#18. Day 8: Out of the Frying Pan......

Somehow, somewhere I missed a day in this vercachkte narrative....and I haven't been writing for a while. Maybe I needed to catch my breath before I wrote it all out. Sorry about that. Anyway..... this is what happened next...:

Ahem... So I signed out of CLS. Land of inept whaleassian, bubbleheaded monkeys. I know, I know, what do I really think? I have signed into Logistics yesterday. I kiss the ground they walk on so far. I went back to the Bellemont and said my goodbyes. kiss kiss, hug hug. Glad as hell to be gone from that mess. I find out that the powers that be are sending "Simon and Lois" home. I am pissed. They were hung out to dry.

A little while later, there I was, happily ensconced in headquarters doing Boss's bidding. Oh. Boss: He's just great. I love him to death so far. Kinda stringy, kinda built, kinda medium height. Nice hands and arms. No hair. Wears a cap most all of the time in the off chance that we won't notice the lack of coverage. No such luck. He has piercing blue eyes which do make you forget from time to time that he's hiding under his hat, but everyone knows that he's way bald. No squirming out of that. Wouldn't even notice if he didn't try to distract you from it so hard. Boss's been married for thirty five years. Wow! You've gotta love, admire and respect that. I voiced my homage on the subject, and he wistfully turned, looked at me and said, "yeah.. but I missed a lot". Oh geez, like what? Dating?? I won't even start in on that, because you will be listening to me rant for a week. I like the guy. Can you tell?

Aaaaaannnyway, Big Daddy. Big Daddy is Boss' boss. and everyone elses' boss too. Big D is quiet. He is about 69. Tall as a bean pole, lanky, big ears, glasses and also bald. No hat though. A slow and quiet speaker. Big Daddy is very deliberate. You prick up your ears and listen when he speaks. Everyone listens when he speaks. Some of the department are a little teeny tiny bit, ok, seriously intimidated even. Come to find out, that Daddy was a full damn Colonel in the Army. More on that later. In the three few hours I have been on the job, Big D and I have become best friends.

In my first hour on the job last night, Big Daddy had asked Boss what he thought my new job was? Boss' reply was that I was his , "New Man Friday". Daddy's reply was that he was going to watch boss very carefully, and if he thought that Boss wasn't using me in the very best possible way, I was gonna be Daddy's,"New Man Friday". Men fighting over me already, (kidding!). I just love these guys.

Deep in my new work, intent on doing well, I was trotting across headquarters, formerly known as "the old WalMart", when I run into the Hornet. I expect a nice smiley, "hi", "how're ya doin", to which I would reply, "hi", "I'm doin' great, hows about you?" Didn't happen. I live in a fantasy world. What I got was the Hornet coming to a full screeching halt, look of shock and horror spreading across her face as she realized just who was in front of her. Immediately a finger was raised at my mug and the screech of screeches emanated in an escalating scale of notes from her widening pie hole, "YOU!!!!! ??? What are YOU doing here?????!!!! YOU WERE SENT HOME!!!!!!" Well hell, that was news to me, and I said so. "Uh, well, no, I wasn't". Seemed pretty obvious to me that I wasn't, as I was standing there plain as day right in front of her ever reddening nose.

"YES YOU WERE!!!! YOU WERE SENT HOME!!!! THAT WAS TAKEN CARE OF!!!!!!!!!! YOU WERE SENT HOME!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!!!!!!!!!??????????" Hmmm.....now here was a dilemma. Apparently Hornet got her antennae crossed somewhere,her stinger was in a full twist and it seemed as though I was about to ruin her day, if I hadn't already. Fact is, "Home" was never discussed with me by anyone at any time, unless it was on Hornet-time over a couple of margaritas with the rest of the idiots-as-managers-team, without my scintillating presence gracing the event of course. I figured she was delusional. The delusion continued.

I told her that in fact, (as was self evident to my way of thinking), that I had not been sent home, in fact, I had transferred departments over to Logistics. her unfortunate hallucination continued: "YOU DIDN'T TRANSFER!!!!! YOU WERE SENT HOME!!!!!" Apparently, on the planet Hornet, saying it makes it so. Not on my planet. Not only did I not vanish in a puff of smoke in response to her certainty that I was not really there standing toe to hoof with her, I told her that I had transferred yesterday, and that everyone knew it, and that her staff had signed off on it without even reading the transfer. Did that just for fun, and because I could. It was in lieu of laughing in her face and saying F-you, because she was being a total public lunatic.

Her response was, "YOU!!!!! OVER THERE!!!!!!!!(mandatory finger snap, pointing at me, pointing at her desk. Damn. You think these people got their basic training from the Shirrelles? Snap snap, shuffle shuffle dooo-wop doo-wop.), GO OVER TO MY DESK AND SIT THERE!!!!!!!!! " Sigh. Schnauser once more. When will it end? Instead of heading for her desk, I started to walk towards my new desk. Hornet-from-hell stops dead, in at least a semblance of total shock, and asks where I think I am going???? I reply that, " I am going to get my things." Duh.

Get my things while she shrieks over to Client Services on the nutball mission from Hornetvile. I tell Boss, "Hornet wants to send me home, I have no idea what the hell is going on" He looks at me, shocked and questioning, but I don't wait to explain, what the hell would I say anyway, that Hornet was having a bad drug flashback and believed that I did not exist in the HQ hive, when all empirical evidence pointed to the contrary?

Instead, I turned and slauntered over to Hornet-home tout de suite. From my perch in the Hornet's nest, I could see Hornet in CLS waving her hands and ranting at a group that includes Chicken Little, "LB" and the Viper. Soon she is in my new department, all CLS psychopaths in tow, waving her hands at Boss, Big Daddy and available others. Her screeches carry to where I am sitting 300 feet away. Always happy to make an impression on someone new.

As I sat there, "Merri Sheri" from Public Affairs cruises by and shoots me a questioning look. I tell her that I don't know what's going on, but that Hornet wants to send me home. She asks if I have already transfered? I nod yes. She asks if the transfer has already been signed? I answer again in the affirmative. She then gets this positively devilish grin in her face, and clasping her hands in the universal gesture of "goody goody", gleefully tells me that there is nothing Hornet can do about it, as I have legitimately transferred to another department. "Merri" is from Iowa, and looks like your maiden aunt, so her assisting in putting one over on the Hornet is doubly delicious.

Hornet is screwed, I ain't goin' anywhere. Besides which, it soon becomes clear that my new department and my new bosses haven't turned turtle on me. They have to my shock and unending pleasure, remarkably gone against the screaming lot of harridans, and instead gone with their guts and refused to turn me over or out. The fitting completion to Hornet's bad dream. When I realize all of this, I try mightily not to flatten my ears against my head, close my eyes into slits, flare my nostrils and grin like a hyena.

Soon, "Partay" sashays over, sits oozily next to me and asks what someone with my "talent", is, "doing in the Red Cross"? I assume she is being ironic, as I can't imagine after all that she and her witless department have said and done, that she can possibly be serious. Of course, if she is serious, that sums up the problems the ARC is having in a nutshell. Nut-shell being a very fitting word considering the circumstances. They can't imagine what anyone with any intelligence is doing in their organization. Wonder why they are having trouble? I don't bother to answer her. Soon enough the rest of the gang is at the table. "LB", looking balefully basset-like and Hornet in full thwarted fury.

Hornet hunkers over, looking for all the world like Richard Nixon at his worst and makes an almost laughable declaration: “You have been manipulating the system!”. Well that was news to me. "Manipulating the system" eh? Dang, if I had known, I would have manipulated it into giving me thousands of unearned RC dollars instead of just manipulationg it into providing much needed information to clients and volunteers. Who knew? I did ask her with some surprise, “uh....to what end?” She replied, that I was, “ out of control, and that no one could figure out what I was doing at any time.” No surprise there. If you have your head up your nether parts,then you are unlikely to know what is going on around you. Is that news to anyone?. I did manage to point out, without laughing out loud, that every time I had been at headquarters, it was on the instruction of my site manager, "Simon", which I was certain he would confirm. If anyone in all of the time I had been requesting logistical support at headquarters had bothered to call him, they would have known that.

I did happen to mention, manipulative genius that I am, that not only did I have an excellent review from the Bellemont, but that Public Affairs had printed up dang near 14,000 fliers and posters, that little ol' me had independently written in my cot at night in the shelter, all the while going up through official channels, who didn't know what the hell I was doing, because they weren't paying attention, and didn't care anyhow. All of which were approved by Ms Hornet herself, and that she, the supreme Hornet, had instructed those posters and fliers that I had written in my spare time be placed at most of the client service sites and shelters across the country. OOOPS!!! Hate it when that happens, don't you?

Unable to resist rubbing it in, I did let drop, that everything I did was conducted within the proper chain of command. Note to self: I have got to stop pissing off small minded, unhappy, middle aged, fat women. Even though it does provide a small sense of amusement, it is not in the end, in my best interest.

The truth is, I have never worked for or with any of the managers that found me "troublesome". Not Hornet, not Chicken Little, not the-moron-who-lives-without-a-brain, "Deliah", not "LB", not "Carrie", or even the Viper. My Site Managers, as well as the HQ Health Services professionals, on-site Mental Health professionals, EMT’s , site supervisors as well as the Public Affairs Department, had all complimented me repeatedly on what little I was able to accomplish, both on site and off.

Based on the supreme Red Hornet's statements, it is my belief that not only did CLS Management not understand that what I was doing went properly up the chain of command, they did not trouble themselves to find out. Quelle surprise. Add that to the list of ineptitudes that make up my former department. The whole lot of them seem to operate most comfortably on personal assumption rather than fact. No surprise then that the ARC is on the news every night in a negative light. Let me introduce you to the monkeys that have taken over the zoo.

Ah Hornet, Hornet, Hornet, alas....the next hubristic statement just about sums up the professional atmosphere and intellectual depth of the sorry department that I had so recently left to sniff my dust. Ol' Red Hornet turns to me, leans in and says: “I don’t know if you are off of your meds or what?” I went to pat ol' grits for brains pea pickin pollen eater, on her hairy little arm, but she flinched. None the less, I assured her that I do not take medication, all the while wondering to myself what meds she had forgotten to take to make a statement like that in front of witnesses. Whoa doggies.

The next question had me on the floor. Hornet asked , what I do in “real life”........whoopsy....

