Lisa vs Katrina

#25 My Last Day

2006-03-29T23:51:00.000-08:00

Today was my last day. A day of paperwork and a lot of running around. I had to turn in my phone, but that would be the last thing to do, In the meantime, I would redirect the checkout of my ARC computer so that Boss could continue to use it, and proceed with a lot of other checkouts. I finished the report off, made copies and handed it in. At lunch, I went to the mall, bought cds and sleeves, then returned. In between checking out of departments and finishing my final paperwork, I somehow managed to burn cd copies of all of the pictures that I had taken while I was in Louisiana. One for each person in the department, along with a sheet of paper containing everyone's name address phone # and birthday.

"Tandeleo" asked if I was on speed or something. Coming from the original wild woman, I had to laugh. One by one, I said goodbye to everyone. Went back to CLS and said my goodbyes there, avoiding the bad cookies who even under threat, wouldn't touch me with someone else's ten foot pole. In between I finished more paperwork.

I believe I have stated it before, but the ARC fells entire forests to fulfill its paperwork requirements. It is one of the most archaic processes that I have ever gone through, but then I am both self employed and the boss. I have never been subjected to arcane processes and rituals in my real life. Of course I thought of twenty different ways to streamline this silly inefficient process and fifty different ways that the Red Cross would try to thwart me or anyone else who tried to change their dumb-ass process so that it was logical, or at least up to date. Thinking about it made me laugh and it pissed me off.

After, lunch. Which once again was made from a selection of cheetos, fig newtons and other donated trash food ever available in the canteen. We had one variety of fruit per day, so I pretty much lived on that before dinner as I didn't take lunch breaks except once when I went to a local restaurant called "Betty's Sweet Potato". The usual fruit provided by the ARC canteen was apples. One time, eating all of those apples made me think of Eve. Then it made me think of snakes....lol...then I started to think that maybe I was working for some of them.

Once the canteen tried to pass off that crappy canned water on the volunteers. What a laugh. the whole vat of those nasty white Anhauser Busch cans just sat there floating in the ice all day. Unsuspecting newbies would grab one, open it and take a swig. The resulting grimacing and spitting were hilarious. Into the trash the full cans went. We could have at least used that water to wash something, and I guess while we were at it, we should have recycled the cans....sigh.

Speaking of "what were they thinking", I finally got around to the mental health part of my check out. I waited with others outside of the cubicles where the mental health workers were giving their e-valls,(evaluations). FInally my name was called. I turned and was greeted by a truly strange and singular person. My....uh.... "mental health evaluator". Stunned though I was, she did manage to lead me into one of the sealed off cubicles that were reserved for the purpose of questioning the departing volunteers. I do not for the life of me remember the actual name of the "mental health professional" that checked me out that day. She and her appearance wiped the possibility of any other memory clean out of my head.

I will call her "Rhonda", just for clarity's sake. "Rhonda at 5'4" was average. The mousey brown hair which she wore with a headband to tuck it back was average too, except that it was dirty. The hair that is. Oh..the headband too. Her smock was dirty, as was her dress, except that it wasn't really a dress, it was a slip. Not a slip-dress, a slip. A dirty somewhat transparent slip. It was purple. Over that, "Rhonda" wore her red cross smock. That was really dirty. She sported torn stockings and with those wore ruby slippers. Yeah, you read that right. ruby slippers. The kind with the cheap glue-on spangles, only the shoes had seen better days and the spangles were falling off in several places.

"Rhonda" wore glasses. The cat-eye kind from the fifties. As if that picture was not enough, tucked into the pocket of her dirty ARC smock was a small stuffed tiger. The tiger had an official ARC badge with an official ARC number, and an official ARC photo on it...... of the tiger. "Rhonda asked me if I would like a hug? I declined. She then took the tiger out of her pocket pushed it towards me and asked if I would like to give the tiger a hug. I wondered if this was a test?

Ok, we had now established that the ARC "mental health professional" was officially or otherwise insane. What to do? Who was evaluating whom? You think I am kidding, but put yourself in my place. This fruit loop wanted me to hug her stuffed toy tiger that she had given a name and procured an official ARC ID badge for. If I didn't hug the tiger was I going to be evaluated as mentally deficient? If I did hug the tiger was I going to be evaluated as mentally deficient? We had already established that at least in some circles, working for the Red Cross might have established me as mentally deficient, but did I really want to confirm that?

