What is it about disaster relief?
Before Mississippi, I'd never done real physical labor, never seen a place like hurricane camp. Yet like everyone else around me -- dropouts and activists, drifting English majors and middle-aged churchgoers -- I was swept up by the work like nothing before.
Why did we all feel so lucky to be in Biloxi?
The beginning of my answer came on the beach at night talking to Greg, one of the long-termers.
"Disaster relief is black and white. Somebody needs a house, we build it," he said.
A lot was said that night, mostly just the pontification bred by big, pretty quiet things like the moonlit Gulf of Mexico. But that stuck with me: Disaster relief is black and white.
He's right, of course. It's a radical notion in today's world, and a radically compelling way to live: with absolute certainty. Nothing to question, nothing to interpret, just houses to build that need building.
Logistics? The more money and help, the better. Daily schedule? Do as much good as possible.
Greg wandered off and clarity came in with the tide. I am in Biloxi. I am a small person in a big place doing right.
"This was our ambition," wrote the poet John Ashbery. "To be small and clear and free."
But my chance to chase that ambition was an accident. If I hadn't been suspended, I never would've made it there. And once I arrived, I was daily outworked and humbled, in the best way, by the long-term volunteers.
As Greg said when he left, "I've got heroes from all over this country now."
Disaster relief is black and white, upliftingly unambiguous. You know where things stand: you and your volunteer buddies versus Katrina and all she wrought. Peace and love are terrific, and camp is full of both, but nothing is quite so thrilling as knowing exactly what the enemy is and how to fight it. You don't return to base after a day's work feeling like a martyr, you return sweaty and tired and satisfied.
I found romance in Biloxi, the youthful excitement of worthy conflict. When one long-termer left, her farewell speech quoted a familiar passage from "On the Road:" "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time." It captures the intensity and camaraderie of hurricane camp.
But when I stood on the beach in bright shadow of casino lights, I thought of a different passage: "Beyond the glittering street was darkness, and beyond the darkness the West. I had to go." That was my Biloxi: lyric, propulsive, full of music and movement.
The graffiti at base was like that:
"Love you, love your work."
"Can't, won't, don't stop believin'."
Perhaps the simplest way to put it is this: Disaster relief is a societally acceptable way to go on adventures. Occasionally, the fact that it also helps people feels like no more than a bonus.
Greg's plans for after Hands On are six months of wildland firefighting with the U.S. Forest Service followed by international disaster relief, with paramedic and structural firefighting training in between. The work our six-year old selves dreamed of -- bright uniforms and real danger.
Tarantino articulated it best in the Pulp Fiction finale.
Sam Jackon claims to have had a "moment of clarity:" he's going to drop the gangster bit, quit "the life." Then what?
"Then, basically, I'm just gonna walk the earth. You know, like Caine in 'Kung Fu.' Walk from place to place, meet people, get in adventures."
Travolta isn't having it.
"And how long to you intend to walk the earth?"
"'Till God puts me where he wants me to be."
"And what if he don't do that?"
"If it takes forever, then I'll walk forever."
"So you decided to be a bum!"
And of course, it's true. Volunteers are poor. I am lucky to have been able to devote the time in the first place; I know not everyone has that luxury.
Email Alex at howeas@gmail.com
