#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