A Thousand Different Doors

 Fancy golden door-knockers, or plain steel with a peephole? Windows in the door, or a solid portal? If there are windows, where shall they be? What sort of mailbox—plain brass or artsy iron designed to look like a backpack? Where did they put the house number? Were the steps recently redone—are they marble, slate, concrete or wood?

Canvassing makes you a connoisseur of the weirdest details.

The routine is almost always the same. Step up to the door and knock. Have you registered with FEMA? Have you heard from an inspector? No, I’m not an inspector—my partner and I aren’t trained for that. Do you have insurance, home and flood? Have you received a Small Business Administration packet in the mail, and have you filled it out? If not, here’s why you should. Do you have any other questions for us while we’re here?

Goodbyes. Leave a flier. Repeat.

We have all kinds of fliers. Blue “Disaster Assistance” fliers with French on the back, “Aide Aux Sinistres”, half-a-dozen colors of Spanish, what must have been five hundred Tagalog “Tulong Sa Kalamidad” fliers, even Hebrew fliers for a majority-Jewish neighborhood. We have special white fliers for the Sheltering and Temporary Essential Power (STEP) program, English on the front and Spanish on the back, neighborhood-specific sheets of emergency numbers. I haven’t had cause to hand those out yet. I’ve handed out a few STEP fliers—a new program that’s supposed to help people who are still without power get back up—since we got them earlier this week. A lot of people are still without power, even at this late date.

You want to hear an interesting story? After the Second World War, millions of soldiers and sailors came home after years overseas, looking to settle down, get married and start a family. In response to their need for housing, Levittown and its fellow towns were born, low-cost, mass-produced houses in America’s first planned suburbs. I read about those in American Society class, my freshman year of high school. The GIs moved in and settled down in Levittown, which happened to be in Nassau County, Long Island, New York—my future stomping grounds.

Fast-forward sixty-five years. Sandy hits. And these Levittown homes have their own unique issues, because they’re still heated by oil, which is kept in a tank attached to the sides of the Levittown homes. The hurricane happens, tanks get punctured, oil flows down into the streets, lawns turn brown and the gutters glisten with rainbow scum. How can you foresee that kind of issue? You can’t. You just have to handle it somehow. That’s part of what disasters are about: helping with the crazy issues that nobody saw coming.

Part of it is the heart-wrenching impersonality of the whole awful edifice, the minute variations in wind or topography or a different power grid that devastated some neighborhoods and left others untouched. I’ve heard people tell me how the water was lapping at their third front step, their fourth step, inches below their door, actually slightly inside the first floor… and came no further. And I’ve seen bags and bags of what we call ‘debris’ outside homes—antique bookcases, washing machines, nice leather couches, rugs, chairs, gewgaws, playthings, dog dishes and ornaments and piles of pink insulation—and been told that this is the sixth such load put out on the curb to be hauled away by great green garbage trucks. People sitting in houses, basements full of mold, waiting for the lights to come back on.

Kalamidad. Sinistres. Ouragan. Calamity. Hurricane. Disaster.

None of those seem to be enough.

Step up to the door and knock. Listen to their stories—amazing, horrible, perseverant, despairing. Ask your questions, get your answers. Listen to the sadness, the frustrations, the hope. Watch them rebuild before your eyes, ripping out diseased Sheetrock, laying timbers and joists and pillars bare, prying up warped floorboards with long iron crowbars. Answer the questions you can, give out phone numbers and addresses for those you can’t, ask for critical needs and call them in as necessary. Receive praise or condemnation as the situation warrants. Make your goodbyes and walk to the next house. Step up to the door—brown oak, broken doorbell, silver mezuzah, speckled band of floodline—and knock. Step up to the door and knock.

Nobody’s home. Leave a flier, Tulong sa Kalamidad, in the door. Walk to the next house with its potted plants still on the porch, Halloween decorations in the windows, scraps of knickknacks littering the lawn where the pile of memories lay. Step up to the door and knock.

