at our chapter.

One man stayed nearly until the end.  He sported a khaki vest with a Red Cross patch, a symbol representing more than 10 years in his home nation’s National Red Cross.  He diagrammed the organization of ICRC and the American Red Cross on the board before coming over to me.  “Chris,” he said, “You should have told these people more.  They want to hear more.”

There is a volunteer named Juanita who also works in Emergency Services.  She delivers a survey of Red Cross performance to anyone we have helped.  Occasionally she receives some biting criticism, other times flat praise.  One question I always hear her ask the men and women on the other line, “Are you satisfied with the help you got from the Red Cross?”

I wonder what she hears.  "They are angels."  "They saved me that night."  But she must hear some dissatisfaction, too.  It is hard to know what people expect.  Do they want the 10-minute brief or an hour lecture?  Do they want to serve with us?  Do they expect us to dry the flooded carpet or restore the burnt rafters?

As American Red Cross, we respond and work to prevent disasters.  As a chapter, we give people basic protection from a dangerous climate.  As individuals, we give what comfort we can.

Tuesday was a pretty quiet day. That afternoon I was sitting at my desk wondering what I was going to do the next day, and what I should be working on, when my supervisor walks over and informs me that the next morning I will be devoting my time to make sure a large event being held here at the office runs smoothly. She told me and Lauren to make sure we took notes because we will be throwing and hosting a few events of our own in the future. The quiet uneventful day at the office suddenly turned into one of excitement and anticipation for the next day’s event.

On Wednesday the American Red Cross Southeast Louisiana Chapter launched a new program called “Ready Rating”. This is a pilot program that was also launched at eight other Red Cross Chapters across the United States on the same day. The program is for schools, businesses, and faith-based organizations that want to make sure they are fully prepared and “Red Cross Ready” for disasters. While I am not directly involved with the program itself, the day was still very exciting and interesting for me.

Lauren and I spent the morning helping get everything set up and making sure everything looked nice. It was crazy how much was going on at once to get ready for the launch. I had a lot of fun taking part in all of the hustle and bustle going on at the office. While exciting to see all the representatives from different businesses coming to support the Red Cross and hear about the new program, it was just as enjoyable for me to be able to help with decorations, food, and helping the program run smoothly. I got pretty good at asking people if they would like a glass of ice with their soda or water.

In my department I have planned different events to reach out to communities and help them prepare for disasters, but I have not experienced anything like this with the Red Cross before. I began to realize just how much goes into hosting, planning, and executing a successful event. Though I may not fully grasp the concept until I am set to plan a huge event hosted by the Red Cross myself, I am going to put some of the new ideas and techniques I learned yesterday into action, whether here at headquarters, or out in the community. Lauren and I are looking forward to taking our shot at planning and hosting an event of our own.

I’ve got two words for you: Gospel Bird. If you don’t know, you should know. Gospel Bird is the finest delicacy a person can partake in. Mr. Thomas opened my eyes and showed me lighted pathway that led me to gastrological grace. I’d like to take a brief moment of silence to reflect on the almighty power of this spiritual bird, known throughout the southern regions of the continental U.S. as fried chicken…

Never have I ever tasted such fine fried chicken as the kind that Thomas brings regularly to the second floor. I am a southern girl and believe you me, I have enjoyed plenty of succulent bird (I apologize to those vegetarians out there in reader world). None compare to Mcharty’s. The chicken that comes out of that store is always fresh and juicy, savory, peppered to perfection, crisp and hearty. Goodness gracious! At times I think I could survive for the rest of my life being filled with the grace of that Gospel Bird.

Yesterday I was hungry. I mean hungry! Earlier that morning, before coming to work I went to the gym with my weights trainer, Tess, and worked up a healthy appetite. Though I ate a satisfying breakfast, come ten thirty I could not concentrate for the thoughts I was having for Mcharty’s chicken.