In the end I did not hug the tiger, but I did think about it. Rhonda continued her evaluation, leaning towards me like Michelle Pfeiffer (yeah yeah...so you know how to spell it...who cares?), in that horror movie with Harrison Ford, intoning in a very low voice, asking if I had, " been disssturbed by anyyything I had sssseeeeen?" Well.....there was her, and Slidell, and the thunderingly inefficient and abusive way that the ARC was being run, but then I couldn't exactly say that now could I? I hesitated, but replied, "not really". She pressed, hissingly, "but ssssurely, there were ssssome thingsss that upssset yoooou?" Again, she was upsetting me now, but I sucked it up and again replied, "no, nothing that I can think of".

She leaned back suddenly, cocking her head like a dog. Tucking in her chin and raising her eyebrows she then asked, " and why do you think that isssss?" Turning her head even more sideways and cocking it to the other side as she ended the sentence. Think the nurse in "Young Frankenstein". What went through my head was, Wellllll...the system and resulting situation that the government and the ARC has created for volunteers and evacuees was blatently out of control, and had passed dangerous, about a month ago, but that somehow this fiasco was all being treated as: 1. normal, 2. par for the course, or 3.Huh? Is something wrong? Looks ok to me........ So where do I start? Or do I start? I will start, but not with her. I tell her that my nonplus is probably because I live in Los Angeles. Interestingly, that seemed to explain it to her.

Somehow I made it through what was surely the stupidest interview done by the looniest toon I have encountered in recent memory. As I left, she looked at me, smiled and said,"here, let Sam,(or whatever she called the damn thing), hug you. She then proceeded to assault me with her tagged stuffed tiger. I assume she put every volunteer mustering out through the same ordeal. Where the hell do the ARC find these people??? Did anyone finally turn on her and shove the damn Tiger head first into the trash? Or elsewhere? Was she ever caught and returned to the ward that she had apparently escaped from? I will never know.

Finally went over to transfer my phone, and saw boxes of discarded phones. Not just one or two, but close to 100 or so. These were phones that were going to be thrown out as they were useless. Some were broken, but most had answering messages that had their official codes changed by the user against policy, which rendered them useless to some extent to the next volunteer as with an unknown code, messages on those phones could not be retrieved. You would have thought that after all of those weeks of dummies changing the codes, some other dummy would have figured out to check the dang code on each phone before the last user disappeared. You would have thought.

Other than that, I was ordered to go to an ATM to take out $150 to pay for all of the extras that I was forced to purchase for my volunteer time. We were told to bring the most unbelievably stupid things, most of which I never used. Hey...they were stupid. Like high rubber boots when it hadn't been wet or even rained for weeks. Paper, office supplies and pens. Baton Rouge had enough office supplies to open its own Office Depot for crying out loud. Many of the stupid required purchases just sat in my suitcase for the duration, taking up space and weight. One chapter actually had their volunteers lug gallons of water with them. Other chapters had equally moronic requirements. There was no organization, continuity or consistency. Heck, there was no accurate information on the situation in Louisiana for that matter. It was an Emperor has new clothes situation through and through.

Although I believe my chapter and others did their best with the pointless directions they were given by the National office, at no time during my deployment was I even near anything larger than my own suitcase that needed lifting. The initial requirement at my chapter was that I had to be able to repeatedly lift 50 to 100 pounds,remember? Where did these guys get their information from? What a waste of everyone's time, what a waste of donated money. If it wasn't such a tragedy all around, you would have laughed out loud at the sheer foolishness.

Speaking of money, I had loads left on my ARC issued credit card when I went to check out. I had paid for many of my meals myself as a further contribution. The volunteers at the checkout desk were surprised, especially because of the number of days that I had been there. I wondered if somehow the Rockefellers had volunteered for the ARC, and were somewhere running up their ARC cards eating quail on toast points at the RC's expense or something. Perhaps some did, but I did not have that many expenses. I turned in my card there as the financial volunteer requested. He did give me some cash to get home from the airport with and catch a cab, so that was a nice touch.

So that was it, I was out! Not so fast....Before the day was over, Big Daddy would wring out of me every drop of volunteerism, do-gooding, fixingit, filling in, writing and organizing that he could possibly stuff in or drag out during my sorry self in my remaining hours. He even got Boss in on the act. There was still loads of work to do. They were going to miss me. Hell, I was going to miss them.