I Got To Meet the Real-Life Most Interesting Man/Men In the World

Disclaimer: This post, by now, is about two months old. I wrote it on the day we left Vicksburg, because that was when I happened to have a 20-minute-long chat with the Director of Operations for the Vicksburg campus, he who shall be known as Wade. Because it's so blatantly gushing because I was that amazed, I held off on it for a long time, but I feel like now is a moderately appropriate time for it to finally go up. This was my immediate, post-conversation reaction.

I don’t think I ever truly understood the meaning of the phrase “hit by a freight train” until just now. I just spent the past twenty minutes or so talking to one Wade Williams, our Director of Operations at Vicksburg Campus, and listening to him talk about the places he’d been and the things he’d seen and done. Wade has got to be the most competent person I have ever met, and that is not an exaggeration. He is incredibly experienced, well-traveled, intelligent—despite his denials—and articulate. He talks at the speed of light and my brain is struggling just to keep up. After twenty minutes of conversation, I feel like it’s been an hour’s worth of in-depth talk and I barely said a word—and didn’t care. It was mesmerizing.

Wade is Wade. This twenty-plus-year U.S. Marine Corps veteran retired at 42 and became the DDO at NCCC in 2009. Wade is a bulky six foot two, with short hair that’s graying on the sides and green eyes that don’t look away from yours in conversation. It is impossible to imagine Wade being unsure of himself or hesitant. He taught our driving safety class and made a bone-dry subject hilarious; he has a great command of words and the mien of a born storyteller. The breadth and depth of his knowledge of the Marine Corps, of the mechanics of disaster relief operations, of the minutiae of this campus, of who-knows-how-many-other-subjects seem limitless. And to cap it off, Wade is an Energizer Bunny in human form. Our conversation was the longest I’ve ever seen him stay in one place; he’s constantly crisscrossing the campus. Down six people on his temporary staff, Wade—being Wade—simply does all their jobs himself. Himself. Apparently, he did without eight people for approximately a year and a half, buying everything from key cards to vans--everything the campus needs--by his lonesome. I'm not sure he knows what sleep is.

Wade’s stories are like nothing I’ve ever heard. One minute he’ll be describing the devastation of a Pakistani village where he did earthquake disaster relief in the Marines—bodies broken on the ground, people covered in blood, amputation tents with piles of body parts outside—and the next he’ll be describing how he dealt with petty Pakistani army leaders who were hoarding earthquake relief supplies (literally blowing them away with the rotor wash from huge Chinook helicopters), all in the same raspy Southern monotone. Wade has done disaster relief in Somalia, where he got in midnight gunfights on the streets of Mogadishu. He was there for flooding in Thailand, for volcanic eruptions in the Philippines, for hurricanes in Port-au-Prince, for earthquake relief in Pakistan, and he’s helped build four orphanages around the world. Wade rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel in the Marines, and as an executive officer, he planned countless operations, disaster relief and otherwise, around the world. You know how people always say they need “the guy” to do things for them? Wade is “the guy”. Outside of television, he might be the ultimate “the guy”. 

On multiple occasions, Wade has described himself to me or to a group of Corps Members as “not very smart”. I would put this down to self-effacement, but Wade does not seem like that type; he is gifted with a marvelous brain and a Marine’s bluntness. Asked half-jokingly why he isn’t running his own campus by now, Wade proceeded to explain how Americorps is already staffed largely by ex-military officers—apparently all five campuses have an ex-military Director of Operations—and that the higher-ups want diversity of backgrounds in the upper ranks. He talked about things I’d never even heard of, how Americorps NCCC normally has a requirement for a certain percentage of disadvantaged kids that he works with personally, but that that requirement was waived for FEMA Corps (those people are Wade's currently-missing staff), how Americorps NCCC members, working with Wade’s stock of thirty-five chainsaws (most campuses only have four) cleared all the tornado debris in Tuscaloosa in two days. To say that he’s quick to grasp the significance of new developments would be an understatement; he effortlessly shifts between conversations and develops contingency plans on the spot. And they work. I’m really not sure there’s anything he can’t do.

