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Waveland Revisited.
May. 12th, 2007 01:27 pmIn November of 2005, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
learnedax, pax_inudstria, and I drove down to Atlanta, rented a cargo trailer, filled the trailer with food and supplies, and drove them into a town on the post-Katrina Mississippi coast called Waveland. We spent a few very intense days there, volunteering at a temporary shelter. During that time, I wrote about it in my LiveJournal. When I've got the time, I'll tag those entries so interested parties can find them easily.
mermaidlady was sorting through the stuff in my glove box today. I spotted a folded sheaf of papers with my handwriting on them. "What's that?" says I. "Don't know", says she, handing them to me.
And this is what they were.
It's 3 a.m. The internet connection is dead, so I'll do this the old-fashioned way.
The thick, heavy fog is a burial shroud over Waveland and we are its mourners, undertakers, and pall bearers. Which makes us infinitely better than many of the people assoiciated with NWC1. The Ax and I have talked about how extreme situations bring out extremes in people, the good and the bad. Life here is concentrated: a day is a week; a few hours are a day. There are people here I truly despise after only a few encounter, whom I would just be getting to know back at home.
The selfishness here astounds me. The arrogance. The disdain a group of the long-term volunteers have for everyone who's not one of the Cool Kids is infuriating. And, for the most part, these are the people who never seem to do anything and who never remember my name.
I'm sitting near the kitchen as I write this and one of the people I'm talking about is making himself some coffee. He just put a CD on and was baffled when I suggested that he turn it down because people are sleeping. He did turn it down. I have a power over them, they don't have over me: I remember and use their names.
I don't have dreadlocks. I don't have massive ink. I don't have a labret. I haven't been here for weeks on end. I have grey in my beard and I don't wear tie dye. But I serve meals to the residents of this storm ravaged place, and I take my meals with them — not hiding in the kitchen tent or perched on the steps of the refrigerated truck. I listen to their thanks, their woes, their stories. When they reach out for reassurance that there's still a normal world out there somewhere, I don't recoil from their touch.
A girl just came in to use the Internet. When I said the connection was down, she asked me how to spell "whiskey" and I told her.
Waste here is epidemic. It's often disguised with a trite "I'd rather have too much food than to run out", but it's arrogance and conspicuous consumption and laziness. Every meal we throw away food for fifty people or more. They leave stacks of perishable food out in the sun. During dinner prep tonight there was a guy deep frying corn dogs. At first I thought it was because he was worried we weren't going to have enough food, but he just liked frying things. "What difference does it make? We've got too much food and it's either going to get thrown out tonight or when we leave on December 1". It never occured to him that the food could be given to the locals to take home (so they don't have to schlep to the shelter every day), or distributed to other shelters.
The girl is back. This time with the bottle of whiskey.
1 - NWC: The "New Waveland Café"; the shelter, commune, rescue mission, camp out at which we were staying.
learnedax, pax_inudstria, and I drove down to Atlanta, rented a cargo trailer, filled the trailer with food and supplies, and drove them into a town on the post-Katrina Mississippi coast called Waveland. We spent a few very intense days there, volunteering at a temporary shelter. During that time, I wrote about it in my LiveJournal. When I've got the time, I'll tag those entries so interested parties can find them easily.mermaidlady was sorting through the stuff in my glove box today. I spotted a folded sheaf of papers with my handwriting on them. "What's that?" says I. "Don't know", says she, handing them to me.And this is what they were.
It's 3 a.m. The internet connection is dead, so I'll do this the old-fashioned way.
The thick, heavy fog is a burial shroud over Waveland and we are its mourners, undertakers, and pall bearers. Which makes us infinitely better than many of the people assoiciated with NWC1. The Ax and I have talked about how extreme situations bring out extremes in people, the good and the bad. Life here is concentrated: a day is a week; a few hours are a day. There are people here I truly despise after only a few encounter, whom I would just be getting to know back at home.
The selfishness here astounds me. The arrogance. The disdain a group of the long-term volunteers have for everyone who's not one of the Cool Kids is infuriating. And, for the most part, these are the people who never seem to do anything and who never remember my name.
I'm sitting near the kitchen as I write this and one of the people I'm talking about is making himself some coffee. He just put a CD on and was baffled when I suggested that he turn it down because people are sleeping. He did turn it down. I have a power over them, they don't have over me: I remember and use their names.
I don't have dreadlocks. I don't have massive ink. I don't have a labret. I haven't been here for weeks on end. I have grey in my beard and I don't wear tie dye. But I serve meals to the residents of this storm ravaged place, and I take my meals with them — not hiding in the kitchen tent or perched on the steps of the refrigerated truck. I listen to their thanks, their woes, their stories. When they reach out for reassurance that there's still a normal world out there somewhere, I don't recoil from their touch.
A girl just came in to use the Internet. When I said the connection was down, she asked me how to spell "whiskey" and I told her.
Waste here is epidemic. It's often disguised with a trite "I'd rather have too much food than to run out", but it's arrogance and conspicuous consumption and laziness. Every meal we throw away food for fifty people or more. They leave stacks of perishable food out in the sun. During dinner prep tonight there was a guy deep frying corn dogs. At first I thought it was because he was worried we weren't going to have enough food, but he just liked frying things. "What difference does it make? We've got too much food and it's either going to get thrown out tonight or when we leave on December 1". It never occured to him that the food could be given to the locals to take home (so they don't have to schlep to the shelter every day), or distributed to other shelters.
The girl is back. This time with the bottle of whiskey.
1 - NWC: The "New Waveland Café"; the shelter, commune, rescue mission, camp out at which we were staying.