Dan and I were scheduled to do a Scrubby Bear presentation (go figure) in Houma that afternoon so I had to think fast if I was going to get chicken for lunch. “Ms. Debbie, where is Thomas? I have got to have that Gospel Bird and I don’t know where to get it.” Thankfully, the blessed Ms. Debbie was able to point me in the direction of Mcharty’s in Thomas’ absence. I grabbed Dan (gently of course since he’s broken and all) and made a pit stop at our local chicken depot. I ordered five pieces of chicken and a soda and we we on our way.

Thank God for Mcharty’s Gospel Bird!

We are your Americorps NPRCs, but we are by no means super heroes of any kind.  We are quite human, in fact.  We hate waking up early.  To get to the office at 9:00 am, that means pulling the covers back and rolling out of bed at 7:45ish, depending on your morning routine.  I do not think about helping the world at 7:45 am, as much as I would like to lie and say I do.  That concern kicks in around noon, after my ancient dinosaur computer has woken up.  Technology responds and then my brain responds.  Born and bred in the ‘90s.

We typically try to drive to work together, but lately we have been less organized about this.  Chris will bike to my house, where Lauren, Dan, Michelle, and I live.  Sometimes Chris will be late (3 or 5 minutes, meaning I can’t complain out loud or else I end up sounding like the crazy one).  Chris will walk up the stairs to put his bike in our house.  He and Dan will high five and talk about something boys talk about.  By then we are 7-8 minutes late, so I am almost allowed to complain.

I have found complaining to boys helps very little. Instead, I will petition Lauren to drive her own car so that we can leave on time.  Essentially, this blog is about how fun it is to ride to work with Lauren.

When she opens the locks on her massive maroon camping-appropriate vehicle, I will get in and make a smart comment: “So, Lauren, what will we listen to on the way to work today?  Jason Mraz or ‘Wagon Wheel’?”  I pride myself on my complicated and sophisticated music taste, ranging from the blues to old school hip-hop, funk, soul, and rock.  I may consider myself eligible to critique the musical tastes of others, but that’s a secret between you and me, dear reader.  Lauren strictly listens to Jason Mraz and a remix of the old North Carolina classic “Wagon Wheel.”  Sometimes, if you’re lucky, she’ll throw in a wild card and play James Blunt, but that’s about the extent of it.

And then she rocks me, mama, like a wagon wheel.  The turning radius on her vehicle is amazing.  We zip through the tiny, uneven streets of New Orleans like we’re on our way to a bloc party.  We sing “Wagon Wheel.”  We sing it loud.  As much as I want to make fun of the song and, by association, Lauren, she is starting to charm me.  I am beginning to memorize the lyrics.  Repetition will do that.

I am beginning to wonder about North Carolina, about what Lauren’s life was like there, and about how amazing it is that someone so different than me ended up in the exact same city, at the exact same office, working toward the same cause.  If it wasn’t for our shared concern about disaster relief, we would have never known each other.  We are so different from each other but when it really comes down to it, I’ll rock out to “Wagon Wheel”, kick butt and save lives with Lauren any day of the week.

One of our 40-hour volunteers has a sign in her cubicle: “Good People Help, because Help Can’t Wait.”

This was a pretty good week for humbling us as helpers.  Dan neatly avoided a car by grinding his shoulder into the pavement and breaking scapula and collarbone.  He spent a day laying in bed asking favors.  Collins was out of town this weekend because she had her car financing denied and Tess helped her drive it back to Atlanta.  Three of us were sick and are still sniffling.  They say that relying on each other brings a team closer together.  That may be true, but I haven’t been getting many hugs since catching the flu.

What I am now certain of is a mystery that develops in suffering communities.  When one member falls, the others reach down a hand.  The night Dan broke himself, Michelle got out of bed to pick him up.  The next day, I cooked the house half a pot of beans and passed out, then Lauren came out of her stupor to finish the cooking.  I finally made it home and my roommate, who had a cold, woke up and made me some tea to burn out my fever.