The reason why I felt this is appropriate to post now is that I'm currently privileged to work with a team of Air Marshals, who are part of FEMA's "surge force" out of the Transportation Security Administration. The marshals couldn't be nicer to us; they've bought us lunch two days in a row, they've been working closely with us as far as locations for canvassing and getting us organized, and they're generally very easy to talk to. (Brad, the team leader, has the dry wit of a Louis C.K.) But apparently they're also mysterious badasses from the land beyond time. They travel all over the world hunting "bad guys"--drug traffickers, child pornographers, terrorists--and basically functioning as the U.S's most versatile and persistent law enforcement officials. They're supremely good at whatever they do, and they remind me quite a bit of Wade. They're the people who make politicians look good, the guys who make it--whatever it is--happen. One wonders if any government can function without its share of Wades.

I Just Met the Freaking President

I just met the President of the United States.

Yeah, that high isn’t going away for a while.

Out of all 21 FEMA Corps teams in New York and all 42 responding to Sandy, out of the thousands of emergency responders and volunteers and FEMA Reservists and staff, somehow Summit Five found its way into a receiving line for the 44th U.S. President as he visited a Disaster Recovery Center on Staten Island this morning.

The funny thing was, we didn't even really find out we were going until this morning. Three days ago, Unit Leader Brendan was running around at dinner like his hair was on fire, tearing around the mess deck asking for Summit Five's birthdates and social security numbers. No explanation was given. Naturally, everyone went nuts wondering what it was all about, and most of us--knowing that the President was visiting New York on Thursday, and knowing that no other team had been asked for their info--jumped straight to “oh my God, we're going to meet Obama!” I tried to stay realistic about it, which was difficult because my friend and bunkmate Joe went stir-crazy wondering if it was indeed the President. For three days we had almost no word. Last night, Brendan told us to meet him in the mess deck at 7 AM, dressed normally. That was it. Everyone, of course, went nuts again. And this morning, dressed in overcoat, khakis and comfy running shoes, I finally learned that we were in fact going to be there for Obama’s visit.

  

From there, it was a blur. We drove out to Staten Island and were shown around the Disaster Recovery Center there. A FEMA Congressional Affairs man named Dana and a pair of White House staffers showed us where we'd stand and told us precisely where the President would be, when he'd come out and what we should expect. We threw anecdotes and jokes and terrible puns back and forth, grinning like loons and waiting for Obama in a rush of excitement and adrenaline and affected calm. The whole thing blurs together in my mind, so I'm going to try and knock out some of the most important bits in this post. Here goes nothing...

There was an immense flock of geese wandering around the area. I swear there were at least two hundred birds, and I was having nightmares of them flying over and pooping on the President while we were shaking hands. They did fly over right before he came out of a tent and most of the press corps ducked. Nobody got hit, but a few geese bombarded the area about ten feet to my right. As fate would have it, a Secret Service agent shortly walked over there and stepped on two separate goose turds, one right after the other. I tried to warn her, but it was too late.

We waited in the receiving line for what felt like decades before the President, all broad grin and bluish windbreaker and hiking shoes, strode out of the big white tent to our right. A small army of telephoto lenses, set up in the last minute or two, clicked and clattered like magpies as he walked over to us. I was second in line to be greeted, and it sounds stupid, but one second Joe was getting thumped on the shoulder and the next second Barack Hussein Obama was right there in front of me, shaking my hand. I've never felt so overpowered in my life. He just radiated charisma and easy confidence. He asked my name, where I was from, thanked me for choosing to serve in FEMA Corps and moved on to Katrina next door. I am honestly not sure what he or I said; it could very well have been in Tagalog and I wouldn't really know.