I quietly and concisely told Ms McHornet, that I am the President of two multinational landholding corporations, CEO of two other multinational landholding corporations, and chairman of the board of directors for those same four companies. Believe it or not, that is the truth. it is what I do day in and day out as a result of my father croaking and leaving me with a monumental mess of an entangled legacy. It consists of those companies. FInally, working for nothing pays off in the oddest of ways.

To clarify solely for anyone reading this: Due to the lack of anyone else stepping up to the plate, I am President of "Port X, SA" and "XYZ- France S.A." In addition, I am CEO of "MNO Club S.A." and "Companie des XYZ Occidentales SA. " although it is true, and I am not giving the blogging public the actual names of my companies, I will tell you that "S.A." stands for “Societé Anonime. That designates us as a corporation with considerable assets, as opposed to a small business, or a Quiznos franchise. I am in fact, chairman of the board of directors of all four entities. We have stockholders. The stocks are not publicly traded, although they are registered with the French Stock Exchange. The companies are collectively called “The XYZ Group”. We are based out of Paris France, and St Martin in the French West Indies. I also own a jewelry design and manufacturing company in the US called Byzantia. In my now spare time, I make jewelry, but then most of you already knew that part..

Excuse the expression, but Hornet's eyes positively bugged out at this info, and she sputteringly indicated that she didn’t believe me. "LB" and "Partay", wisely remained silent throughout this . I sighed, and held up my cell phone. I noted that I had three law firms in my employ on speed dial. That although it would cost me upwards of $450 for the call, and one of them would be unreachable as it was in France, in another time zone, she was welcome to contact them and confirm my position. She declined. She did say though that I, "didn't look like a CEO". Well thank god for one small favor.

She then asked me if I had a secretary. I have an assistant. No one in this century has ever called Yawovi a secretary. Not to quibble, I said, “of sorts”. Ms Hornetski then asked me if anyone in my companies could access me, or did they have to go through my "secretary" I informed Ms out-of-touch-bug, that my companies have been together for 37 years. That I, and my father before me who held the same positions, were accessible to any employee at any time. That all employees and stockholders had all of our numbers including my home phone number. That I had confidence in the abilities of my employees, and valued creative input from my small staff. It was a concept foreign to Ms Stinging Insect, who instead indicated that she again was not sure that she believed me. It was fast becoming a tedious interview a while ago.

Ol' Bug Eyes looked at me, and again repeated the “meds” comment, then she told me she was going to, “be blunt”. As if she hadn’t been before. Hornet then tilted towards me and intimated the following revelation. She perkily stated, “We have treated you like crap. I will admit that, but since we have treated you like crap, why would you want to stay?” She repeated that statement several times, in case I may have missed it the first time, or perhaps because she wanted to assure herself that she really was making that absurd remark aloud.

Truthfully, I was shocked into silence. Apparently, Bug Breath did not get the memo telling her that I was not there for her, but rather for the clients. I do not remember what exactly I said. I remember distinctly the conversation that I was having with myself in my head, about her and her kind needing to soon be an integral part of a publicly televised Auto de Fe, but wisely chose not to express that. I did tell her rather diplomatically if I do say so myself, that only a handful of her personal staff had treated me poorly, and that I believed in my short time, I had accomplished quite a few positive things. I also left out the , "despite all of you" part.

Ms Hornet regarded me long and hard. Finally stating, “I can’t figure out if you are a loon, or too good to be true”. I couldn't figure out if she had escaped from an asylum, or if this was just par for the ARC paid staff. I replied somewhat disingenuously that, “ perhaps I was a little of both”. Thinking to myself that I must be out of my effing mind to put up with this crap. On the other hand, I also realized that in this situation, I was an anonymous volunteer. Instead of simply donating money, I had for some masochistic reason purposely placed myself in this position. I had done such a silly thing because I had wanted to contribute first hand and see first hand how the Red Cross was run. I certainly found out. Now that was a good idea wasn't it?

So Ms Stripey-Butt regarded me, and then turned to "Partay" and "LB". "LB" true to form, had yet to express a word. If the Hornet was going down, LB" had no plans to go with her. The Red Hornet took a deep breath, and told them that “she was going to go with her gut, and let me stay”. Having already been apprised of the parameters by "Ms Sheri", I remained silent. Gloating, but silent. No one spoke. Hornet turned to her cohorts and asked if, “everyone is all right with that?…… On a scale of one to ten?” No one replied. I returned, escorted by Hornet cerimoniously to my department where she insisted on introducing me to people I had already met.


I took my seat at my desk, and no one said a word. I went back to work. Game, Set, Match.The rest of the day was uneventful. I got to know the rest of the crew, and they got to know me. I hoped that they wouldn't be sorry that they kept me. I planned to make it up to them for their trouble.

That evening, I got stuck carpooling with "Bob" the missing Marx Brother. He wanted to go and see the Mississippi, and I was too tired to say no. We went off to some idiotic riverboat replica casino on the water, full of lights and sounds and smoke and idiots flushing their money away.

The Mississippi was beautiful though. I watched it for a while, and thought about the old days. The plantations, the south, the war the slaves and the things and people that had gone up and down this river and was awed. 'Bob" not withstanding. I watched the sun set and ate yet another bad fried meal, where my choice of wine was red or white, with a boob in the seat in front of me, and it still didn't manage to diminish the experience. It had been a long day. I felt as though I had done battle with the forces of evil and won.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. I had done battle, but it was only with the ongoing forces of stupidity and bureaucracy, and what the heck had I won? the chance to stick around and get kicked around some more. So who was the dummy in this scenario? You be the judge.



Ready for some more stories? We are now into part two.



Best,



Lisa

#17: Day 7. You knew this was going to happen.

Bellemont in the morning. What a way to start a day. Same situation. Quelle surprise. Port-a-potties still overflowing, although by the end of the day, we were able to get more, and even one port a potty for the disabled. Woo hoo! The site manager was by now overwhelmed and saw my help that he has so desperately begged for up until now as suddenly a problem. More Port -a potties!? For the disabled?!" We don't need 'em!" Oh but we do, and I talk him into them as it has taken me three day to get the damn things. we wish desperately that our site manager had a brain in his head, but the fact is, he doesn't. He and his wife are the best of souls, but couldn't find their way to the john with a map. It was a travesty putting them in charge of this site, and now management has hung them out to dry. Wish we hadn't seen this one coming.

The one pallet with water had arrived, but it was not nearly enough. Acting on her own, trying again to prevent a crisis at this site, EMT "Jana". personally notified Logistics at headquarters, and the water situation was rectified immediately by the Logistics department, who I am told found a mostly empty water van, unknown to the site manager or volunteers. She was the one of "firestorm fame". I discovered later, after water was available to us, (through personal calculation), that the Bellemont site was using four pallets of water per day. We had been sent with none. EMT "Jana was a godsend. A help instead of a hindrance. what a concept.

The wheelchairs that had been sent while I was on vacation to N.O. with the Geek Goat Boy, were now almost all being used in the disabled line, as many elderly or disabled clients were unable to stand for the long hours of waiting that was required to begin processing. "Simon" wanted me to go back to headquarters yet again, to see if I could obtain two more tents for the disabled, as they were being forced to wait in the hot sun. I suggested that we also try to obtain chairs for the disabled, that we could line up against the wall so that we could then use our wheelchairs for those clients that collapsed in the main line to be transported back to the medical area, which was some distance away. "Simon" told me to OK that with supervisor "George", who was later to became site manager.

"George", OK’d the chairs, suggesting 200 as a number that would be useful. "Simon" again gave me his car and I returned to HQ. Hot doggies! I again approached Manager "Carrie", who again directed me to Manager Chicken Little. Deja Vu all over all over all over again. I was again very rudely accosted by Manager Viper, and ended up with Manager Moron,(aka, "Delilah"), after an exasperated Chicken Little, insisted Ms Pineapple Helmet Head ("Delilah"), take charge.

Ms "Delilah" listened to my report and my request. I explained in detail the reasons for them. She to my unending surprise, got on the phone, and arranged the tents and chairs. I was amazed. She then challenged why I was so frequently at headquarters. I told her to please call my site manager, as I was there at his request. She declined. IQ was required.

Ms "Delilah" Pineapple Brains informed me that my site manager was not "Simon and Lois", but rather, someone named “Neal”. She could not provide me with a last name. I had never heard of a “Neal” at our site, and told her so. Ms Moron continued to insist that S&L were not the site managers for the Bellemont Hotel. She then gave me, “Neal’s” phone number. That number proved to be invalid. Oooh, now wasn't that a surprise? The latest twist was that she was insiting that requests other than from the invisible non-existent site manager wouldn't be honored. How convenient is that"

I later informed "S&L" regarding the information on “Neal”, that "Delilah" had given me, and they confirmed that there was no one named “Neal" on site at any time, and that they believed that they were the site managers. No one ever figured out what Ms Grits-For-Brains was talking about. No one named “Neal”, was ever found to have been at the Bellemont.

As I was leaving, I was approached by a new manager, "Partay", From ARC National. She gave me a big smile, put her hand on my shoulder, and in a lilting, too-friendly voice, told me that my manager had no ideeeea that I was there, and that I was neeeeeded as a caseworker! Oh my gaaaawdd. She told me that "S&L" had insiiiiisted that I stay only at the Bellemont, and not leeeeeave. She added that my Manager "Simon", thought that I was a” liaison from headquarters.” Well lah dee dah. A new job title and another idiot to go with it all in one swoop. I was not only put off by this ding-a-ling's patronizing manner, I was incredulous, as both site managers, had to know exactly who I was, and I said so. As a casework supervisor, I had never presented myself to anyone, as anything else. Duh!

It was "Lois", who had pulled me off of the table doing casework to supervise in the first place, and "Simon", who had given me each and every one of my instructions to go into headquarters with their requests. Not only was it my managers who had sent me to headquarters each time, they had most times, given me the keys to their car to get there. Now lets go over that again for those in the audience that are stupider than the CLS staff. Oh sorry...that would be no one.

Before I left for the day, I approached Pineapple-For-Brains, and told her that I understood that my actions had in some way upset her, and that in future, I would, “ stay out of her hair”. The Houseplant took exception to my characterization, and pulled me aside to talk.

She said that She was aware that I had done some, “special projects with "The Hornet”, but that I had to, “ choose my position. I could be a caseworker, or continue with my , special projects”. I told dumber-than-dirt, smilingly, that I was "happy to be wherever I was placed, and in fact, the projects involved the Public Affairs department, and was done on my own time". Smile smile, grovel grovel. I knew intimately how Step n' Fetchit felt. That I might be capable of doing two things simultaneously, was a concept Ms Pineapple-core-head was patently unable to grasp. Now there's a shocker.