Apparently, the joint was breaking up. Some were staying in Baton Rouge, another contingent was being sent to New Orleans. There were different official disaster #'s to learn and official papers to go through. The ARC hadn't screwed up Baton Rouge nearly enough, they were now on to screw up New Orleans. I was asked if I would like to stay on and head a department in New Orleans. I actually would have if I had the time, but I had a home and a child to go back to, companies of my own to run and things of my own to fix. Maybe later.

Daddy and Boss had written my evaluation. They had recommended me for a management position. They had written glowingly of me, singing my praises in writing. It must have been the stress of the situation...lol. I in turn, told only the truth and said what great guys they were to work with. Silly Geese.

We ended the day with Daddy, Boss and I decided to go to dinner one last time. I don't remember everything, but I think that "Jaqui" may have tagged along. I do remember that it took forever to get to the place, and the dinner was in a nice restaurant. We ordered steak and such and each had one glass of wine to toast with. Which we paid for ourselves of course, as the ARC rightfully so, does not pay for alcohol, drugs or firearms. Probably for the best. We all hugged good night.

The restaurant had been at the end of the Baton Rouge earth, so it took me a good long while to get back to my shelter. As I entered, it was quiet. "Bob" had transferred so no snoring, and besides, there was almost no one left. I stayed up a while writing, and went to sleep after the alien barreled through the pipes one last time.I would leave tomorrow.

#24 Slidell...Part II

2006-03-26T21:47:00.000-08:00

Today we all drive back to Slidell to do the walk through inspection. SInce I have been there, I go with "Mo".We take along "Anna", my only good recruit. Boss goes with cleaning boy and the environmental b-word. Driving down, we talk and talk and talk. We hear everyones past and present. We are girls yakking. We get there in no time flat. Same turn off, same houses with blue tarps,but this time we know where we are going, and there is no invented emergency.

We drive up and are greeted by the now familiar staff. There is still no water. Boss, the Boy and the b-word all go on an official tour of the joint with the staff Brass. "Mo", "Anna" and I peel off on our own, snapping pictures, smiling and talking under our breath. It is worse than we thought. Nothing in this shelter is regulation. Nothing about this shelter is safe. The food is all placed directly on the floor in the middle of the sleeping area. which is the only area. The cots abut the open food containers which are placed around randomly.

Most containers are open. Perishables, diapers, canned goods, paper goods, fruit, are all stacked on top of each other open and closed, with no regard to inventory or contamination possibilities. The cots are placed within inches of each other and inches of the food. We interview the volunteers and are told that the clients have been eating on their cots until today. They have to eat on their cots as there are no chairs or tables for them. There is also no refrigeration outside of one Coca Cola point of sale cooler that has no temperature gauge and that we can tell without one is way too warm to prevent bacteria from forming.

Leading this charge is "Anna", who back home is the manager of a popular restaurant. She is horrified at the conditions. "Anna" tells us that if any of these violations had happened at her restaurant, someone would have been arrested. This was just the tip of the iceberg. We realize that there are lots of elderly and diabetics at this shelter and the staff tells us that they have nothing for them to eat other than crackers. Crackers.... Many of these folks are on oxygen and bed ridden. I know we are all doing the best we can, but ai yi yi!

Someone else approaches us and tells us that the shelter Nurse wishes to speak to us privately. Nurse Nancy tells us that the incidents of illness are rising rapidly, that the bio hazards are stored right behind the only freezer in the shelter, and the meds in the fridge are surrounded by food and water. All violations. She also tells us that because of the storage problems, the clients have been helping themselves to food at night causing even more contamination and escalating the cases of diarreah that was increasing daily. Compounding that is the lack of water and facilities that threaten to possibly go on for days.

Through all of this, I am snapping pictures and the girls are taking copious notes. We get going finally, after I explained to Boss and the others the importance of Vienna Sausages being ordered for this shelter post haste. I took a lot of ribbing for it, but that is what was important to these clients, so nurtz to the nay sayers. Boss finally got that I was dead serious and promised to hand deliver that weenie greenie, (invoice), himself when we got back.

Before we drove back, the three of us decided to tour the area. "Mo" had been here before, so she pointed the car at the worst of it. Yesterday was a cake walk compared to this. More and more houses, more and more destroyed. Empty lots with just boards sticking up from the ground where houses used to be. Across the street fields and fields of what looked like large toothpicks and what used to be bits and pieces of homes. Every square inch was covered with the woody sticks. In one case we saw the front of a beautiful house near the water with a lovely palm tree still standing untouched, only to realize as we passed that only the front half of the house was intact. The entire back section was sheared off. Like when a kid takes a swipe of icing from a cake with his finger.

