"California, man. Long state. Really long."
I was greeted at the Biloxi, Miss. airport by Heath, one of the people I was to volunteer with at Hands On Gulf Coast. Heath is from California, which was apparent after four milliseconds of conversation: "Awesome," "Totally," and "Right on," and none of it annoying -- it was too authentic.
Heath is a student at Humboldt State University, which happens to be the marijuana capital of this continent. My friends at Dartmouth say "awesome" too, but about as convincingly as econ majors say "I expect to live a full and happy life." Heath, on the other hand, says "awesome" with the strength of his conviction. It was a useful reminder: Dartmouth slang like "sick" and "nasty" were not, in fact, scraped off the Heorot basement floor, but bastardized from people much cooler than we are -- people like Heath.
Heath drove me to camp (a large hockey-rink-like building, without ice or hockey) and told me to find a bunk -- it was already past "lights out." I clumsily navigated a sea of Nalgenes and sleeping bags, occasionally passing another wandering volunteer like a ship in the night -- a ship with dreadlocked hair and an un-showered musk. It was unmistakable: DOC Trips deja vu all over again. (Here, as on Trips, importance and social standing are directly proportional to how unacceptable one's hairstyle would be in society at large.)
The next morning, I found John Beardsley '08, my partner in the opposite of crime for the next eight weeks. We soon set out on our day's task, which was enthusiastically described by its organizers as "debris removal," and which was actually "picking up trash for eight hours." (Like DOC Trips and all the volunteering I've done at Dartmouth, the leaders gush about every activity, even the -- admittedly few -- mind-numbingly tedious ones.)
Our target area was the Turkey Creek neighborhood of Gulfport. I would later describe the area as "colorful." John, to his credit, said what I meant: it was "really, really poor." We concentrated on two semi-paved streets lined with trailers and very small houses.
Nearly all day, the intersection was watched over by a young black man in a wheelchair, his dog bounding around him. He said nothing to us, loudly chided the dog when it strayed too far, and waved to those he knew in passing cars. Many cars were rusted and rattling, but flashing silver rims were ubiquitous.
The trash was dominated by bottles, the labels of which bore witness to the nature of life in Turkey Creek. I found malt liquor and Frappuccinos at a ratio of fifty to one, usually in ditches on the side of the road. Other detritus of note: false teeth, a masonry angel head, and what appeared to be a school report written by Dede, age nine. ("I like boys, expecially cute ones. But work, school, and focus are more important.")
We were joined in our efforts by one separate volunteer outfit and two groups in vans labeled "City of Gulfport Beautification Team," which meant prisoners in green and white striped pants. The inmates were not of much help: our rate of work compared to theirs was exactly that of pleasure reading to assigned studying. Like the man in the wheelchair, the inmates appeared to be friends with everyone in the neighborhood.
Beardsley has lived up to expectations. Our second day was spent tutoring elementary-school kids, and John sang (the anthem of the week/my life, Warren G. and Nate Dogg's "Regulators") while helping a fourth-grader with his word problems. The boy asked if he was a singer.
"Sometimes. Not professionally. Do you sing?
"No. I make beats!"
The boy proceeded to beatbox for a few adorable seconds, and Beardsley beatboxed right back. The kid was floored; his face lit up.
"You do too!"
He ran across the room to his buddies and regaled them with his mentor's skill, pointing excitedly. It looked like he'd be telling people all day.
Beardsley's other musical triumph came the next day, when we were attempting to help restore a house. We both lack any construction experience, but we were instantly testosto-tripping on the hammers, drills and nail guns that were our toys for the day.
One project required a specially-fitted floor segment. While two female volunteers struggled to place the unwieldy wood, I heard something strange. As the girls grunted and stumbled, I realized what it was: Beardsley was on the other side of the room, humming the "Tetris" theme at escalating volume and speed.
Overall, Hands On Gulf Coast's parallels to DOC Trips have proven more than mohawk-deep. Both are predicated on youth and enthusiasm, and both are propelled by the cheerful abandonment of traditional employment and study for the good of others. The good, clean labor of volunteering is intoxicating. For some, it is life-affirming.
Our third day at camp was one volunteer's last, and it happened to fall on his fiftieth birthday. After a brief, silly celebration, he addressed the group. His eyes were wet, his weathered face red with feeling.
He told us how, after Katrina, he had traveled to New Orleans with a sign reading "Will help for food." He encountered a group of "seventy or so Dartmouth students" who were heading to the Hands On camp in Biloxi, and he joined them.
"When you get to my age... you lose faith. This place gives me energy. All this youth, this hope... it excites me."
His frankness was moving, but his pauses said even more. DOC Trips are an ideal beginning and a touchstone, but no more. Here in Biloxi, it's becoming clear that long-term volunteering is a refuge: for the victims of poverty and disaster, surely, but also for the volunteers.
E-mail Alex at howeas@gmail.com