It took me a while to realize that Stupid-Stuffin'-Head, was referring to Hornet, on Stuffin' Head's own assumption. Hornet was only the final approval on each project sent through the great and powerful "Merri Sheri" at Public Affairs. Even when I attempted to explain, Dribble-Glass-Head did not seem to comprehend that I wrote the fliers myself, and only reformatted them with the help of "Merri Sheri", and her staff. Fluff-n-stuff seemed to ardently believe despite my continued protests, that the projects I had done myself on the side were projects that I had done at the behest of Hornet, who was patently incapable of an original thought, and that my original thoughts had originated with The Red Hornet? Sheesh!!!

Lima-Bean-Brain continued to repeat over and over again that I had to, “ do one or the other, and could not do both.” I found her insistence confusing and said so. (which way did he go George?), I did not see the position I had been placed in by CLS and Site Management, as a supervisor, to be in conflict with writing needed approved fliers on my own time after hours, I had written these fliers to ease the intake process, and eliminate some confusion for both clients and staff. The fliers I had written were presented one by one to CLS Management, and then went through all of the proper channels to be approved by Operations Management, under the aegis of the Public Affairs Department. For whatever reason, Mouse-Droppings-for-Brains found those two endeavors to be mutually exclusive, and continued to repeat over and over again, that I,“ had to make a choice.” Yup yup yup.

Dog -Scratching-its Head-Woman, dissatisfied with my response, apparently approached the Red Hornet, who then took me over to have a “chat”, with CLS management about my “position”. She dragged me to "Joe", although still smiling away, Was not available, so I was to have a “chat’ with "LB". Ms Hornet facetiously suggested aloud to "LB', that, “ perhaps I could stay at headquarters and work for "LB” That is if I didnt decide to eat her first.

What a discouraging “chat”. I voiced my concerns about the lack of Management logistical support for the Bellemont Hotel, and the total lack of support for the Site Managers "Si and Lois" . It became obvious almost immediately that "LB"was not hearing a thing I was saying, (lalalalalalalala), but rather using the same training that I had just recently gone through in Family Services classes in L.A.. Eye contact, listen, jot notes. Eye contact, listen, jot notes. Look concerned. It was perfunctory and ever so disingenuous. So waht is it with that law that prevents us from beating people? Really. there ought to be exceptions.

It was only when I mentioned the repeated lack of support that I felt the Bellemont was getting from Managers Pineapple and Chicken Little, that "LB spoke. Saying through pursed lips, that in her experience, I was the only person who had voiced that opinion regarding Ms’ Moron and Frump, ever in the history of time, but that she would look into it. Suuure she would. I did not bother mentioning, that I was probably the only person from the Bellemont site she had spoken to, as most if not all at that site shared my opinion.

"LB", also informed me that we were not Mass Care, and that we were not supposed to give out water to clients waiting in line, and certainly not snacks. I was stunned. How in good conscience could the Red Cross not give water to clients waiting in the hot sun? In up to nine hour lines, surrounded by trash and with no toilet facilities? They weren't just idiots, they were criminals.

I had actually ordered the snacks at the request of the EMT’s for the diabetics and staff, but there were also small children and babies in line. I had assumed that because of the extreme conditions in the lines we would of course give out water. It seemed inhumane not to. "LB", and CLS at HQ Management apparently did not share my opinion. Silly me.

In repeated instances, I found that this department had little sympathy for the clients. It made me ashamed to be associated with CLS. About time eh? In the end I walked away, from my conversation with ratty ol' "LB", feeling as though I had resolved nothing. Now there's a shocker. I went back to the Bellemont, returned "Simon's" keys, and dejectedly returned to headquarters with the carpool.

Back at headquarters,I was approached by "Bob", the looney tune from the shelter. He was aware of the obstacles I had tried to surmount at the Bellemont, and the lack of support I had received from the off site CLS Management. He had suggested before, that I try to transfer over to his department. He offered to take me over to meet his bosses, then and there. His plan was to walk me by the guys. He implied that if I was cute enough they would hire me. Knowing that he was not the sharpest crayon in the box, I figured that he must have gotten the scenario wrong. Either that, or this forty nine year-old had better be aaaawfly darn cute, aaaawfully fast.

He took me over to Logistics, (MSS/FAC), and pretended to have me look at a map. I had had it, and to his horror, turned around and walked straight towards the bosses. "Bob" squealed and tried to drag me back. When he saw his effort was doomed, he evaporated in case I managed to make a bad impression on the boys, and , and it somehow reflected on him. I walked striaght up up and met "Boss" and, and Manager Big Daddy. We spoke for about twenty minutes. It may have beenmy frazled brain, but they truly did seem great. To my fear and relief, they offered me a place in their department. I hesitated for a second. What the hell was I thinking? I realized that continuing in CLS With the Keystone Kops from Hell, would simply be an effort in further frustration. I was appalled at how poorly the CLS department was run. Management at CLS had made it clear that they did not consider me an asset, (now there's a monumental understatement), and I in turn, had lost respect for most of the so-called managers. (Gee ain't I polite?) Besides, I was doing logistics at the Bellemont anyway.

I forced myself to sign the transfer paper, just as "Simon" happened to walk by. I told him what I was doing, and asked if he could signand approve the transfer, as he was there. He told me that he regretted my loss, but also indicated that CLS Management had given him all kinds of grief over me, calling me ,“that crazy woman”, which I had heard Viper and CL repeat several times within my hearing. So ok, they figured me out. I have to say, I had to strain not to cry at signing. I am a sap. I also felt as though somehow I had failed. Well ok, I kind of felt relieved too. I still started to cry.

Because of my repeated trips to headquarters on the orders of the Bellemont Site Managers to request logistical support for our site, HQ Management were making it even more difficult, (if that were possible), for "Simon" to get anything done. They had implied to "Simon", that he shouldn’t be seen talking to me, or there would be repercussions. How's that for professional conduct? I found this behavior mind boggling. S. signed the transfer. I gave him my review documents, and asked that he get them to me asap.

I took the signed transfer immediately over to "LB". I told her that I had decided to transfer into another department. She did not ask why. I told her that I was transferring to gain more experience in logistics. She signed the blank transfer without reading it. I immediately moved into the Logistics department as the Technical Assistant to the Logistical Shelter Support Coordinator, The Boss. I wouldn't be able to remember my dang title for four days.


Other incidents that occurred at Bellemont. Not mentioned yet:

Problems at the door. The two volunteers at the door made repeated remarks about, “these people getting free money”. One let in white clients with doubtful ID’s, while turning away black clients with the same ID’s. This same volunteer indicated repeatedly, that she believed many, if not most of the clients to be swindlers. Qite a charmer. and she hailed from India. Not exactly white.

From what I understand at least in past disasters, from ARC statistics, one to two percent of the clients turn out to have committed fraud. I did not see anything at this site to contradict those numbers. I did see frequent cultural misunderstandings.

We did seem to develop a siege mentality at the site, brought on I believe by stress and exhaustion, lack of education and information, combined with the continued arrogance, lack of direction and support by HQ management. A complaint of racism was filed against volunteer "indira", by volunteer "Tawanna Islam-Jones" and an independent report was filed on racist acts committed by "Indira". that were witnessed, by a young black security guard at the site.

The volunteer, "Indira", was finally removed after "Simon" received independent corroboration from a white volunteer,(now what kind of bad joke was that?). Upon arriving back at headquarters, instead of being sent home as "Simon" had expected, "Indira" was placed in CLS HQ manning a computer. Isn't that special? Another volunteer, "Liz" skiiny as hair on a stick and twice as revved, was placed in charge of disabled clients at a door, this Frito forced an elderly male client to continue to sit when he indicated that he had to use the bathroom urgently. He wet himself. She was sent off site by the site managers, but CLS allowed her to transfer to Invoice Review where she stayed for the rest of her deployment. Is anyone shocked yet??

There was a distinct broad gap of cultural understanding, between volunteers and clients, as most of out volunteers are caucasian, many from smaller towns, and unfamiliar with either African American culture, southern culture, or the culture of poverty. Some specific training in these areas would have been very helpful but of course the white folks in charge didn't see it as necessary. The presently uninformative orientations could be used for this purpose. Think of that? Specifically, sensitivity training, as anything these charlatains may have learned, they promptly forgot.

Many many volunteers did not understand why certain requirements and procedures, weren’t “obvious”, to our clients. I pointed out that if our clients understood things easily, then they would have had the resources to evacuate their homes, prior to the hurricanes, and would not be waiting in our lines for hours and hours. For a $350 return. In turn, clients did not understand why some of our volunteers found some of their family and financial situations, so difficult to believe. In one instance, a volunteer did not believe a nineteen year-old male client who stated that he had three children of his own, plus a four year-old cousin living with him. earth to us: Large numbers of children had early in life are common in impoverished communities both black and white.

The Bellemont was chaotic and made dangerous, simply due to severe lack of planning, and operating on assumption by CLS Staff. Both volunteers and clients were put into dangerous and at times abusive situations unnecessarily. An atmosphere of “them against us” pervaded in some areas of the site. Primarily at the entry door. Conflicting messages about ID’s, admittance tickets, zip codes etc…occurred every day, every hour, the atmosphere was contradictory and chaotic. Humanitarian concerns were at times forgotten in the chaos. Impartiality fell by the wayside, as did neutrality. I heard the phrase, “these people” (meaning clients), used angrily, over and over again among both volunteers and staff, when the confusing situation that led to our client’s anger was created by us.

I again heard the phrase, “These people are getting free money”, at one point voiced by The Grand Wizard...I mean the head of the Shreveport chapter of the ARC during a staff meeting, (during the period I was with Logistics). My gentle correction of Mr. Pointy-head's statement was met with reproof. Although racism is endemic in this area of the country, it is my sage opinion, that the ARC does not need to be a party to it. The majority of our clients in this particular disaster are African American. Their experience with the ARC does not need to be made more difficult by some of our volunteer and staff’s stilted preconceptions. Ya think?

Regarding the CLS Department: It is fragmented and inefficient. Wow is it inneficient. Beset by gossip and backbiting, it was my observation that decisions were made, (during my time there at least), as much on personal feelings as on facts. The continual lack of preplanning bordered on insanity, as it put clients and volunteers in jeopardy. The environment was unprofessional and counterproductive. In fact it was a downright catastrophe in the making.