The girls and I continued into the woods.We saw that every building was collapsed, flattened or destroyed. In some places only the roof remained of what looked like a house of cards when it collapses. At other houses, thirty foot trees had been uprooted and lay on the roofs, or what was left of them. The trees and houses looked like battered old toys that kids had finished playing with and forgot to put away. It took our breath away. Deciding to drive farther in, we pass something that looks like piles of kindling. It was a house. The only thing left standing to let us know that, is a bright blue curved slide. One that used to be on the edge of a swimming pool. The house is gone, the pool is unvisible. Filled and covered with pick-up-stix. Just the blue pool slide remaining. It was weird.

Because we are near the water, boats are everywhere. Everywhere but in the water that is. Unless of course they are underwater, but then all we see is an occasional mast sticking up a foot or two to let us know what's down there. We see boats on the grass, in the trees, in houses, on houses. We see boats upside down, ripped in half. We see one boat way off in the trees, nose pointing straight down trapped in branches twenty feet up. That boat was at least fifteen feet long. We see boats on cars, cars on boats, boats on boats. The remains of a former seagoing people are everywhere. As we pass one woody area, we see trees festooned with crab pot and their red floats. It looks like a forest full of funky christmas trees decorated for the holidays. It makes us crack up. It almost makes us cry.

A we approach a large hangar-like building, on one side is a jeep upright but ripped apart, its tires shredded. We see that the corrugated sides of this building have been peeled back like a sardine can. Everything in it and around this building is decimated. Where one side has ripped off we can see eight perfect, retro, red cushioned bar stools......still bolted to the floor, standing neatly in a row in the middle of the carnage. Nearby is a Coke machine tossed like a dog toy. It must have been a restaurant or a bar. The image is stunning. We take pictures and press further on.

Turning into a road by the sea, is a long grey line of brush smoldering along the length of the road. It gives off a ghostly smoke floating ahead of us. The telephone poles all tilting precariously towards the road at an almost toppling angle. This reminds us of all of the pictures we have seen in magazines and in the movies of WWII. The clasic burning aftermath of war. What used to be houses are only empty concrete pads where houses used to stand. There is no kindling, there is no debris here. Just what could cling to the earth in the eye of the apocalypse. It is as though the earth has been scrubbed clean of human imprint. Hurricane whipped and scoured. One house alone, heavily damaged stands among tens of the missing. It is raised, still on its pilings, painted pepto bismol pink. We wonder why it survived when there is virtually nothing that remains of any other house for at least a mile?

Up the way, we see a big rig. It is torn in half. The cab is upside down on one side of the road. The battered thrty foot trailer is wrenched and twisted, lying across the street some three hundred feet away, inside of where another house used to be. Small trees somehow remain. That is amazing. Some of the trees have some sheets of clunky black stuff wrapped around them. We realize that it is layers of asphalt that have peeled off of the road like so much scotch tape, flown away and curling around anything left standing. Other layers of what used to be the road have been lifted and carried, laid in sections like so many mixed puzzle pieces on what used to be lawns.

There was little of what used to be road left. The wind had somehow torn it out and taken it somewhere else. We decided to stop. The girlz slowly opened the doors of the car, and one by one we unfolded ourselves to stand and look. We had become somewhat numbed to the destruction and total devastation in the past weeks, but this landscape truly looked as if bombs had been dropped and detonated, again and again. There are no words to express our hearts twisting as we looked at this mess. It takes a second, but we realize that here on this little road to what is now nowhere, there seems to be a cloak of complete and total silence surrrounding and muffling us and everything around us. There is an undescribable closeness to the air. We remark on it. The auditory sense is as if we were in some way miles underground, buffered by the earth and yet still somehow in the sun. There was not a sound to be heard. Nothing. No winds, no rustling of leaves. Our words once spoken somehow hung dead in the air and then clattered around us. It was as though the world had ended, and only we three had been left as witnesess.

When the shock wore off, we walked forward a bit, and noticed the strangest thing. Butterflies. Butterflies were everywhere. Flying, landing, opening and closing. They floated all around us. It was though every coccoon on earth had been dropped in Slidell Louisiana, and opened all at once. When the surprise of the butterflies began to subside, we noticed that there were actully a few small birds flying around among the insects, zipping about like so many little arrows. Although their sharp little songs were barely cutting through the dead air. It was a hopeful sign.

