Susan Connors \r\n410 Virginia Terrace \r\nMadison WI 53726\r\n3,466 Words\r\n\r\nSunshine Pavilion \r\n\r\nShe sits on the edge of the Red Cross cot, hand to her head. \"How\'re you doing, Arlene?\" I ask. Deep circles underline her eyes. \"I have a roof,\" she replies. She points up to the metal ceiling of the Tamiami Fairground exhibition hall. It looks like storage space for airplanes, not people. \r\n\r\nDespite the late hour, the building\'s doorways remain open in hopes of a night breeze. The heat is fierce. The \"Sunshine Pavilion,\" as it\'s called, now serves as the only Hurricane Wilma shelter in Dade County. The high-ceilinged warehouse space is vast, even when the shelter population swells to nearly two hundred and fifty. The air conditioning has yet to be repaired. The hum of industrial fans adds to the din of babies fussing, children romping, mothers calling, action shows and video games blaring on salvaged televisions. \r\n \r\n\"And we\'re okay, my baby and me.\" Arlene points to the cot against hers. I see a mound under the coarse grey wool blanket. I kneel on the concrete floor and greet the eye peeking out. Soon Shemika favors me with her big smile. Later she will seek me out to hug me, to show me how she looks when she finally gets the new public school uniform she needs before she can return to third grade. Hurricane Wilma deprived Arlene and Shemika of all their belongings. Arlene, exhausted, tells me she is blessed.\r\n *****\r\nWhen I called my local Wisconsin Red Cross in October to volunteer for disaster relief work for the first time, I never expected to complete registration and be on my way five days later. I knew only I was going to South Florida as part of the 2005 Hurricane Wilma relief effort. I arrived on Halloween, one week after the storm had struck. By Thanksgiving, over 6,000 Red Cross volunteers had come to the area. Most of us were first-timers responding to the urgent call. The pool of volunteers had been sapped by the Red Cross disaster response to the inconceivable devastation wreaked by the Gulf Coast Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. \r\n *****\r\nI arrive Monday night in Orlando, but Hurricane Wilma Headquarters has relocated to Miami. I rent a car with three other volunteers, one of whom, Pat, is also a mental health worker. We travel to Headquarters, the third floor of a fashion merchandising mall attached to the airport Sheraton Hotel, where we\'re given our assignments. I\'m delighted that Pat is assigned with me to the shelter.\r\n\r\nDave, the shift\'s head nurse, approaches me \"Are you a mental health worker?\" he asks. \"Can you talk to a guy named Ralph? He\'s got ringworm so he can\'t stay here. With all these kids it\'s a public health problem.\" I ask where he is.\r\n\r\n\"Outside. He\'s short, curly black hair. You\'ll know who it is�he\'s really agitated.\"\r\nI walk out past smokers, security guards, small clusters of older people trying to catch a respite from the inside commotion�and a breeze. I cross to the unlit edges of the parking areas, the surrounding Fairground deserted. No one fits Ralph\'s description. When he shows up the next day, Dave explains that he can\'t come inside until he\'s been at least two days on a course of medication. He paces, cries, talks rapid-fire. He has no money, but Dave will succeed in convincing the nearby pharmacy to donate the medications in the interest of public health. Ralph will return later, repeating his thanks. \r\n\r\nEven though I don\'t find Ralph, walking the rounds gives me a chance to stop to talk with the residents. Frank, the 88 year-old white man displaced from his Miami Beach apartment complex beckons for my attention. Frank considers himself lucky: he was able to set up his cot next to a support post that marks his space. It helps shield him from stray balls that ricochet between cots and the cordoned-off wall where older children roughhouse. \r\n\r\nClusters of family and neighbor units have fenced in their assemblies of blanketed cots with extra cots propped on their sides. Martin, Frank\'s neighbor, objects that they\'ve helped themselves to the extra cots. \"\'What are they, building condominiums?\" he asks. I tell him the makeshift walls might offer some symbolic privacy in this vast box of beds. \r\n\r\nHe points out a chubby boy shoving a little girl. Parents are told to supervise their children, but many children chase up and down the aisles of cots. One of the shelter workers reads the \"Hurricane\" book aloud and asks the children to draw pictures to describe their house, the storm, the shelter. When it\'s Darwin\'s turn, he dictates, \"In the shelter, it feels like living in a mansion.\" He has his own bed and good hot food on a regular basis and snacks whenever he wants.