Fun fact: Joe is from Iowa, I'm a Wisconsinite and Katrina is a true-blue Ohioan, and the President noticed. The first thing he said to Katrina after finding out her home was “Oh, you’re all from battleground states!” I gamely offered back “That’s why you picked us, right?” but I don’t think he heard. Shingarai broke down crying when the President went up to her, and instead of doing a spiel at that point, he just went in for a hug instead. Chelsea was next to him in line, and when he got to her, she asked—bright-eyed and puppydog-hopeful—“Can I get a hug too?” He happily obliged.

After everyone had gotten their individual moments with him, Obama walked back to the center of our little semicircle and told us how glad he was to see us signing up for this program and doing the work we were doing; he said that it spoke well not just of what we were doing now, but the good we had a chance to do in the future. My clearest visual memories of the President will be him standing and speaking in the center of all of us, pausing--those famous pauses--to look down at his hand, and then looking back up and delivering his next line. I had a strong sense of TV-aided deja vu; he had the same diction, the same pauses to gather his thoughts, the same famous tone from the speeches I'd seen.

Obama was the highlight, but we met other dignitaries as well. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development Shaun Donovan was there, and he spoke to us briefly. (I missed him the first time around—was busy writing a note—but I managed to catch up with him later on.) Secretary Neapolitano was there as well, and we got a round of questions and thanks from Mayor Bloomberg. Away from the group, I got to grill the New York Federal Coordinating Officer and chat at length with Dana. Apparently the latter owns two graduate degrees (International Relation and Public Administration), has worked for the Peace Corps and interned at the White House, and spent the past 12 years on and off with FEMA. I marvelled at his career, and he told me that he hadn't planned for it to go that way. He said it was about just rolling with the opportunities you were given and enjoying the ride.

Speaking of which, I also randomly got interviewed by Reuters. Here’s how it went: I was among the first out of the van when we arrived, but remembered too late that there was a no-cameras rule and I had one hiding in my pants pocket. So I went back, threw that in the van, shut the doors and went after my teammates, now the last in a straggling line. A man walking the other way spotted me and asked who I was with, so I explained the program, thinking he was just a random survivor. He said “I’m a journalist with Reuters,” and our conversation mushroomed into an interview about FEMA Corps and how in the world I'd ended up here. He said it might be used in a story, so I’ll post the link if that ends up happening. It was so cool, though. I wasn’t flustered, gave clear answers and generally carried it off just the way I wanted. I’m glad to know I can do that off the cuff.

File that under "Just another day in FEMA Corps". It sounds like a canned spiel, but it really is true: this program can take you to places you never imagined, doing things you didn't believe you were capable of doing, having experiences that you'll never forget. Who else gets to work with disaster survivors on a daily basis? Who else lives on a ship, works seven days a week and loves every minute of it? In how many other jobs do you get to meet the President when he stops by to see a disaster, and be personally congratulated by him for the work you and your compatriots are doing? My team and I owe W. Craig Fugate a big, fat bouquet for even being allowed to come here. As I told the assembled Vicksburg class the other night, this truly is a privilege.

Prove It

"We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win..." -John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 1962

I've been thinking about this quote a lot lately, but never more often or more intently than tonight. I met the deputy administrator of FEMA for the third time tonight, this time at an all-Corps community meeting in which he gave a short speech and then listened to our questions. And for what seemed like the thousandth time, the air was filled with complaints about the work (or lack of work) we're doing, the way we're treated by the FEMA general staff, et cetera ad nauseum. I've done my share of bitching, ask anyone, but I was quite surprised to hear variations on the same old stories coming up again. My team has been blessed with a command staff that, for the last few days, has pointed us at a target and said "Go" and left us to figure out the hows and whys for ourselves. And it's been grand. You know things are good when your team isn't talking about how bad or good they're doing, but when everyone is focused on the work because going out and doing your job is just what you're doing nowadays.