Unfortunately, the CLS department is the face of the ARC in Louisiana, as it is primarily its staff and volunteers that come into contact with clients and the general public. The completely detached and disorganized theoretical approach to clients and volunteers that this department has developed and cemented as protocol has contributed greatly to the negative reaction the ARC has been lately receiving in the national and international press. wonder why folks have stopped giving?

So there I was shorn of my old department, thrust into the new. I wondered what was in store, buit I knew that it couldn't be worse. The new guys seemed like they were sane, but one never knows. what happened next will have you on the floor screaming. If you thought you'd seen it all, you h'ain't seen nothin' yet!

Just wait....


Yikes...

Yikes...

Yikes...

xxxooo

Lisa

#16: Day 6 TIme for a change.

I just noticed that I haven't mentioned my shelter very much. My shelter is in a land far away from the hustle bustle of Baton Rouge called Denham Springs. That's a joke son. Kinda. Baton Rouge hustle bustles only if you happen to live in some podunk little mining town in the Appalachias, with your toothless gran'maw and yer dawg Buford. Yeah....its slow and its small in these parts.

Denham Springs is slower and smaller. and way far away. Not for L.A., but definitely for LA. The driving instructions that I picked up at Sheltering, one of our many departments at HQ, were interesting, and I have mentioned them before. They said that the shelter, Hebron Baptist church, was twelve miles away. Pretty far from work. Well twelve miles it wasn't. we clocked it at twenty four.

The engineer among us after several days, finally looked at a map, and found that the macaroon that printed the directions had us going completely through the city and then backtracking five miles out of our way, adding 30 minutes to our drive. Sigh. Now why is it people like to live in small towns?

Anyway, Hebron is located way way into the piney woods. Well ok, I don't know if they are actually pine, and they aren't really woods, but it sounded authentic. In any case, we aren't near anything recognizable, and we are out deep in the country.

Inside of the chrch is a big room divided, with one corner tarped off for those of us ladies who prefer not to sleep cheek by jowl with those of the rougher sex. Other than that, what you saw was cots on cots on cots. Needless to say, I was on a cot. after a few days of attrition, I was able to snipe a large blow up air mattress. I had one before you might say, ah, but that one was squishy and blue and slippery. This new mattress was a lovely forest green, the top was fuzzy and pleasant to the touch. my sleeping bag did not slide on it like it did on the last mattress. This was luxury. Oh, I also kyped one of the really sturdy cots, unlike the ones that folded up and collapsed if you forgot and leaned the wrong way. Amazing really the things that you value in strange situations.

I moved to a space at the front along the wall, the morning after the "Butt" incident. I couldn't bear a repeat. The woman next to me looked smaller at least. We were a room full of characters. Each totally different from the next. we had the ultra right-wing mom of five at thirty-six, who would later go out with the "christian", mom of one teenager and party hearty with a group of twentysomething national guardsmen that they picked up on the street the night before. They would roll in at four AM, no one knew how they managed it.

We had the sweet midwestern mom who had piercings all over, and insisted on showing us. When I commented that she was almost forty now, and perhaps might consider removing the nipple piercings at least, she replied in horror, "but I paid $80 for them!" Sigh. Next to me was the small woman who judging from her voice and demeanor had more than occasionally spent time keeping company with a bottle of something. In the mornings, this fairy would rise and shine and strip naked. Pretty much in front of the large opening that separated the women's area from the general area.

Men walking by and catching a glimpse would no doubt, be put off sex with a woman for the rest of their unnatural born lives when they saw the possibility of what the fairer sex as they knew us, might become. That is if he wasn't actually struck blind on the spot. She had one of those bodies that sagged. Sagged is actually an inadequate description. Removal of her undergarments resulted in what resembled the unrolling of old sweat socks filled with wet uncooked rice. The unrolling ceremony gruesomly ended by the "footwear", arriving at their destination with a resounding thud. That would be somewhere around her midsection. Remind me to thank God for the little things that I have forgotten could happen to me should I stray. I have found yet another small thing in life to be thankful for.

This same deceptively calm woman one night in her sleep began yelling at the top of her lungs, "Shit! Shit! Shit!", and then started moaning equally loudly, "Ooooooh...ahhhhh....ooooooOOOOOOOOH!" Woke the entire place up. When we laughingly told her the next day what she had done, she told us that she had been dreaming that she was with her old horse that she hadn't seen in years. No one pursued that line of questioning too much farther.

One of the women across from me was sophisticated, friendly, smart, well groomed and funny. What was she doing here? Wait a minute, what was I doing here? Next to her was a big friendly sane woman that everyone liked. Notable among all of the big unfriendly insane women that no one liked. There were young and old, educated and un, tall short, thin, fat. a supermarket of mostly the middle aged.

Some were showing husbands what if was to be left alone with kids all day, some were showing their kids that mom wasn't a great big loser. Some were just showing themselves that they could contribute to something that was grander than their world, wherever it might be. Some were at summer camp and having a party. Others were there to show the rest of us how much more functional they were than we. I didn't know what the hell went on in the "mixed" side of the shelter, as that was where the nightly bullfrog serenade went on, so I avoided it. How can anyone snore that damned loud and long, without waking themselves up? I still hadn't completely figured out why I was there.

The oddest time I had at the shelter was with our main security guard, "Tiffany". "Tiffany", weighed in at well over three hundred pounds. Her hair was styleless, dark brown and barbered as short as a boy's. Her neck was one thick short mass of flesh, beginning right at her ear lobes. There were no visible breasts, and a non existent waist. That led into an abdomen that folded over parts of her body that she couldn't possibly have seen in years.

At night while we slept, "Tiffany" filled in paint by number drawings from a giant coloring book. She painstakingly did this night after night using violently colored magic markers, neatly lined up in order of importance on the table in front of her. When the work was finished, she pasted it on the wall of the shelter behind her. Each day we were treated to something new. My favorite was Van Goghs' sunflowers, rendered in fuschia, jutting out of a cerulian, black and crimson striped vase, seated against a violet ground. I made the erroneous assumption from her appearance and by her demeanor that she was a lesbian. "Tiffany", did not know what a lesbian was.

When we came in she would greet some of us by name. She could never remember mine. One evening while some were getting massages, generously donated by locals, I walked in just as "Tiffany" was making some odd comment about Jews. I didn't know the context, but it wasn't something pleasant. I cut in, and said, "hey hey hey, wait a minute, Jesus was one of us". "Tiffany disputed that Jesus was Jewish until corrected by the whole room. "And another thing", I laughingly continued, "We didn't kill him, the Romans did. Oh, and in case you missed it, my voice dropped down to a whisper. We wrote the bible, and that thing on the Pope's head? Its called a yamulke." By that time everyone was laughing.

"Tiffany's" response was singular. She said with completely naive friendliness, "Hey! Since I can't never remember your name, I can call you, That Jew GIrl!" Some laughed, some stopped cold in their tracks as I pointed out with a smile, that "Lisa" might be preferable. "Oh no", she said, I'll never remember that". I suggested "Red", but "That Jew Girl" was her preferred moniker for me. Someone suggested aloud, that I could in return call her , "That Schikse". "Tiffany", seeing the look on my face, stopped cold, looked at him, and then me suspiciously, and with eyes narrowed asked, "did he jus' call me a HO'!?" I Forced myself not to laugh out loud, and told her gently, "no, he just called you an abomination." She stopped for a second, obviously relieved, held her sides and laughed heartily, declaring, "Aw hell, Ah bin called worse 'n that!"

A day later, she approached me outside as I was sitting with some others in the shelter, and said, "Hi Jew Girl". I turned to her smiling, and as sweetly as I could, replied, "Tiffany", if you keep on calling me, "Jew Girl", then I will have to start calling you "That Fat Girl."" That stopped her. She barked, "hey, wait a minute, that's not nice. I mean if yew was fat, then it would be ok, but yew ain't fat, so we's gonna have words. " I turned back to her and replied, "and you aren't Jewish. " She looked at me incredulously,and declared fervently, "But it ain't the same thing". I rejoined with eyebrows raised, "oh, but it is the same thing."

I watched as it dawned on her. She then asked, "Yew mean what ah bin sayin' is that mean?" when I replied in the affirmative, she, looking distressed whined, "so then what am I gonna call yew? Is there somethin' in Jewish?" I suggested "Mensch", explaining to her that it meant human being, in the best possible way. She tried it out a few times, and we all helped her with the pronunciation. Each evening after that, I would enter, and "Tiffany" would greet me with, "Hi Miiiintsch", and I would reply, "Hi Mensch, sort of" back. It became a nightly ritual.

Once she asked if she was really calling me "goddess" or something, telling me she was , "really gonna be mad if she was", and once she laughed long and hard, telling me that it sounded like she was calling me "bitch", but we kept it up for as long as I was there. "Tiffany " was very proud of knowing some yiddish, and told us that she had told all of her friends. I continued to hope, that none of them planned to come visiting dressed for an early Halloween anytime soon.

Our RC shelter managers were other creatures entirely. They were a team that consisted of this truly horrible old harridan and her pathetic lumpish son. She looked like an overweight Jabba the Hut, if Jabba the Hut could sport shorts and a t-shirt. Her frizzled, thinning blond hair perched like a mistaken landing, on what was left of a face. As for sonny, he looked like he belonged in the deep deep south. I looked to see if he had a pointy white hat sticking out of his pants somewhere each time I saw him. It was some time before any of us figured out that they were ours.

The church ladies on the other hand were so sweet. They would cook us dinner at night, and do our laundry in the evening. I had no idea that there were that many ways to cook a pig. You learn something every day. And no, (you just go on and get that out of your head), I did not have anyone do my laundry. The thought of those elderly little baptist gentlewomen washing "That Jew Girl's" thong underwear....Well, I'd be damned if anyone keeled over with a heart attack on my behalf.....figuratively speaking of course.

In the evenings I would grab some people and go out to some of the local dives. With all of the great southern food that I have come to associate with this area, apparently, Denham Springs has somehow become the mecca of bad, cheap ,fast food. What a shame. I did manage to eat several bowls of boiled shrimp at one bistro, although when I asked for a little cup of drawn butter to replace the cocktail sauce that the meal was served with, the waitress brought me six or seven of those teeny tiny little peel-off-top tublets of butter flavored spread. I wonder to this day what was going through their heads.