\r\n\r\nI spend my days checking in with residents--and workers--to see how they\'re coping, actively listening. \"Encourage hope,\" our supervisor tells us. \"Lurking\" is my term for it. I wonder how useful mental health workers are here compared to shelter workers, nurses, or \"feeders,\" as the food workers are called. \r\n\r\nOn Friday my co-worker Pat and I find notices that our hotel accommodations are being downgraded. We spend the night with one hundred other workers in the staff shelter, an exhibit room filled with cots and pungent wool blankets. Saturday the mental health supervisor at Headquarters says we\'re to check back after work to see whether we have hotel lodging. \r\n\r\nPat and I acquire a new co-worker that morning. We fill her in as we navigate the congested streets. I tell her the residents were moved from a school last Sunday and didn\'t know until late yesterday whether they would be moved again this morning.\r\n\r\n\"There\'s a sick lady in a wheelchair,\" Pat says. \"A man on kidney dialysis,\" I add. Soon we\'re in that zone we\'ve come to know: the stories of the residents cut so keenly that we\'re driven to recite:\r\n\"A woman with mental illness who goes to see her hospitalized teenaged daughter.\"\r\n\"An old Cuban couple�they only speak Spanish�they can\'t get the nebulizer he needs for his emphysema...\"\r\n\"There\'s been a fight, an arrest...\"\r\n\"A boy\'s been cutting himself...\"\r\n \r\n\"They\'re under such stress,\" I tell Laura. \"No one knows what\'s next. Everybody\'s always asking \'Where\'s FEMA? Where\'s Dade County Social Services? Where\'s Red Cross Family Services? Will they even come? What if I miss them?\' \" \r\n\"Family Services came once,\" explains Pat. \"They register people, then determine eligibility for financial aid and issue debit cards. But they only saw a few people. Said they\'d be back, but we haven\'t got a clue when...the residents are really anxious.\"\r\n\r\nPat pulls the car into a space alongside the security guard car, the police car and a television truck. We pull on our deep-pocketed Red Cross vests, check our IDs, notepads, phones, water bottles, fanny packs, and enter the open glass doors. \r\n\r\nJoe, another mental health worker, has been watching for us. He greets us, sandy hair rumpled, face shiny. \"\'Thank God you\'re here. We\'ve had a near riot. They mobbed the Family Service workers...we had to put the workers outside and push everyone back.\" \r\n\r\nWe see a clumped line of shelter residents that stretches half the length of the shelter\'s concrete wall. A yellow cord strings a division between the agitated hurricane victims and the Red Cross Family Services workers stationed at the tables backs to the wall. The temperature in this area is 10 degrees higher than the rest of the already steamy shelter air. It heats up the mixed smell of lunch spaghetti, wool lint, mopping buckets, diapers, the anxious sweat of those in line.\r\n \r\n\"We\'re not sure yet whether they\'re registering people or just issuing debit cards to the ones whose homes have already been assessed,\" Joe says. \"We\'ve got to calm things down. \" We spread out along the line to reassure the residents. \r\n\r\nTight postures, tense head movements, eyes enlarged in anxiety�all plead for explanation, for hope. The people track every little movement of the workers and manager. They stare at the head of the line. \r\n\r\nGordon, the shift manager, guards the yellow rope divider. He stands white and tall above the crowd, but nose to nose with the big-boned African-American woman confronting him. She\'s yelling, face shiny with sweat. He is pinkening. The big woman curses him. He shouts back, \"I can have you thrown right out of here!\"\r\n\r\nThe very air seems to catch for a tinder-box minute. Some weary ones are staring, but the woman\'s agitated companions clump around her. Small blonde Pat moves into the crowd and raises her hand to place it calmly on the woman\'s shoulder. \"Take a moment,\" she instructs her. \"Think what you want.\" The long minute has passed. Gordon slips outside. \r\nN\r\now we can learn whether the workers are registering names or distributing debit cards. No one wants to move out of line. Frank tugs at me with a bony hand. \"What are they here for?\" he asks. I tell him I\'ll let him know. \"Okay,\" he says, \"don\'t forget me.\" He shuffles back to his space. \r\n\r\nBut some are far too agitated. Ada has pulled up a chair. Long-lashed eyes glisten with tears. Coils of hair frame her fine-boned face. She holds three year-old Nadia and pushes her baby stroller. \"Baby\'s three weeks old, a Caesarean, they said I shouldn\'t be here, I\'m a priority. Do they have my name?\" \r\n\r\n\"You don\'t have to wait here. I\'ll see whether they have your name and I\'ll find you,\" I tell her. \"No, I need to stay in line,\" she says. \"What if I lose my place?\"\r\n\r\nI am dismayed. All this tension, all this anxiety could have been avoided by simple communication techniques. A megaphone. A sheet of paper posted behind the desks. A spokesperson. An announcement.\r\n\r\nYet even an announcement would fall short of addressing the chaos. Family Services workers spread the word that they\'ll distribute debit cards today. Hurricane victims who haven\'t yet registered for services can wait in line, but they\'d be better off using the recently installed phone banks to call the National Red Cross Help Line instead. But before long callers begin to leave the phones and report, \"They say they won\'t take any names; we should register here.