Suffice to say, I've been happy with what I've been up to, and it's odd to hear that others aren't in the place we're in. Trouble is, I guess I forgot that not all teams are in our situation, and Corps civilization does have its perennial discontents. Richard Serino already put what I'm feeling very well in one of his responses, and I'm not sure I can do it any better, but here it goes.

"Not because they are easy, but because they are hard."

We chose this program knowing that we were the first. We chose this program knowing, or finding out along the way, that our presence signaled a major change within FEMA and that we would be the new, perhaps mistrusted, kids in an agency full of seasoned veterans. And we've been told time and time again that we are smart, that we're capable, that we're amazing and trustworthy and full of hope for the future. We think we can change the world. We're full of dreams and aspirations and, apparently for some, frustration that we're not being used as well as we think we can be.

To that I have one thing to say.

Prove it.

There will always be people who see us and think we're too young, too naive, too inexperienced to be proper FEMA employees or to represent the agency properly. Sometimes they will be our bosses, sometimes they will be from outside the organization. And we can't expect them to see into our inmost hearts; we can't expect them to look at us and see what we see in the mirror. We have to show them that.

Prove it.

My team has twice now had to carve out its own work and prove what we were capable of, after periods of inactivity because the higher-ups didn't yet trust us. We did. Today, we're working a Nassau County village house by house and door by door, winning over the outside world and impressing our superiors as we go along. And more importantly than either of those, we're doing our jobs well and helping disaster survivors as we go along. That, as Mr. Serino reminded everyone tonight, is by far the priority for everyone.

Other teams can carve out that space as well. Conditions are different for everyone and I know that, but your own initiative is your most powerful weapon for expanding your role. Push for more work. Show what you can do with the assignments you get. If you're not worthy of doing more important things, you won't get to. But if you show your bosses what you can do, and show them you are capable of helping survivors in an efficient and effective manner, they will listen. I have yet to meet a person we couldn't persuade by our actions, not by asking them to watch us, but by being impossible to overlook.

You have to prove it, and I applauded after Mr. Serino said it. We all have to. That's our responsibility as part of FEMA Corps's First Class. "That challenge is one that we are willing to accept, that we are unwilling to postpone, and that we intend to win," Kennedy said. Keep those words close, because that is what we have to--nope, that is what we are going to do. That is what we are already doing. And we'll keep on helping survivors as best we can, because it all comes back to them, the reason why we're here and the heart of everything. That is our challenge and we will meet it.

We're Living on a Freaking Ship

--> One of the fun things about FEMA Corps is the wide variety of housing you get, which swings between moderately normal (hotels, church basements) and the Al Michaels-style You did WHAT? category. My current housing is definitely in the latter. After bouncing through three dorm rooms, an extended-stay motel and the floor of a Connecticut armory, we’ve hit the apex of cool. Welcome to the Corps’s new home by the sea.

Yep. We’re living on a legitimate ship.

Backstory: The ship is a training vessel that we've appropriated as our new home. Able to house 600 people in its four main decks, it’s big enough to be mistaken for a funny-shaped building that decided to go for a swim. The ship is typically used for 45- or 90-day training cruises, but now houses the entirety of Vicksburg’s FEMA Corps contingent.

How the hell did we get here? Because housing was scarce (to put it lightly) in New York City after Sandy hit, FEMA initially put the Corps in a military base in New Jersey, Fort Dix (which, coincidentally enough, is where my Opa (grandfather) got his training when he was drafted into the Army) LINK. The trouble with that was that a) it was a 2-3 hour commute one way, in a b) gas shortage-plagued city, which also happened to be c) blacked out in certain areas due to Sandy, so that my team d) got hopelessly lost in downtown somewhere on the first trip to Jersey and turned it into an e) 5 1/2 hour nightmare drive.