This evening, I went out with one of my most favorite residents of the shelter, and one of the weirdest residents of the shelter. The first guy was "Alberto", an eighty something psychiatrist, who slept not far from me on the other side of the tarp. He was in a cot with no matress and one donated blanket. Even in the middle of a madhouse, he was able to sleep like a rock and snore like a bear. In the evenings,"Alberto" would sit outside on the porch facing the parking lot chewing tobacco and spitting. Other than that, he was smart and funny, sharp as a tack. Totally irreverent. Everyone loved him.

Then there was this guy that glued himself to "Al", his name was "Bob". "Bob" is about as plain as plain can be. Pale and blond, blue eyed and average. His uniform was a pair of loose grey sweat pants pulled up a little too high, with a grey t-shirt tucked over his paunch and into his pants. "Bob" was missing a little hair, and a lot of grey cells, only it took everybody a little too long to figure out the second part. When you did, you just sat there for a minute and cocked your head sideways like the RCA dog until you were able to reassure yourself that it was indeed true. Not everyone got there.

Really, it wasn't obvious. for the first conversation, or the first hour, you thought he was an ok joe, then after a while, it sank in, that something about "Bob" wasn't quite right. He admitted that he hadn't had a girlfriend since 1996, and that the greatest thing in his life was backpacking across the US. When he was 18. "Bob" was now fifty two. There was something else about refugees, but it was weird and never clear what exactly it was that happened. In any case, nuts or not, it was "Bob" who inadvertently fished my fat out of the fire.

This evening in the shelter, I was talking about the horror of Bellemont, and how outrageously incompetent my department was. I was talking to "Al", about the situation with the water, when "Bob" jumped in exclaiming, "You!!! You were the one!!! Oh my god, you started a firestorm in my department!!!" I had no idea what he was talking about. "You called about the water!!! You started all of the trouble!!!" Well, yeah. Sounds like me doesn't it? I still wasn't sure, so I had him run it down. It fit until the part about the call to Logistics. I never made a call to logistics, I was in N.O. Hmmmm....I was interested anyway.

I told "Bob", to have his bosses call me to talk about the firestorm and water and Bellemont. His response? "Shhhhhhhh...noooooo...you don't want anyone to know it was you! You don't want to make waves!!!" "Ok this was my first hint that "Bob" was a few tacos short of a combination plate. I said, "why not?" I was a volunteer for the Red Cross. As far as I knew, the deal didn't include a contract in blood and my first born. Or maybe it did, and "Bob was on to something. No, "Bob" was crazy. Nothing he said added up, but I might still be the troublemaker in question. God knows my department management staff thought I was. "Bob" kept on reassuring me unconvincingly, that , "It was a good firestorm. It needed to be done."

The upshot of our conversation was that the Bellemont through either me or someone else raising a ruckus, finally got in enough water for everyone. About damn time! He suggested to me that perhaps I should somehow surreptitiously meet his bosses. He had this retarded plan where he brings me by secretly through his department so that somehow everyone seeeecretly gets to know me by visual osmosis. "Bob" was a nutball. I wanted to meet his bosses, but I wanted to meet them head on. Little did I know how quickly that was going to happen, or what the surprising outcome would be.

You're gonna love this.......


xxoo

Lisa

#15 What I Learned at Headquarters & New Orleans

Arriving at headquarters, you are immediately struck with the sense of urgency that pervades the building. The surrounding city is oblivious to the hurry. The population of Baton Rouge has increased threefold. Traffic now looks like L. A. at rush hour instead of LA at any hour. In the Client Services Department, volunteers arrive en mass daily. Luggage is piled in row upon row upon row outside of the main door. It looks like an Army barracks.

At least by my arrival, some volunteers had cooled their heels without an assignment for up to 7 days. At the time, I was unfamiliar with how other departments used their assets. Our department appeared not to use them at all.

The Red Cross like any large company has a hierarchy. In our case, it went as follows:

The Old Man. Long and lean, slightly curved like a banana. He sports a full head of white hair, some form of usually striped polo shirt and a pair of chinos. The look on his face is normally a grimace. He has apparently modeled his outward demeanor after some long lost Disney villain. For some incomprehensible reason, He reigns as the head of the Baton Rouge headquarters.

In the time I spent in Baton Rouge, I never personally witnessed him do more than stroll around the building looking distantly at what others were doing, or taking time out to be rude to someone. How he got to his position, is anyone's guess. As I have seen over and over again, at least in my department certainly, cream does not rise to the top.

Below him is the Red Hornet,whom I have previously discussed. Hornet is mid sized and about twenty pounds past her prime. Round cheeks, a thin little mouth and sparkly eyes. I call her the Red Hornet, because she wears only red ARC polo shirts, tucked into chinos with a belt. Wassup with the chino theme?

Her hair is cropped into one of those pineapple dos. She wears a little makeup, but not enough to make you notice. She is not a volunteer. She is paid to do her job by the National Chapter in Washington DC. She makes some policy herself, and interprets national policy to headquarters, management and volunteers. She is a one woman band. She is overwhelmed. Noone would be able to do all of the things required of her, and do them successfully. it is not physically possible. damned if she doesn't try though. I have watched her and seen that she does her best. Her best is not enough. Imagine being paid for that?

Below her is our department, CLS. Client Services. I couldn't tell you what the "L" stands for. Neither could most of the top brass. Oh yeah...CLient. I guess "CS"just didn't sound weighty enough, so they had to stick the "L" in. The department used to be called "Family Services". Not sure why the change. The old guard still calls it, "Family Services" that makes it all the more confusing to anyone not part of the "in crowd". If you were at all familiar with CLS, you know, that it couldn't be more confusing. The head of CLS is a guy I will call. "Joe".

"Joe" is a smiley guy. He is about 5'7", under 40, close chopped hair, and a goatee on his chin. His chin is generally pointed up and out. He looks like the shrimp-in-the-army, version of Bacchus. "Joe" appears fit. More polo shirts. They must all shop at the same place. Other than that, "Joe" is pretty non-descript. Invisible even. I am sure that he does something. Again, I am not sure what. Mostly he smiles and types away on his computer. They could get a secretary to do that. "Joe" is inaccessible. I know that, because at one point I was ordered to speak to him by the Red Hornet, to try and resolve my, "issues". Didn't happen. After Red escorted me directly to him, he immediately shuffled me off to someone else, but he did it with a smile.

The "someone else", was "L.B." She is a tall, thin, unfortunately dour specimen. One of those females that makes you think that she lives at home alone with her cats. Fifty something, she wears her grey hair twisted into a style that I last saw popular in seventies communes. It was held back by a functional clip. She appears to have no body at all. She does have a long-outdated grey and white RC smock instead. "LB" wears glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her brown eyes are soft, limpid and sad. "LB" is a long-time volunteer for the Red Cross.

I know that, because when she was forced by circumstance and direct orders to speak to me seriously about a particular subject, she followed the classic RC caseworker routine of making eye contact, appearing to write pertinent information, and then making eye contact and appearing to listen, when it was quite evident that she was not listening to a word that I was saying, and made it obvious that she was forced into a position of interaction with me, not to her taste or ability. Occasionally she would nod her head in a damp imitation of sympathy. We wonder why some of our clients hold our agency in disdain?

At one point, I was tempted to interject something about a giraffe, or perhaps an invented drinking problem, just to confirm that she wasn't hearing a word I was saying. Not that it needed confirmation. I instead made the effort to be genuine. It was a wasted exercise.

Below her is "Delilah". "Delilah" may well have been an asset in some long distant disaster. She is not in this one. Delilah is stupid. There is no gentler way to phrase it. Run of the mill houseplant. Her eyes are beady and colorless, her pale brown hair a flatter, stiffer, helmet version of pineapple. it is sprayed with lacquer. She faintly resembles an older, nastier version of The Hornet. When spoken to about the dire need at the Bellemont for water, food and other support, you could see the veil go down, and the eyes go blank. She could not comprehend the possible consequences of the situation there, and instead reverted to the it-isn't-happening position. It was disturbing to watch. More disturbing to deal with the consequences. Most disturbing to deal with her, and realize that on some level of the food chain, she is in charge. It made me shudder.

Under "Delilah", is "Jerome", he is brilliant. Brilliant and detached. not connected to any form of reality as far as I can tell. He another tall lankster. Prone to hawaiian shirts and cargo pants, he is bald. He would call it balding. "Jerome", passed balding into full-fledged nohairedness some time ago. He has for some unfathomable reason shaped a moustache on his mug that is small and long. It droops over both lips. It is not a point of attraction and gives him the unfortunate air of a Kerry Blue Terrier. "Jerome" is erudite and an onophile. He speaks in an oddly cultured drawl peppered with iconoclastic verbiage directed at the ARC.

That combined with the fact that he lives in San Francisco, might indicate to some that "Jerome" is gay. Not that it matters, he is not. Neurotic to a fault. He has to have a steam bath at a local health club before he can function. it is obnoxious. Oh...."Jerome" is black...sort of. I wouldn't mention it, but that he refers to his racial enigma status frequently. I never gave him the satisfaction of asking, as I never actually cared.

Next on the slab: Chicken Little. Look in the dictionary under "Frump", and she will be there. Lumpish and dumpish and tall at the same time, CL wears her hair in a brown bob. Housedresses, below the knee skirts that look for all the world, like sails off a boat. The sail/skits paired with halves of twin sets make up her wardrobe. Her glasses are too big for her, and give her the sorry aura of Mr. Limpet. She is terrified of her responsibility, and out of control in her decision making, or rather her lack thereof. Sigh. Where do they find these people? When approached with a question, "CL's" voice goes up an octave, she goes into hyperdrive, and only then she might actually listen to what you have said and calm down. Of course, she might not. In every conversation, you expect to see at some point "CL", suddenly break into a shriek, and start to literally tear her hair out, or perhaps even pop like a balloon and fly round and round the building backwards. We check in daily, to see if she has snapped yet. Someone should start a pool.


Ahhh The Viper. Viper is older, chunky, squat. Fat even. Viper has very short, very chopped very dyed red hair. Hair the color of photographic eye-glare. Her skin is parchmented and white. One occasionally irresistably wonders where she keeps the coffin. Viper is a terrorist. Volunteers have left and gone home over and over again because of her shrill abuse.

As I have witnessed, she has shrieked over the phone that a volunteer needs to get down to Baton Rouge from Shreveport in four hours or be sent home. At the least, it is a five hour drive. More in traffic. She refused to back down. That was one of her kinder gentler moments. Believe me, there are lots worse. The Viper makes "Delilah" look like a PHD candidate. Enough said? Not!