\" \r\n\r\nLaura, only two hours on the job, calls and pleads for clarification of the conflicting instructions. She returns to the Family Services supervisor and hands him the phone, \"Calling National is not working. You need to call them yourself.\" He calls, but all he can do is request that the phone operators all be given the most up-to-date instructions. \r\n\r\nWe tell Laura she was baptized by fire today. \r\n\r\nI\'m beginning to realize the mental health worker has a certain luxury compared to workers with more specific jobs. We may help with serving food or distributing blankets but our main activity is listening, witnessing the passage of individuals through parts of their lives, validating their efforts to make their way. Those with no other resources than this shelter come from harrowing pasts and face high-stress futures. We may make calls, track information or just chat, but we mainly work to provide emotional support. \r\n\r\nWhen I first meet Victor, he\'s spitting angry words rapid-fire. He, his wife and 11 month-old daughter have been at the shelter a week with no change of clothes. The baby has a cold. There is no money to supplement the two diapers a day that the Red Cross provides, no medicine, no gasoline to make it to a doctor or to search for a new construction job to replace the one he lost after he couldn\'t get to the job site all week. \r\nV\r\nictor floated nine days on a raft from Cuba to Florida in 1997. He learned to speak English in three months and built a life for himself and his family. Hurricane Wilma undid all his hard work. Ordered to evacuate his apartment before he could salvage anything, Victor did the next best thing. He took the red tag that declared the unit unsafe with him. It is his proof to FEMA and the Red Cross that he is in need. His wife speaks no English, so he has not left the shelter to check on the family\'s belongings. \"I can\'t leave them alone here,\" he says. Instead, he waits. \r\n\r\nAs we talk, he waves his arms less, his speech slows. \"I thank God for the Red Cross, but I hope that there is more help that will come for all of these people,\" he says. \"It\'s an uncertain future. Nobody knows anything. The most important thing is that we\'re OK.\" He points to his daughter: \"This is my most valuable thing.\"\r\n\r\nAlmost all the residents I talk to express appreciation for the Red Cross, no matter their circumstances. Like many South Floridians, Leon and Tara had already been uprooted by hurricanes. Wilma is the eighth hurricane to hit Florida in eighteen months. \"I love the Red Cross,\" Tara says. \"I had Leon Junior when I was in a Red Cross shelter last year for Hurricane Ivan.\" \r\n\r\nEveryone has a story. Perhaps the greatest lesson in almost every contact I make is that to be offered some of that story is to brush against basic elements of human nature: despair, dignity, survival, hope. The sheer grit of the shelter residents amazes me. \r\n\r\nSome talk about their past, some about small joys like a shower or a trip to a Laundromat, some about what they\'ve lost or what they need to get done or what new obstacles confront them. Some I feel nervous about approaching...and repeatedly find that I\'m glad I did. I\'ve seen the man who comes in after work and lies down until supper without talking to anyone. It\'s time for me to go home: it would be easy to avoid him. But I ask him how he\'s doing. He sits on the cot and shares the story of how he turned from break-dancing to gospel singing. He speaks with pride of his renditions of gospel songs and his own compositions. And then he gives me a gift. He sings for me. Deep and resonant, \"Sweet Chariot...\" He projects his voice. Others around him nod. He finishes with a powerful smile: he knows he gives the gift of song. I blink back tears and thank him. \r\n\r\nKids gravitate to the workers for attention. \"Come see what I\'m doing,\" Carissa tells me. She\'s a big middle schooler who has a tumble of younger children leaning against her on a platform of cots. Arms and hands reach out to fit the new board game assembled with used cardboard: the Hurricane Wilma Game. Three steps forward, Big Wind. Two steps back, Fallen Palm Tree. Mid-board: Red Cross Shelter. Here in the shelter, children as well as adults struggle to cope with the overwhelming challenge of their precipitous slides back and forth in the saga that the game represents. \r\n\r\nCarissa isn\'t the only enterprising young person. Fourteen year-old Ernesto keeps a diary of his time in the shelter for his writing class. Twelve year-old Jermel greets newcomers explaining that he\'s the shelter reporter. Before long he has the attention of the local media...and a chance to visit the newsroom. Eventually, the Miami Herald will sponsor his family in finding a home. Jermel\'s 77 year old-grandmother has custody of all three of her grandchildren and prays to live long enough to raise them. Like several other shelter residents, when she returned to check on her damaged home she learned that her Social Security checks were stolen. \r\n\r\nStolen checks were one of many added hardships for the residents. When the people bussed to the shelter from Florida City had their units condemned, they were told that they could be arrested for trespassing if they didn\'t leave. When some returned to check on their property, they found their apartments had been looted by those who had stayed behind.