Many of us have suffered from this illusion that if everything just worked out for us, then we could finally help other people out.  I think the opposite is true.  Tess had a bad flu last week, but came in every day to get together our Disaster Action Team and every day someone had to send her home.  Even though she was sick on Friday, she still helped Collins drive that car home.  I’m not accusing Tess, or saying she wouldn’t have helped if she were healthy.  I’m saying that our suffering has made us sensitive to others.

No one here at the Red Cross is perfect.  We all have our problems.  The “Good People” on that sign aren’t the ones with perfect health or with everything figured out; they are the ones who use their pain to feel for others.  We find the victims of a fire at 2 in the morning and maybe we just woke up or maybe we picked up our volunteers at 10 and this is the third fire tonight.  It may be hard on us, but it’s harder on others.  And I don’t find that sad or depressing at all.  I think that’s perfect.

I get her into the passenger side of the Red Cross vehicle and she is crying. A Creole woman: she says I look like her sister. There is paperwork on my lap but I could care less about the technicalities. She tells me she almost left her baby inside. She almost left him.

She asks me for a towel and I give her anything, my extra shirt. She wipes her sweat and tears away and I do what I can by turning on the air conditioning. I put a hand on her shoulder. She leans into me confirming her need to feel skin. I promise her that we will do what we can and that we will not leave her stranded. Those eyes…they told me they believed me. I meant what I said. In a moment of great vulnerability there is an unbreakable trust between strangers. You realize what it is to be human.

She says, I wish you could have seen my sister. You look just like her.

I provide some familiarity. Quickly I ask her name, number, address. I stop at times to hear her story. Her children walk up and I ask her to take her time talking to them, I’m not going anywhere. Everyone is safe.

And everything is gone. Materials burn up in the fire but empathy and compassion overflow to compensate. The neighbors walk out to see if she is okay. I wait with the Red Cross to assist her. Her children stand patiently by her, recognizing their mother’s distress on a night they will not forget.

We will rebuild. Though we can’t pay to fix the house we’ll prove to you that strangers, regular everyday strangers, really do care about what you’re going through. We are in this together.

I reminded her of her sister. She touched my cheek before she walked away, and her family waved us down the road. I’m not sure if I was the one who gave the most that night, because I went home full of some beautiful feeling. A grounded feeling, a permanence, a purpose, went through her hand as she touched my face, looked at me, and left.

When I get home from this long day I will get on my bike and ride forever. I will ride down St Charles past the mansion houses into Audubon Park and down the levee. I will listen and watch the people go by but not really see them. My eyes have been so open for so long. Already I have seen too much. When will we see the last house fire, the last disaster, the last fatality, the last crying Creole woman…

Never. The disasters keep on coming and sometimes gain speed. Instead of relaxing helplessly into our fate, we wake up everyday. We put on our shirts and socks and shoes and we show up. We prepare. We respond. We make a match for destruction of every magnitude, and in the process, we break down the barriers that exist between human beings to create a family that will last forever.

I would never claim to be a thrill seeker. Yes, I have been on epic camping trips in the middle of nowhere. I have traveled alone to “dangerous” parts of the world, and sauntered the alleyways of favelas in Brazil at night time, watching my back closely for kidnappers, thieves, drug lords, and murderers. I have even been cliff jumping… a couple of times. But I have never been the one lunging up the rocks and billowing off the face of some cliff, diving into the water with fierce enthusiasm. Mind you, I am the coy, pale-faced girl staying as far back on the rock as she can, peering over the edge for millions of tiny years before inching forward, inching back, peering some more, inching further back still, questioning if she could live with herself if she climbed back down the cliffs instead of jumping, realizing that she couldn’t and then hastily, with deep pounding, excruciating breaths heaving herself into unforgiving air. I am no thrill seeker. Though, if there is a cliff in front of me, I will never simply climb down.