This witch sees her place in Red Cross life, to personally batter and break as many volunteers as she possibly can. You watch from a distance,as her head snaps around on her neck and her pinpoint eyes focus on the next victim like a laser on the scope of a rifle. Everyone is a threat to Viper. Something to be squashed. You can juuust imagine what she thinks of me...lol. She is a miserable excuse for a human being. Why she has an iota of power or position in this organization, defies logic. I and a slew of others will dance at her downfall.

The rest of my department is not so bad. "Carrie" is a slim, fit, forty-something. Always in shorts and a sweater. Compact and always on the go. Straight brown hair tied back into a tail, freckles, shining brown eyes and a hard smile. Her demeanor is perennially upbeat."Carrie", really and truly does her very very best. Unfortunately, she feels that she must dot all "i's", and cross all "t's" herself. She can't do it fast enough.No way, no how. The result is a giant bottleneck. Nothing gets done in a timely way, because of "Carrie's" inability to delegate. It has proved to be a pretty big problem. One of the several reasons the volunteers sit on their rears for so many days.

The others cause no problems, but their help is blunted by the upper echelon. "Brenda", is one of the good ones. Unfortunately, all she does is regulate vehicles in the department. Luckily, she is efficient at her job, and so goes mostly unnoticed. Her husband "Ron" helps her at this. The two of them are the visual epitome of Mr and Mrs Jack Sprat. She being so cumbersomely heavy, that she sits all day in one spot. It is a great place for her. "Brenda" smiles all of the time. She says that her crinkly brown eyes, "disappear when she smiles". It is true. Although for the most part, she is friendly and even jovial, you will rue the day you cross her. "Brenda" does not brook fools lightly.

Her Hubby "Ron", is her physical opposite. Short, wirey and tattooed. His loss of top covering has been parted through the middle. He always wears an oversized baseball cap, and occaionally a pair of dark glsses, which make him look as though it might have been a rough night. His eyes are brown and wide set, lending a flounderish look to him. They are a good team. "Ron" and "Brenda" have been married for a year. If you are really good, I will tell you their story sometime.

"Winnie", is burnt out. No other word for it. She is just plain old tired with overwork. She looks like one of those salted pink Vietnamese plums. seared and wrinkled. Gaunt even. Her very dyed, banged, blond, wavy blunt-cut looks a sharp contrast to her very red lips.

"Saundie", is the greatest. She is plain and plain spoken. She is bespectacled, pale and knows he way around a problem. Overweight, overworked, correct and unappreciated. It takes a while to get that she isn't really being sharp, just efficient. She is an onion person. lots of layers. Management overlooks her with the only consitency they are posessed of. Any input she gives is either commandeered by the brass if it is valuable, or ignored if the others don't get it. She wants to leave. Who could blame her?

So that about sums up my department. A pretty sorry bunch. I didn't know it yet, but not all of the other departments are this dysfunctional. Not anywhere near.

This day, I decided was my day. I had had it. It was either take off, or go home. it was that bad. I checked and made sure that Bellemont had received the promised water and food, a few extra port-a potties, wheelchairs and EMTs. I had accomplished at least a little. The fliers and posters were in the works, in fact, all of the posters had all been claimed and taken by sites. There was an order in for fifty more in the offing. I felt ok about going.

I told "Carrie", that I felt as though I might be coming down with the coughing flu that most of us at HQ had gotten. In fact, I like almost everyone else had developed hoarseness within three days. It was rampant. We figured it was something in the air. The department didn't question me too closely. They were glad to get rid of me.

So, where was I going? Why New Orleans of course. The previously mentioned "Jerome" and I had become allies of a sort. I am still not sure why. He was taking off to N.O., and wanted a companion. That would be me. I could go down there, and see what I came for, and also meet with my friends Dashka and Larry who had been in the Lakeshore district and lost their house their cars and their little pet turtles. One of the reasons I joined the RC was to go and see what I could do for them.

I would like to say off we went, but it was a snarled mess of a takeoff, due to "Jerome's" neuroses. I won't even go into it. You wouldn't believe me anyway. It involves his stomach, his imagined illness, and my waiting for two hours while he took a steam bath. I can hear you laughing. You should....I wasn't, I was a mad as a wet hen, but it was my only way into the city, so I put up with it. I'm not proud.

So off we went...sigh....got there in pretty quick time. Right away we saw the facade ripped off of a building, a collapsed apartment house, and the Superdome. It looked the same as it did on TV two weeks ago, only drier. I hear that the city plans to tear it down. I wonder if that will kill the memories? I doubt it. They live on in my mind, and in many people's lives.

As we entered the city, only the Army and other RC tourists were on the road. The song, "Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong came on the radio. The irony of the moment was not lost.

Ended up in front of the Convention Center. It didn't look like it did on TV. There were no dead bodies. I looked. I could see them in my head though. I had to resist crying. twilight zone moment. It could have been any of us. I took happy-snaps instead.

There were still rugs, tarps and debris on the sidewalks in front of the building. You looked at them and knew what happened here. I resisted looking into the building through the door. I had seen enough already, to last me a lifetime.

From there, we went to the French Quarter. I was desperate to go and see my friends. "Jerome" was desperate to see the good restaurants in the city, even though they were all closed. I was missing the point. He would drive to each restaurant, He would insist that I take photos of him there. Caption: Nightmare tour of New Orleans. Kill me now.

We knew that we were in the Quarter, when we came across drunken couples swinging long, plastic, neon yellow yard-style glasses, shaped like a grenade at the end. Bourbon street was fairly empty, but some places were open. Primarily the watering holes and titty bars. You could see all of the cops and firefighters gathered in front of the neon lit holes. We continued on, and saw collapsed building and thousands of birds flying over in huge flocks. Finally, we got to Dashka and Larry's.

D&L, lived in the Lakeshore District. Right by the 17th St. Levee. Know where that is? Under water. Their house is a panorama of rotted furniture, soaked drywall and mold. They used to have two little turtles. They truly loved those turtles.they haven't found their remains yet. I asked. In case you were wondering, they weren't the water going type of turtles.

Dashka used to have some cool stuff. her house was sixties architectural. now it is early swampthing. Mold crawls, did you know that? it has slunk up their walls, and through what is left of their lives. The creeping black scunge has worked its way up every surface available, and threaded itself throughout every crack and crevice of their history.

Dashka had this great red jacket. I could recognize her on the show floor at the convention centers that we met at by that jacket. The mold is now wearing her jacket. I would wager that it doesn't look nearly as good as it did on Dash. Mold sucks. Broken levees suck. Hurricanes really suck. D&L are circumspect. I am pissed. I am also in the Red Cross, accompanied by a lunatic. The things I do to see my friends.

Right now, they are living in one room above Dashka's jewelry store in the Quarter. It is small. They are lucky. She still has work. so does he. He wants to stay in N.O. She tells me that he wants to stay through teeth that sound severely gritted. One room living is a bitch. They have a dog. Did I mention that? Fortuitously, it is a small dog. They also have a kitchen. not too bad. However the cold shower in questionable water makes me squint when I think about it.

Last time I visited them was during Jazz Fest this year. We had a show of my jewelry at her store. I walked and stood my little feet off for the week. I wore high heels. What was I thinking? We sold and we talked and we spent time together yakking about nothing. We had a good time. I was accosted on the street one evening, in front of a bar on the way back to our car. The approach was persistent. He believed himself in love with me. I believed him inebriated beyond actual reason. In any case, it was a moot point as I found him terminally ugly, and Dashka found the whole thing terminally hilarious. I heard about it for days, as D looked in vain for my once and future would-be paramour. Strange what you remember in the middle of someone else's tragedy.

So, I took Loco manager nutcase to meet D&L. I had briefed them a bit before I got there, so she was apprised of the steam bath. To their credit, they kept the snickering down to a minimum. However,they found "Jerome" as bizarre as I did. D&I stuck him with the ever gracious Larry, as we went to dinner at one of the local bistros. One of the few that happened to be open, although many were cooking hot dogs and Hamburgers on sidewalk barbeques and selling them for $5 each. Everyone had beer. This is New Orleans after all.

Poor Larry . He entertained the asylum escapee, while the two girls leaned in and talked across the table under our breath. We went to one of the few joints in the quarter that was open. We ate bad jambalaya, and okra fried to a plaster. I tried to keep the okra separate from the shellfish/traif, as Dashka keeps kosher, and we were sharing a plate.

Larry is not so fastidious when it comes to yummy seafood. He and I regularly appall his wife with our rabid consumption of tailed, bottom dwelling sea-vermin. Yummy. He usually takes me to a local dive on the edge of the water called Jay-Mar's. The two of us usually eat ourself sick, washing down the traces with highly chilled mediocre beer. Jay -Mar's is gone. Never there, once again. They will rebuild. I am insistent. I must have crawfish, oysters and crab. Unfortunately, there will be no oysters for years to come. The beds were ravaged by the hurricanes. I looked to consume an oyster po-boy throughout my stay in LA. It was not to be. I was bereft.

So we sat and ate and spoke of old times. Larry and Dodo brains ate turtle soup which I found slightly morbid considering. The place was full of rowdy paunchy rescue workers and who was left. the restaurant served on paper plates and in plastic cups. It felt similar to what I imagine gold rush days to have been like. Pretty rough and tumble. I went to the bathroom to find that the water was not even fit to wash hands in. We are all living off of that weird antimicrobial gel, that will probably be found to be a cause of something terminal in a couple of years. In the mean time, pass the gel.

We went back to their place, and had a small drink. When I had last visited, BK, (Before Katrina), I had brought Larry a bottle of Glen Morangie as a gift. somehow, it was one of the very few things that survived in their house. They found it, covered in gunge, but totally intact. they said that they toasted me and drank when they found it. I feel as though I did something. How lame is that?

Dopey and I finally got into the dwarfmobile, and took off. Or so I thought. the next two hours were spent driving through the city after curfew at a snail's pace. If this guy could have read my mind, he would have run shrieking from the car, squealing like a pig. It was almost unbelievable. I was both hostage and witness to every street and every alley in the whole city. I could have walked it faster. One of the very few times in my life where I had to physically restrain myself from killing someone. Everywhere we saw armed military personnel. The city was under marshal law. They didn't stop us because Deputy Dawg was driving at the same speed as all of the cops. Ten miles per hour. AAAAAKKKKKK!!!!! Wouldn't have mattered anyway, as we had the get-out-of-jail-free card. our Red Cross IDs.