To employ some Gallic understatement, this was not ideal. Apparently the higher-ups realized this, because just a day into our stay at Fort Dix the Corps was yanked into the ship and informed that this was our new semi-permanent domicile. It’s still about an hour’s commute from Summit 5’s work, but the food is nice, the scenery is great and we live on a goddamn SHIP. It’s AWESOME. There are ample toilets and showers, a laundry facility and just-opened game and weight rooms. I have a locker and rack (sailor for ‘bed’) of my very own, the latter of which is racked below two others belonging to teammates. The rack measures about six feet long, two wide and two tall. (If I forget to set my alarm in the morning, the sound of my bunkmate John whacking his head on the ceiling has proven a fairly reliable wakeup call.)

Speaking of slang, it turns out that Battlestar Galactica was pretty much spot-on when it comes to shipboard slang. Yelling “Make a hole!” in a blocked hallway, calling walls “bulkheads” or stairways “ladderwells” are all pretty commonplace here. Left and right are of course “port” and “starboard” (what’s more, the ‘port’ is actually to the ship’s left), we eat on the “mess deck” and descend a modern version of a “gangplank”. The pointy end is the “bow” and the serious part is the “stern”, of course.

So we’re well-provided for, in the food, shelter and travel areas as well as the linguistic one. Phone service is unfortunately impossible belowdecks, since the ship is essentially a huge steel box, and since our team leaders usually communicate with us through Blackberry messages, this is kind of a problem. Traditional NCCC activities—physical training three times a week, Service Learning moments at least once per week, frequent team meetings—have been curtailed both by the ship’s layout and by an unrelenting disaster schedule. I’m writing this on my day off, our first since Maryland and one that only happened due to a winter storm hitting New York City. Incidentally, that’s why my blogs haven’t been posting as often as I’d like, since I need to first have time to write the thing and then beg Internet from a friend with a wireless hot-spot (the ship lacks that as well). All of these are trivial issues, though, because did I mention we’re living on a ship?? We’ll work through ‘em; FEMA Corps always does.

FEMA Corps Van Names: A Glimpse of Our Culture

If you want to understand the unique NCCC/FEMA Corps culture, look no further than our transportation. The ubiquitous 15-passenger vans, our transportation from Gulf Coast to East Coast and everywhere in between, are pretty much central to the program. They’re also our home away from home away from home; mine, for example, has carried my team from Mississippi to Alabama to Georgia, then up through the Carolinas and Virginias to Maryland, into Pennsylvania and out again and up through New York to Connecticut before doubling back to New York City. Other teams have spent as much or more time in their vans as we have, so I guess it’s only natural that most of us would eventually name ‘em. Last night, I went around and polled members of every team about their van names. Enjoy the results!

Summit One: (No name)

Summit Two: “Petunia”.

Summit Three: (No name, although “CB” was suggested)

Summit Four: “Smokey” or “Smokey the Bear”.

Summit Five: “Hildegard”, or “Hildie” for short.

Summit Six: “The Govvie”

Summit Seven: “Funk”

Ocean One: “Big Bertha Blue”

Ocean Two: “El Fuego”

Ocean Three: “Snow White”

Ocean Four: “Sandra Ocean the Fourth”, or horribly inappropriately at the moment, “Sandy” for short.

Ocean Five: (No name)

Ocean Six: (No name)

Ocean Seven: “The Mystery Machine”; apparently their team leader resembles Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

Bayou One: “Big Nasty”

Bayou Two: “Big Blue”

Bayou Three: “The Mastodon”

Bayou Four: “White Noise”, or occasionally “Chuckles”.

Bayou Five: “Vinnie”

Bayou Six: (No name, occasionally “The Govvie”)

Bayou Seven: “Betsy”

For those scoring at home, that’s 16 out of 21 teams (possibly 17) with a unique van name. I thought female names would dominate, but they only accounted for six (Petunia, Betsy, Hildegard, Big Bertha Blue, Sandy, Snow White). As common were Monster Truck-style dominator names (Funk, El Fuego, Big Nasty, Big Blue, The Mastodon, White Noise). I have to say “The Mastodon”, put to the Corps’s only black van, is still by far my favorite name. However, “Sandra Ocean IV” and “White Noise” aren’t far behind. 