In thinking later about the loss that the people of Louisiana experienced and are still experiencing , one of the single strongest images that I will carry forever with me, was that barren landscape, the quiet, the butterflies, and the bird song.

"Anna", "Mo" and I got back into the car and made it back to the highway. On the way back, we saw a hand letterd sign posted to a tree on a lot where there used to be a home. It said" take a Break", "We will return","Not for sale". These people are a tough breed.

We stopped in a small town on the way at a sandwich shack that posted a sign reading" Shrimp lover parking only. All others will be shelled". We each ordered shrimp po boys. We didn't talk about what we'd seen. For the rest of the return trip. Instead, with me on the laptop, the three of us collaborating wrote up our entire report and the recommendation that this Slidell shelter be closed. By the time we got back to headquarters, the pictures had been uploaded and attached. All that remained was for us to print it out and sign it. That took about ten minutes.

After work we were whacked. I was grabbed by a bunch of people from the department, and went to dinner at some cheesy chain crab shack. We made jokes,insulted each other and decompressed. I didn't talk about the day, but it was on my mind. It still is. I was sorry that I hadn't thought to take a picture of the butterflies. I was sorry that it all happened in the first place. What was next?

#23 Slidell Part I

2006-03-24T23:03:00.000-08:00

Oh I am tired!!! What the hell!!??? Wasn't this supposed to be easy!!??? Oh yeah....no...it specifically was not supposed to be easy. I forgot. Sorry about that. Get into work and start in on the paperwork lots of paperwork. Someone has thrown us a barbeque outside, I of course miss the Que, and end up with the dregs of chicken bits. So what else is new?

Suddenly there is an emergency. So what else is new again? Everything around this place is an emergency, unless it is a real emergency. A real emergency seems to be a signal to the paid staff and long timers to go to lunch, or get their nails done, or just go out and invent something else, that isn't actually an emergency. This was again, not a real emergency. Well not exactly.

Apparently, CBS News was planning to shoot a segment in the heavily damaged town of Slidell at one of our shelters. Unfortunately, that shelter didn't have enough blankets for the clients who were already sleeping on miserable cots in crowded stupid conditions. Bad press = emergency. Hmmmm.....not having enough blankets for the clients is an emergency, but not because CBS News is going down there to shoot a segment. Not having enough blankets for the clients is an emergency because the clients are cold without blankets.

This may be a warm state, but in these cavernous concrete bunkers that we have turned into shelters, it is as cold as a witch's nursing part when the air conditioning is on.....and it has to be on. It is beyond uncomfortable not to have a blanket to sleep under in those conditions, but this was an ACR emergency because the ARC would look bad to America when devastated evacuees living in shelters being filmed for CBS News didn't look perky and happy because they were cold....because they didn't have enough blankets, that the ARC hadn't supplied them with to begin with. Get it? Sigh.....One wonders how long these clients went without blankets before CBS decided to take a look. Interesting definition and timing of an emergency.

...And while I am ranting, why the hell isn't the Federal Government supplying the dang blankets and shelters and help in the first place??? The Red Cross is supposed to be a stop-gap aid, not completely take the place of our totally useless government in an emergency. That was never a part of the ARC job description! The Feds don't show up to save the locals from the storm, then they pointed the finger at anyone or thing in sight other than themselves as the culprit. To add insult to injury, these jokes for human beings continue to check out the pigeons flying by and twiddle their thumbs while people are still lost, homeless, peniless, injured, destroyed and without blankets!!!............................................... End of lecture # 361.

Anyway, this BS all came from the top brass on down to we the underlings. "Banana Man", who I have previously refered to as, "The Old Man", I have since decided deserves no respect or distinction, this rude, pitiless, mis-begotten "top rat" of the whole Baton Rouge mess apparently ordered this mission his own self. From what I have seen, its about the only thing he has done since I have been here. He is a useless arrogant appendage that should have been amputated eons ago. What is the ARC thinking??? Apparently the Hornet thought it was a good idea too. Now what is she thinking? Even after everything between us, I truly thought better of her.

In any case, I was suddenly assigned to roar down to Slidell, beat CBS, and make it look like: Hey.....? Blankets???? Why of course we have blankets! That would be bordering on criminal not to supply our freezing clients with blankets! My new job: Liar to the stars...I mean the press....I mean America. I am not amused. I am told I will be the hero shoudl I beat the media there. I think my cape should be tucked between my legs if this is what constitutes heroism.