We saw toppled trees and flooded houses. Bits and pieces of people's lives strewn across lawns and avenues. Cars on blocks with their tires missing. Signs that read: Looters will be shot! Signs that read: You loot, we shoot. We miss, we shoot again!" My favorite was the series of signs posted across plywood next to Emeril Lagasses' famous restaurant. In a rough hand was written: "Don't try! I am sleeping inside, with a big dog,an ugly woman, two shotguns and a clawhammer! It went onto exhort people to return to the city, noting that he had his "parade spot already picked out". The next panel read: "9/4. Still here. Woman left Friday, cooking a bg pot of dog gumbo." The last panel exclaims,9/24"Welcome back y'all! Grin and bear it!"

We finally got on the road. I found my self falling asleep with the incessant droning of the escaped village obsessive-compulsive at the wheel. Oh...did I mention that he is Black? Or at least something approximating it. Earlier in the day, we had gone somewhere for lunch in Baton Rouge. Being from Southern California, I couldn't figure out why half the place stopped eating and stared at us when we walked in and sat down. When he went to the bathroom they stared at me. It got so bad, that I started to laugh out loud. Ludacris returned from the loo, to see some good ol' boy angrily boring a hole through me, and me with a fit of the giggles. My erudite companion who hails from San Francisco, turned to Bubba and intoned in his best pseudo gay/ british accent: "looovely day isn't it? Quite baaalmy." balmy was a good choice of words. Ironically, we were eating at a P.F. Chang's. A bunch of racist crackers in a Chinese restaurant. I about choked on my eggroll.

It took forever and then some to get home. It was dark, it was late, it was like a really bad date. I was never so happy to see a cot in a shelter in my life. Not that I have ever before seen a cot in a shelter in my life. Anyway, I was thrilled. Taking a long hot shower in an industrial room in a Baptist church in the middle of nowhere, was heaven. I resolved to avoid Gomer in the future. It was a resolve that would not be difficult to keep.

Tomorrow I intend to apply myself. To what you may ask? You will see.....



Best,

L

#14 Mighty Mouse

Well, today was a day. At the end of it, I felt like looking for my cape and the stretchy suit. Either that, or collapsing into a sodden heap. Got to Bellemont early. "Simon", the head supervisor, asked me if I could go to Kinko's and print up a ton of zip code handouts, to facilitate processing. So I took his car keys, and off I went, or so I thought.

Outside in the stifling heat, the line as yesterday, snaked around the block. There were thousands. People were packed in. Some had camped out overnight. Restless tired and angry. They wanted their money. they wanted to sit down. They wanted some water. They wanted to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, none of that was going to happen anytime soon. The Red Cross had double crossed us. They had sent us out to open a shelter with almost no support. Guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.

For whatever invisible reason, the crowd suddenly began to surge forward, but there was no where to go. Because of the situation yesterday, the National Guard was now outside in force, wearing full combat gear, machine guns at the ready. I spoke to one, and jokingly pointed out, that even if he were in a pair of shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt, I thought that the very very large gun would be a sufficient deterrent. He laughed. I asked for a machine gun for myself, telling him, that I would prefer it to be in pink.

Just as the two of us were cracking up, I heard one of our staff out on the line, frantically yelling, "Medic!!" I looked around, and there was no one to be seen. Figures. Needless to say, I started running. When I got to the section of line where the yelling came from, I saw the crowd pushing and shoving. It looked as though they were being rocked by giant waves. One of our staff nurses was fighting to drag someone out of the line. It was a woman in a pink shirt. She had a long tumbling curled wig on. She was gasping for breath. She weighed about 350 pounds. She didn't look or sound good.

As I got to her, I could hear that her breathing was incredibly labored, and she looked as though she might collapse at any moment. I took her arm, with the nurse on the other side. As we slowly started to walk her away from the crowd. I realized that she might not make it. I was afraid that she would have a heart attack, or worse. I knew I couldn't pick her up on my best day. A young man in a RC vest approached us, and told us to walk her to the disabled entrance. That was about a half a block away.

I thought he was deranged. I asked him if he was a nurse, or an EMT. He told us that he was an EMT in his chapter back home. I thought for a second, and told him firmly, " Go now! Get a real EMT with a pressure cuff. We need a chair for this lady!". He didn't budge, so I decided not to wait for him to hear what I said. I left the nurse with the woman and ran like hell to get a chair. I burst inside the building,grabbed a chair and a cop to carry it, explaining to him what was going on as we rushed back. As we got there, we could see that it was just in time. The woman was able to sit down, barely, just as a real EMT team arrived to assess her.

I was about to continue on to the car and my errand, when the crowd began to surge forward again. It was fast turning into a mob. I was worried, and a little scared. One of the black policemen, began to wade into the crowd with a bullhorn, screaming: "Back...!!! Get Back now!!!" over and over again. No one was moving. Instead, people were continuing to push forward, and someone was going to get crushed. It looked horrible. The atmosphere was building in an ominous way. I was sure the worst was about to happen.

I don't know why I did it, but I looked at the car I was supposed to leave in. I hesitated for a second, and then like some lunatic from a bad movie, ran over to where the officer was shrieking, and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, I held out my hand, looked him in the eyes, and said, "Give me the bullhorn". He raised his eyebrows, looked at me like I was crazy, and hesitated. He was the smart one. I told him again, this time more firmly, "GIVE ME THE BULlHORN!" I must have reminded him of his mom or something, because, for some bizarre reason, he turned back slowly, and handed me the bullhorn. Probably should have shot me instead. It was that crazy.

So there I was with the bullhorn in hand. What was I thinking? A huge mob of angry southern Louisiana black folks, and one little tiny white female idiot with a bullhorn. I could feel them hesitate. I figured if nothing else, they would stop and laugh themselves to death. That is, if they decided not to kill me.

I lifted the bullhorn to my mouth, took a deep breath and yelled, slowly, but very pleasantly, or so I thought: " Hi! I am Lisa. I am from California. I am with the Red Cross. Thank you so much for being so patient. I am so sorry that you are having to wait here like this in the hot sun. Believe me. If there was any other way to do this, we would." I stopped, and realized that they had stopped moving, In fact, the mob had suddenly as one, gone silent.

As I lowered the bullhorn, I saw hundreds of eyes turning slowly towards me staring. Chins slowly tucked in, eyebrows slowly raised, with what I came later to realize, was utter and complete disbelief. They probably thought that I had either recently escaped from somewhere, or that I may have just stepped off of the mother ship.

Oddly, they were waiting for me to continue. Must have been the seeing-the-train-wreck type of curiosity on their part. You know, something you just have to watch to belive it for yourself?

I took a deep breath raised the bullhorn again, and tried to sound commanding. I said with a very serious voice, " We have a problem! Please! Everyone in line needs to stop pushing and shoving. There are grandmas and babies getting crushed. You wouldn't want your grandma or your baby crushed would you? Now at the count of three, I want everyone to take 5 steps back. ONE .....TWO.....THREE.....FOUR.........FIVE....."

To my shock and relief, they started to move. I started to walk quickly, speaking the same words to the next section of the line and so on and so on. I was gone with that bullhorn, straight into hell. I didn't even notice. By the time I had finished, I was at the back of the mile and one half line, all alone. Ruh Roh. Now what?

As I slowly made my way back, I thanked everyone again, and answered questions. Turned out that the "rioting violent black mob", were just a bunch of tired people, sick of being treated like dirt. I felt ashamed of my first impressions.

When I got back to find the cop, he was standing there laughing. He told me that he had never seen anyone faster of two feet. He now calls me, "Speedy" when he sees me. When he asked how the heck I got the crowd to do what I asked them to do, when he had no luck, I handed him back the bull horn and said, "I tried being polite".

I finally got to the car and to Kinkos. Away from the site, life was normal. People went about their business, as though nothing was happening a mile down the road. It was surreal.

"Simon" had also asked me to stop by HQ again, on my way back to the site. We still had no water, no food, no supplies, and the port a potties that we did have were overflowing with waste, although the hotel staff was calling over and over again to try and rectify that problem.

At headquarters, I again approached my immediate supervisor, "Carrie". Otherwise known as "Supersoccermom", except that it was doubtful that she had ever stood still long enough become a parent. After presenting the problems to her, she gave me her best rictus grin, and said how very busy that she was, and could I go talk to "Ronnie", as this was really "Ronnie's" department. Does this sound like deja vu all over again?

Off I went to chat with "Ronnie". "Ronnie", is another escapee from the ever so unpleasant town of Frumpville, located on the not so distant planet Whale Ass. Almost the entire Client Services staff is populated by Whaleassians. As I said before, "Ronnie", is the originator of the "Chicken Little school of management", as she unerringly approaches a problem as though her head is about to explode at any minute. Her voice rachets up in octaves exponentially, as she continues to speak for any amount of time on a subject that she doesn't understand. This time was no different. I went over to her, sat down, and began to explain why I was there, repeating like a rosary, the litany of missing support items

She got excited about it, but it was not what you would think. "Ronnie" was excited because I was not my supervisor. So, ever resourceful, I called my supervisor, but as before, she refused to speak to him. Instead, telling me again that there was plenty of food and water, telling me again that I was misinformed, suggesting that I go to the Health services department....again......I resisted smacking her upside her head. It wasn't easy.

If her actions weren't putting thousands of people in danger, I would have thought her behavior just about fit for a comedy sketch. Denying hurricane victims food, water, safety, toilet facilities and medical supplies, because the request didn't follow strict protocol. Woof and double woof. At the least, one would have thought that she might call my immediate supervisor, if only to chew him out for sending me over there so frequently. No such luck.

I found the food guy from yesterday, and was able to confirm the shipment I had put in yesterday, would arrive later today. Despite the Feeding version of a Whaleassian that I had run into on the previous day, we were good to go. Took long enough. I knew that the first order would get there, but the site would be open for many days after. What stuck in my mind was.....How the hell would I get more?

During all of this, I realized that clients were standing in miserable lines for up to nine hours. Then when they got to the head of the line, or even when they sat down at a table inside to be processed, they were told that they didn't have the right identification, or didn't live in the right area, and were turned away. I couldn't figure out what the heck was up with that, so I took out my computer on a break, and started to write.

I wrote out a protocol for clients containing what the Red Cross required for proper identification, so that the clients could easily be processed, and get their money. I wrote that they needed proper ID, and what the RC considered proper ID. The RC requirements were standard. Not unreasonable in any way, however, the clients weren't being passed out the secret decoder rings in line that they absolutely had to have. I intended this protocol, to be given out as a flier. Seemed sensible to me.

