Saturday, September 10, 2005

I feel like crying every single minute. A man hugged me today, when Michael and I took the van over to a parking lot where a group from Alabama had set up some baby items and toiletries to give away. They didn't know about the shelter we're working at, and when they found out, they began giving us things. Cases and cases of formula, diapers, shampoo.

The man asked where I was from and when I told him New York, he said, "I have to hug your neck." And he did. And I tried not to cry, because I had to help load the van. The group ended up bringing their entire truckload of items to our shelter, since the area people would have a better chance of finding the Red Cross shelter then their spot.

The Red Cross would not be able to do this, or at least, not so well, without the community. Church groups and individuals are bending over backwards to fill needs. Local women are volunteering to take in laundry of the shelter residents and staff. Representatives from church groups come in every morning to check the list of clothing needs and will come back with brand new clothing in appropriate sizes for the residents.

A marriage and family counselor from town came out yesterday and said her office had been destroyed, but she lived close by and wanted to volunteer her services at home for anyone who needed them. Last night a woman and her little girl came by with an enormous baking of cookies. The kids whose high school we're occupying cook and serve meals. The cleaning staff has remained on duty. The Salvation Army is here. The regular Army is here. Americorps is here.

There is a group here called the Hallelujah Hounds. Because they are a religious group, they are not allowed to set up inside the shelter itself, but the shelter manager allows them to perform in the quad. So in Mississippi summer heat, they dress in enormous dog costumes and entertain the kids. This is entertaining for me as well because I get to try to figure out how exactly they'll work Jesus into the 50's rock and roll songs they dance to.

To the tune of "Return to Sender:"

Return to Jesus!
You're going wrong!

They have a slip'n'slide and some sprinklers out there during the day, and every evening at 7:00, there's singing. (The Lord makes me wanna shout! Kick my heels up! Shout! Throw my head back! Shout! Don't forget to save your soul! Don't forget to save your sou-ou-oul...) The kids love it. They get to dance and talk into the microphone. They don't have quite the same grasp of exactly what this disaster means as their parents do, and it's boring for kids in a shelter. They need something to do.

I sat in the supply room today. All day long, people came by and I gave them things that they needed, things that had been donated from all over the country. There are no forms to fill out and people don't need to be staying in the shelter; they just come and take what they need. The first woman to arrive on my watch was very soft spoken and carried a little girl. She said she had lost everything. She was staying with someone and they were six adults and three children.

I started to make a bag of items for her, diapers, toothbrushes, whatever we had on hand. I asked her if she needed toilet paper. "Ma'am, we lost everything," she said. She had to say it again when I asked her if she needed Q-tips. Luckily she was patient with me. I knew that so many people had "lost everything," but only in an intellectual sense. I needed time for the idea to sink in of what it means to lose everything.

She needed some of everything in that room. She did not have anything. She did not have any things. She had lost not only her valuables, or her furniture, or her favorite clothing, but every single thing that had been in her house. The stuff she liked and the clutter she had always meant to get rid of and the house itself.

After she left I kept thinking I had not given her enough stuff, though she had lugged a full garbage bag out to her car. But people kept coming, and they had all lost everything and they all needed something. It was good timing when we found those people from Alabama that brought us all that stuff. Deoderant, shaving cream, mouthwash, combs. Because when you lose everything, you don't have a comb anymore.

My eyes feel different all the time now. I'm constantly on the edge of crying but I'm afraid that if I do, I won't stop. I let the clients see I care, but I can't break down sobbing. They are the ones who lost their homes, not me. They thank me when they come and get supplies, and sometimes they say "God bless you." I like that, even though I feel I don't quite deserve it. I like that what I am doing is making things better for someone.

No one ever asked God to bless me for making copies or typing briefs. Those are some of the times when it's especially hard not to cry, but the hardest time is when someone comes in with more supplies, or offers a service. I'm on vacation. I have sacrificed nothing to be here. But when I see someone come in who is truly giving of themselves to help, it's too much for me. I'm so grateful to experience such generosity of spirit and to witness such caring. But I will have to try to wait until I leave here to cry.

 

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