Honestly, I had no idea what I was going to do for the Red Cross before I got here. I was out of college, the economy had just collapsed, there was no such thing as a job for an inexperienced anthropologist, and I wasn’t even trying to work in the food industry for ever. The Red Cross was a cliff that happened to me. My life was just strolling along and stumbled upon this deep and cavernous void, forcing me to man-up (or WOman-up, as it were) and take the plunge.

What am I even talking about? What cliff am I, an overly-enthusiastic child, referencing in code? Every week, three times a week, one of my fellow NPRC writes up some time honored, life changing experience. It is fast paced, late-breaking, dramatic news. I laugh at it, because I grew-up watching MTV. Us NPRC, we are The Real World, New Orleans. This is your drama. Tess said it in the beginning, “Disasters are for television.  They are well-performed spectacles with crying and hysterical people, people who are angry and disgusted, people who are sad and defeated.  But these are actors full of almost-genuine emotion.  These disasters fit on small screens.  You can turn them off. You can walk away.”  What exactly makes this experience unlike television? What makes this blog unlike her small screen that you, or I, can simply walk away from?

Babies. Little baby children make the difference. They change my “unique”, self gratifying drama into a life history, into a lyrical song, into a screaming and bellowing prose.

Of late my job title has been headed up by Scrubby Bear himself. I have gone to so many schools and done so many presentation to so many little children, that I swear if I hear Scrubby Bear sing his song one more time, I just might drop my basket. Somehow though, it is worth it at the end of the day, because of the children. I cannot turn them off or just walk away from them.

Last Saturday was a mess of DAT response. Several families lost their homes to fire that weekend. Tess and I appeared on the scene to scores of personal disasters as a team ready to assuage feelings of hopelessness. We were tireless, prepared, diligent with follow through and above all, efficient, impressively efficient.  Come Tuesday, it’s back to Scrubby Bear. Weary from the long weekend of DAT response I walk into the elementary school a little less than enthusiastic about Scrubby Bear. As I look out unto the school lunch room I begin to, oddly enough, recognize a few of the little faces. They were staring at me through their piercing blue eyes with something like confusion, a mystic and childlike wonder. “Excuse me,” one said as she looked up at me knowingly, “My house burnted.” “I know,” I said, “I was there. Do you remember me?” A shy nod. I noticed the tiny hands still covered in the soot from her fire-crisped home. “You’ve got to keep those hands clean you know, just like Scrubby Bear says.” Another shy nod. A smile. She ran back in with her friends, bound for recess.

Unknowingly a little girl who lost everything she ever had including a routine that wouldn’t be too busy for bath time, connected my experience with the Red Cross in a way that made it more than just a thrilling job. She made it a necessary job. A job where there was no room to be coy, or pale-faced and scared. It is a job that builds bridges over cliffs.

Yesterday I met with the student leaders of the Xavier Red Cross Club, Nile and Sanchia. I have currently been working on getting Red Cross Clubs started in some of the metro area colleges and universities.  As of right now Xavier is the only school with an active club.  Their initiative is amazing.  A few years ago they approached the Red Cross with the idea of beginning a club on campus and they have ran away with the idea ever since.  They are largely independent and have done some great work in the community surrounding campus.  For example, they have done large scale canvassing to make sure that their neighbors are prepared for hurricanes and other disasters.  They have even come up with their own skit version of Scrubby Bear that they have performed in neighboring elementary schools.  Their enthusiasm is inspiring and they already have a lot planned for this semester.

What is even more exciting is that we have students interested in starting clubs at Tulane and Loyola.  Last week I met with two students from Loyola who are taking the initiative on chartering a club on their campus.  They have some big ideas and I am looking forward to seeing all that they accomplish.  At Tulane’s Activity Fair a couple of weeks ago we had over one-hundred students say that they would be interested in participating in a Red Cross Club.

The next step is to ensure that both of these clubs receive charters from their respective universities.  Once that process is complete the Red Cross will have a plethora of enthusiastic, student volunteers waiting to be put to good use.  The possibilities are truly encouraging.  I am excited to start reaching out to other schools.  The goal for this year: five college clubs.