Day 3 - Tornado Cleanup

Two nights ago, a mixed group of staff and volunteers went to a beach bar before curfew. There was a storm alert that showed us right on the red range and I was kind of a little tired. So, I stayed back and had a chat with my wife over the phone after dinner. Not little after, I passed out in bed straight into the morning. 

I was amazed at 7am to find puddles all the way up to the outdoor showers. From the looks of this coming video that the guys shot at the bar, there was quite a storm out there. To me, that is honestly where the story about the storm ended.

Last night after meet-up, however, a team leader announced a new group being scheduled for today. "A tornado hit pretty bad on the coast line, so we will be going out to do a little clean up tomorrow." I signed up on the spot.

It turns out that, while I was sleeping like a baby and others were dancing and drinking for a little bit, not far out some others were facing what will perhaps be the most shocking experience of their lifetime. 

7 men went out fishing to celebrate the last day of a home construction project on which they had been working for the past while. As they were out there, a tornado made its way into their area. Seeking shelter, the owner and his 6 workers went underneath the roof of their newly-built home. 

Here is that same roof 2 days later. 

This picture is probably not what you think.

The roof you see on the floor right there in front of that house is actually on the other side of the street from the house in the story of which I am writing. It made it all the way over there, across the street and into their neighbor's front yard.

This is the house we worked on. 

This was my office today on a full schedule with about 20 min less than an hour's lunch break.

I must admit that, at some point of the day after bagging so much loose insulation, my mind started playing tricks on me again. Second-doubting the ethics behind helping out on water-front property might not restrict itself to my personal claim, I feel. 

 

Then I remember the words of one of the coordinators this morning. She said "The owner is retired, has Parkinson's and is going in for second surgery on Tuesday." So there I am with a hard rake in one hand, my boots up to my toes in mud and about a handful of remaining souls around me. We are all working our ways through this man's backyard. I cannot help but make calculations in my head as I toss debris in a constructor bag. 

 My inner dialogues go something like this:

Neuron 10: How much could land be worth as waterfront property in Texas?

Neuron 758: We ARE in Texas, you know that; don't you?

Neuron 500: They fundamentally HATE you in Texas

Neuron 201: People are so nice here, though

Neuron 12: I know, I know. It's not like we could have forgotten. I must be some queer/lesbian/odd thing here

Neuron 4082: See that flag? Look at those colors. Just like Puerto Rico - nobody cares about this place, either. So why do you?

Neuron 11: CHILL! They have their own problems going on here, all right?

Neuron 5291: How many children in Kenya could they have fed instead of building this place?

Neuron 14: All to end up in a ditch somewhere. These people are privileged

Neuron 843: PRIVILEGED?! Look at that man's FACE for crying outloud

Neuron 412: What are you doing here, Angie?! Fabricio is about to win in your country!!

So I keep battling myself. Kenya is in my mind and heart - always.

I came here, because I need to see this. "What is volunteer work like - in an American organization?" That is the main query justifying my choosing for a Texas-based NGO. To be honest, I keep reminding myself that I would rather be here raking than spending a day of leisure elsewhere without much purpose other than my own entertainment. Even if that means putting my wife through our distance, setting some of my goals and plans aside for a bit and risking many other opportunities. I am wrestling my inner self in my head and bodies here, but I cannot keep it to myself, anymore. 

"I really need to know if this is this guy's residential or vacation home" I say abruptly to a teammate. 

"I really hope it's not his residence" she replies suddenly. Her 18-year old innocence fits like a glove. Of course my gloves are wet, muddy and stinky, but - just like that, I gain perspective.

The more I engage in volunteer work and the more I do so internationally, the more I chew (and gladly figure out for myself) so many dilemmas. I am over that. I think my "one-year-ago self" would have kept on going down profound and senseless existential crises. The Angie today that feels somewhat comfortable just being called Ang now solves this quite differently. I take that girl's knowledge and value her opinion to get me out of my own self. 

Whenever we balance out how much good we are doing in order to determine if one enterprise is worth something or another, we might just be forgetting about leaving the mentality aspect out of it. But I speak of this in different terms than the need for a spiritual consultation or other. Whenever we determine things like knowing if going somewhere or other to help a person or two is worth our efforts, we are closer to the need of judgment than I think we like to believe. I am in no position to judge if this retired man is worthy of my help just because I showed up here. He walked over with boxes he had gone out to get. He wanted to take his kitchen stuff out to place it somewhere. Please take a look at the current state of his kitchen after this disaster:

I put wet garlic powder and salts in a water-filled pan in order to fill his boxes. His pennies and keys I left on the counter, right on top of the fish-shaped bowl he had gotten. There is something heart-breaking about having your dreams blown away overnight so helplessly that it makes me get just how unfit I am to judge how much money he had spent here. I am just not one to say where this money is best spent, anyway. How do I know how long he had been saving or working for this? I am here to help a human being who is facing a crisis. I am here to be of service to those who had to hide out who knows where in bunches of 7 because night blew their walls away in the middle of nowhere. Of course I would love to be in Kenya, building a shelter to keep LGBTQI youth out of blunt murder. I would certainly like to be doing something to stop hate crimes. I have put me here, however. Away from voting booths and closer to the Mexican border as I work on the US side of America. Trump might not get that. I might be doing it all wrong, also. Our presidential candidate, friends, some relatives or people alien to us might not get it. They might not get that on which we are invested. Life is not about that, though. Life is not about people saying it is okay for you to be doing what you find yourself doing. Life, I choose, is more about the popcorn someone shares with me after a day spent making calculations at a single parent's home trying to put up their drywall. Life, somehow, is more about the people around you and how much we are alike, rather than different. How human we all are - and how much we all need each other. In this case, also, in spite of race, religion, sex, gender, spirituality, ethnicity, your financial status and privileges. Life, I find today, was good to me for putting me by the water picking up cardboard. I cannot help but feel for all the people here who might not be considering themselves as blessed as all of their belongings are lost, damaged or boxed somewhere as they try to move on with...something.