The protocol was easy to write. I did it in about a half an hour. What happened next is probably typical of any large company. I took it to "Carrie", supervisor #1. She sent me to "Ronnie", supervisor #2. "Ronnie" didn't want anything to do with it or me. As usual, she couldn't have understood what I was saying with a translator stapled to her head, so she told me to take it to Public Affairs". On the way to Public Affairs, I am stopped by "The VIper", who asks me, " what did I think I was doing, and who was I anyway, and where was I going??" Sigh.

The RC Client Services department needs an overhaul in the worst way. "Ronnie", "Delilah" and The Viper ought to be put out to pasture, replaced by someone from this century. Probably won't happen in my lifetime.

From my limited observation, There seems to be throughout some of the RC staff, an inexplicably blind devotion to the past. I suppose, that is because, in the past, the old ways have worked fairly well. Although new protocols were put into place a year ago, and tested thoroughly, they have unfortunately, proved to be insufficient in some important areas. Especially, in this particular situation.

As a result, some of the old guard wants to return to the old ways. The RC administration has refused to return to the old ways. Rightfully so. The sheer number of people affected are too high for the old way to work. Besides, the old ways were insufficient with far fewer numbers of clients involved. It is almost as simple as that. They just need to find more efficient new ways to make it work again.

It is my feeling, that it is this confusion over how to efficiently process these numbers of people, that is hamstringing the entire organization, and contributing to the perception by the press and public of total ineptitude, which isn't at all true. In fact, overall, despite my frustration with with one department in one disaster situation, the Red Cross is a great organization in so many ways. Don't let my experience with this so far single, miserable department make you think otherwise. Besides, I am just one very small cog in a great big machine. I don't know all of the facts, I just know my personal experience.

Just a few numbers: even with the mess we had on the first day at Bellemont, we managed to serve 6,600+ clients. We gave away $2,000,0000+ . Not chicken feed, (gotta get out of this "chicken" theme). So far the Red Cross has given shelter, food, money and support to over 500,000 people throughout the area, and it keeps on giving. 500,000 people. Think about it...That's a lot of people by anyone's standards.

The volunteers work without pay, and often without a break if they so choose. Although the upper level staff do live in hotels, we volunteers live in shelters, deal with either limited shower facilities, or Haz-Mat showers, (a hose inside of a tent), and sleep on cots, just like the clients. RC volunteers come from all over this country and many others, to serve and provide. They are overall, a pretty selfless bunch.

Anyway, I did finally get to Public Affairs, and to my great and unending relief, unlike Client Services, it is run smoothly and intelligently by devoted, competent volunteer staff. Who knew? I showed them the flier, they thought it was a great idea. I spent time writing it up with the help of one of their people. She helped me smooth it out, and put it into RC format. Then it was to be sent to the next and last level up. Uh oh.

"Uh oh" didn't happen. In fact, it went to The Red Hornet herself, who not only approved it, but decided to make it into 20"x32" posters, to be posted in some of the service centers. Hey! I actually accomplished something. No one was more surprised than me. First printing was a tentative 18 posters, just to try it out. It was a start.

I immediately started on flier # 2, support for flier #1. This flier would inform the client exactly where they could obtain the identifications that were required to be approved by the RC to receive funds. My reasoning was, that merely telling this particular clientel what was needed was shortsighted, and would contribute to the anger and confusion that they were experiencing. They didn't have access to the internet, a computer, and in some cases, even a phone to research where to go. I would try to finish that tomorrow. Today, I had to get back to the Bellemont.

Returned to the site, and worked as a go between for the rest of the day. They were calling me "the fire hose", as it was my job to try to put out the many small conflagrations that arose. Pretty unflattering moniker if you ask me, but then they weren't asking. The site was enormous, and as I trotted back and forth, I finally got in all of the cardio, that my trainer Kyle had been begging me to do back home. Not quite the same as doing it on a treadmill though.

Today was still awful, but we were slowly getting the hang of it. At one point, when things slowed down slightly, I decided on my own to walk the line. Now this may not have been the most intelligent thing to do, considering that one client had been beaten and robbed in this same line the day before, but that was yesterday. Today, we had a small National Guard presence with M-16's, and they already had a preview of me as the lunatic with the bullhorn. Things were still tense, but not as bad.

I started at the front. The line was about 5 people abreast, it ran the length of the building under a covered brick and stucco walkway. The people in the line were contained for much of the way, by built in metal railings, with openings every 100 feet. This separated the line from the small strip of lawn, the parking lot and the National Guard. I decided to walk through the middle of it, to speak directly to the clients, instead of walking on the outside of it. Outside would have meant that I would have been separated by a metal railing from the people I wanted to talk to. I felt it was too detached to be effective.

As I started through, I realized that I was almost without exception, the only white face in the throng. An odd feeling for a little white woman from Topanga Canyon. That's near Malibu, California, for those of you who are unfamiliar with my area. In fact, Topanga is a heck of a lot whiter than even Malibu.

In any case, there I was, one albino salmon swimming upstream. I wove my way through the people, touching their arms gently. Smiling and speaking softly. I would ask how they were, and if I could answer any questions for them. There were a lot fewer questions than I would have thought. Mostly they told me that they were grateful that I was there, and that I cared enough to ask.

My purpose in doing this was two fold. I wished to assess for myself, what the feelings were among the clients, and who the clients were. Secondly, I wanted to make sure that any ill, infirm or elderly clients were pulled out and attended to before they were further affected by the heat and the wait on their feet.

As I walked an talked, I met a lot of really nice people. I met some that because of my background, I would normally have some pretty strong preconceptions about. I thought of them as the "gold teeth crowd". They consisted of generally thuggish looking young black men, with clown sized pants worn around their knees, sporting some kind of nylon team shirt two sizes too big for them, a do-rag on their head, and a set of choppers in 14k. Rereading that, I really can't figure why I would find anyone of that description a threat. It defies logic.

Walking through, I forced myself into close proximity to these guys. I would come close, gently touch their arms, and look up into their eyes as I spoke, just as I did the grandmas and moms that I considered, "safe". At first touch, most looked down at me with a mixture of contempt, disdain and a little surprise. After a few seconds of talking though, we both relaxed. Most all of them were kind and polite. Even the guy that told me that he was, "as drunk as hell", and then laughed. I guess they thought I was some crazy white mom, who wasn't from around here, and didn't know any better. They were right.

I have to keep on reminding myself that I am in the deep south, that prejudice here is rampant. That unspoken segregation is the norm, and that Dixie still lives. One volunteer mentioned that Baton Rouge was the home of the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. Although I have yet to find out if that is true, I have had it confirmed that there is a very large Klan presence in this area of the country. You know, those guys that dress up on weekends in their mommy's sheets? Who choose to publicly wear large dunce caps on their heads, warning all and sundry who and what they really are. In case you were having to think about that for any time at all, the descriptive word I was looking to elicit from you was, "idiots". I am half Jewish. the Klan is not my favorite version of trick or treat.

"Wizard". Every time I hear that word with this particular reference, I think of the really dopey old cartoon with Tooter the Turtle. Tooter always wound up botching the jobs he attempted. Finding himself in trouble. He would cry out, "Help, Mr. Wizard!", In return, Mr. Wizard would invoke the magic words: "Drizzle, Drazzle, Druzzle, Drome, time for this one to come home!" As far as the Klan goes, if you ask me, time for all of them to go home.

So I walked and chatted. It calmed the waiting mass of evacuees. It calmed me down too. I was able to pull out a very old woman with her family. She was having some kind of heart problem. I also snagged another family with a baby that needed mechanically assisted breathing, and lead them back to the center, into the air conditioned medical room.

While I was gone at HQ this morning, EMTs, a better medical setup, with sufficient nurses and wheelchairs arrived at the Bellemont. Someone had listened. Still no port-a-potties though. One of the really great EMTs asked If I could find something to do with 2 nurses who were getting in the way of the EMTs, and one real life medical assistant who fancied herself a nurse?

I told the assistant, to go and help regulate the disabled door at the back, and took the two nurses aside. I told them what I had been doing, walking the line, looking for anyone who might be ill. I asked them to put away their stethoscopes, and just be people, using their nursing skills to assess, their people skills to calm and sooth. I told them if they found anyone that was having a medical problem, to bring them straight back to the medical room, where they would be taken care of from there.

The rest of the day was uneventful. True, we did have two women unfortunately placed in charge of admitting clients. These two possesed a decided racial undertone to them. I heard both of them repeatedly state that, "these people were getting free money". The implication clearly being that "these people" , were not our people, and by implication, were a bunch of undeserving swindlers. I tried to speak to them both, as I was a supervisor. I did atttempt to dissuade them from this attitude, but they were convinced that the line was full of crooks and sharpies, where I only saw a few neer-do-wells, and a lot of desperate families. I spoke to my site manager several times about both women, but he did not share my concern. I heard complaints about them from both volunteers and clients throughout the day.

Note to the National Guard. Love you guys, but please, the next time you send a group down to the deep deep south, don't let them all be from Utah. Spoke to one young Guardsman, while we took a break in the "lunch room", who voiced the opinion, that he was there to, "get the bad guys". I told him that they were here to promote peaceful behavior, and that there were very few bad guys. He, thinking I just didn't get it, elaborated, "you know, them black boys".

Resisting the urge to bang my head on the table, I smiled at him sweetly, and said, I am sure you don't mean what you just said, as you don't really know any of the people in line until they do something, and they might not be black. He assured me that he meant what he said, and that I just didn't get it about these coloreds. I smiled in an even more motherly way, and told him that if he chose to voice that opinion out loud again, I would be forced to inform my supervisor and his superior officer, and that they would surely send him home. Some small talk ensued, but I didn't hear anymore about the subject out of his mouth. You have my permission to scream out loud at any time.

So that was my day. I t was long, it was tiring, it was frustrating and rewarding. Just like any other day in any other place, but different. I would go out to dinner later, with a lunatic supervisor in my department who was more interesting than the other lunatic supervisors...no...he is not mentioned in any of my diatribes...yet...Then home to my shelter, picking my way in the dark through the hundred or so cots in the room, to crawl into my sleeping bag on my cot, 1 foot away from the next cot with someone asleep in it. I would mess with my computer and then crash until the lights flip on again at six am tomorrow.

Oh, we finally got a pallet of water, and 24 cases of snacks. It was a start.


Best,

Lisa