\r\n\r\nThe word that Florida City evacuees are on their way to the shelter causes a stir among some of the residents. \"That\'s the worst of all the projects!\" insists Tanya. \"I don\'t want no gang members in here. And \'specially no two gangs.\" We\'re un-nerved when we see that at least eight of the new arrivals are very large young men who look the place over in a glance�but look no one in the eye. The residents keep their distance from the newly set-up cots. After lunch, red beans and rice, they leave...and don\'t return. The mood in the shelter lightens. The kids are back to running the aisles. The hum of voices rises. The older Cubans move from their area to sit outside. Women carry hand laundry to the bathroom, mop their area, stop to talk about their concerns. \r\n *****\r\nNo matter how trying or demanding Red Cross work might be, volunteers get to go home. By the time I\'m making rounds of the shelter to say good-bye, it\'s clear that the remaining residents will have the hardest time finding homes. They have nowhere to go. \"We\'re here to try and give them some hope,\" says the shelter manager, \"but don\'t see the resources around to meet those needs. We have no idea how long it will take to relocate storm victims to permanent homes.\" \r\n\r\nMy last day is a Sunday. Rumors circulate again about another shelter move. Georgette, a gazelle on long legs, sneaks up behind me. She took some time warming up to me, but now she\'s free with her teasing and gentle hugs. She hands me her poem:\r\n\r\nBYE\r\n\r\nbye, bye, bye. When you meet some one \r\nyou have to get to know them good\r\nenough to believe they won\'t hurt\r\nyou the more you get to know some \r\none the better it get so that what\r\nmakes it hard to belive when some\r\none your close to tell you they have\r\nto leave and then you feel sad about\r\nthe person your close to leaving.\r\n\r\n *****\r\nBack home, I read the Miami Herald until there is no more printed about the Sunshine Shelter. I learn that the residents were moved to another shelter, an unused country human services building, one that the city commissioners warned was inappropriate and \"impacts life, health and safety issues.\" The last article I find is dated Thursday, November 24:\r\n\r\nHURRICANE WILMA AFTERMATH: 100 HURRICANE EVACUEES MOVE ON AS SHELTER CLOSES\r\n\r\n The last remaining shelter in Miami-Dade housing Hurricane Wilma evacuees shut its doors Wednesday�a day before Thanksgiving.\r\nAmerican Red Cross, which was running the shelter for the county, said it was notified Wednesday that the doors would close after breakfast. \r\n Social workers quickly made arrangements for those in the shelter. By midday, alternate housing had been found for those eligible.\r\n Bad news came for those evacuees who on Wednesday did not have proof of a permanent address in a storm ravaged area or already held documentation that the Federal Emergency Management Agency could provide them assistance.\r\nThey were told the shelter was closing and would have to seek help with homeless services. \r\n\r\n *****\r\nThe Red Cross is comprised of a 95% volunteer workforce. It trained over 60,000 new volunteers in the hurricane season of 2005. More than 233,000 Red Cross workers left their own lives on hold to staff over 1,000 shelters and provide over 34 million meals. They work long hours yet seem to thrive on the effort to help disaster victims move on with their lives. The immensity of the commitment to serve awes me. The residents ask, \"You came all the way from Wisconsin. For us?\" \r\n\r\nOne night, Lazaro recites his poem: \r\n\r\nRED Cross VOLUNTEERS\r\n\r\nThey came from North Carolina,\r\nWisconsin, and Oregon.\r\nSome even came from my hometown.\r\nThey came from this land of ours.\r\n\r\nSome came with a set of clothing,\r\nLeaving their loved ones behind.\r\nThey came and they asked no questions.\r\nThey just came to lend a hand.\r\n\r\nAnd even though they came to help.\r\nIn one of our darkest hour,\r\nThey even took our abuse\r\nAnd some even took our anger.\r\n\r\nThey didn\'t even say a word\r\nBecause in such lovely hearts,\r\nThere is no space for these emotions.\r\n\r\nThey gave us shelter, helped our elders.\r\nEven fed our hungry babies, and asked\r\nNothing in return, only wanting satisfaction.\r\n\r\nThey came because we were hungry.\r\nThey came because we were suffering.\r\nThey came because we were lost.\r\n\r\nAnd they showed us that they care.\r\nAnd they showed us all their love.\r\nMade our life a little brighter,\r\nAnd gave us a lot of hope.\r\n\r\nAnd if you are ever in despair,\r\nFeeling hopeless and blue,\r\nForever some in Miami\r\nAre crazy in love with you. \r\n\r\nEternally Grateful,\r\nLazaro \r\n