This might sound like a frivolous exercise from an outside perspective. They name their vans? What kind of silliness is that? But I think it’s important to know if you want to understand Corps culture, because it speaks to our playfulness and our excitement about work. When Summit Five climbs into our beloved Hildie and heads out to do actual, legitimate work, we’re excited. We want to be there. We want to serve. We’ll spend eternities in our van to get to a project site, as long as we know we’re going to actually get out and do something good. That enthusiasm and that energy are strong assets to FEMA, if they’re used and used well. That part is out of our hands. 

New York Update No. 2 (11/3)

I don’t think I have ever been moved as much, in as short a period of time, as in my first two hours doing Community Relations work. I am not exaggerating.

We weren’t even supposed to be in the Red Hook neighborhood. On our way to help at a shelter, Summit Five stopped to get coffee and learned—in passing, from an old man tilling his garden—that there were what we call ‘critical needs’ in the Red Hook area: power still out, sanitation not working, gas and generators in short supply. So we trucked over to Red Hook, parked the van on an obliging sidewalk and set out to ascertain the truth of what he’d told us. What we found was unimaginable.

The first place I went was a newly formed volunteer center, Red Hook Recovery, which had a line of people forty or fifty strong stretching out the front door. Katrina and I spoke to the man running it, and it just blew me away. Here were these people, less than a week after Sandy blew through their city, lined up to get masks and gloves so they could help others get the drowned remains of their basements out into the street for pickup. The man—Carlos, I believe—was organizing all that and trying to get people registered for FEMA assistance as well. He pointed us to a place two blocks down the road, so we went down to leave some “How to Register” fliers.

Walking down the street in our blue FEMA windbreakers like Olympic torchbearers, we were stopped every few steps by people who desperately needed help. I will never forget some of those faces or stories—a pair of old women with volunteers carrying a Virgin Mary statue out of their ground floor, a man whose basement apartment had flooded and who now owned only the clothes on his back, a wavy-haired man with tears in his eyes who walked up to me on the street and told me his house had been declared unlivable and he didn’t know what to do. We did what we could for each person, as much as we could do or remember from our training: handed out stacks of yellow fliers, spoke about what benefits they might be eligible for, repeated “1-800-621-3362” until we were blue in the face as well as the clothing. It was gut-wrenching, but we had no time to stop and be sad. The number of people who needed help defied comprehension. 

And yet there were reasons for hope, endlessly, everywhere you looked. The massive group of volunteers was only one. Another woman had opened up her art gallery, equipped with wi-fi, for people to get online and register with FEMA. AT&T had set up a station in Coffey Park for people to come and charge their phones, essential when you’re trying to register. National Guardsmen, NYPD officers and good Samaritans had formed a human chain, unloading 24-packs of water from a pair of National Guard trucks, as a line of thirsty, freezing people waited patiently for their turn. People’s entire lives were sitting on the side of the road, pictures and books and clothing and pressboard, furniture and lamps and ruined electronics. And nearly every house had sump pumps chugging away and volunteers hauling what we have to call ‘debris’ to stay sane out of strangers’ houses. Heart and grit and pure hardworking saintliness were everywhere in that place.

We left fliers at all of those places, passed them out into scores of hungry hands, told people what FEMA did and didn’t, could and couldn’t do. There were some tears and angry looks, but they were far outweighed by just a waterfall of thank-yous—heartfelt, hopeful, accompanied by handshakes and warmth and just pure gratitude. Two hours flew by as Summit 5 scattered all over the neighborhood, then re-formed at the van (a couple of hundred fliers lighter) and wheeled away.

We never did get to the shelter, and maybe we will tomorrow. But I consider that a day as well spent as anything we could’ve been assigned. Today, Summit 5 (Community Relations) functioned exactly the way its creators wanted: we walked the streets as merchants of hope, telling everyone within earshot how to get assistance. We did what we could to put Sandy survivors on the road to recovery.