So ok, blankets. Where the heck am I gonna get blankets? Aha! The famed River Walk shelter is shutting down. I will go nab blankets at River Walk. Plan is in place. I have the keys to Moosie, and am ready to roll. Thing is, I can't go alone. I am fine going alone. I want to go alone. Boss thinks that I am safer alone than having to babysit any of our staff who would go with me. However "rules" dictate that female staff don't go alone to dangerous areas. Since the hurricane, Slidell is considered a dangerous area. For some time, female staff were not allowed at all in some areas of the state due to the dangers. Just male volunteers accompanied by the Army. It was that bad. Slidell has been devestated. Flattened. It ain't good. I ain't going alone. Besides which, Big Daddy has forbidden it.

About an hour ago, some guy named "Bobby" from California came around looking to transfer to our department. Said he would do anything. This might be that. My alternative is "Jaqui" She that might be a he. the "Jaqster" is oh so eager to go with me. Although, truly she is not that bad in short spurts, I think that this particular trip might be two hours of torture by "Jaqui", so I go looking for "Bobby". "Bobby" is a Mexican guy from my neck of the woods. Thank god....someone I might be able to relate to. In fact, our department is populated by several sunny Californians, so "Bobby" might fit right in. Mid sized and squat, "Bobby" looks like one of those Toltec gods off of an urn. I know nothing about him at all other than that. It seems like a great idea. Its interesting that in this situation, we are al reverting to the fifties descriptively. I am the Jew, "Bobby" is the Mexican guy, then there is the Puerto Rican Woman and the Italian. It goes on and on....Sigh......

We tell "Jaq" that she ain't along for the ride, and I go fetch "Bobby". Yeah man, he is so up for it, so off we go. He drives, I navigate. We get to the River Walk in no time flat, and go tearing into the loading bay. Meeting us there is "Georgette". Remember her from Shreveport? The other troublemaker? Well "Georgette" has been the logistics coordinator for the River Walk since we snagged her from Shreveport/hell.

Anyhoo, There she is with a bunch o' blankets. In we stuff 'em, along with toys, sheets towels. Anything at all that we can grab to take with us, figuring that if the Slidell shelter hasn't been given something as basic as blankets, then god only knows what else they are doing without. I am hoping/assuming that some boss "greenied "/invoiced at least some of this stuff prior to our arrival. We know for certain that the blankets were. Everyone on the dock at River Walk is there to help. Bosses think they are rescuing the ARC from CBS News. All of the volunteers involved figure we are rescuing Slidell clients from the ARC.

Loaded up, and off we go. Volunteers are good people. They come from all over the globe. They want to help because today's victims of disaster may be any one of us in some future crisis. They work overtime, past time, with little time to themselves, few breaks under gruelling pressure cooker conditions. Its amazing that most of them are still standing. Sure there are a few bad apples, but they are the exception, not the norm. Other volunteers root them out and turn them in if they can. God help you if you are screwing over some client. the volunteers will tear you limb from limb. Oh....I am not talking about staff by the way. Volunteers and clients are the enemy to many of the staff and long term volunteers. Those without lives or other existence. Excepting my department of course. They are all great and good....lol.

So into the woods. Driving along, we figure out somehow to get where we are going. On the way I hear the life of "Bobby" it is long and colorful. It has involved the law, and not in a good way. ARC not doing its job screening again. FOr that matter, I don't think that the ARC has done any screening....at least they didn't screen me or anyone I had met. Good thing in this case as "Bobby" is a good guy and a hard worker. Our first clue at to what has gone on in the storm is as we are approaching Slidell. We see that the trees in on either side of the road are snapped off at about the level of a two story house. All of them. It is weird. Then we see the billboards ripped up from the ground and crumpled like so many wads of discarded paper.This was looking eerie. We had no idea.

Coming up along "Bobby's" left was a pile. well not exactly a "pile",because a pile would be a mound of stuff in one lump. this was an endless smoldering mountain of wood, debris and the bits and pieces of peoples' lives. It was about three stories high, and went on in a flowing dune for a mile or more. It scared us. We couldn't pry our eyes from it. It was also confusing, because we had never seen anything like it. What did it mean? Was this trash? Clean up? We weren't really sure what the hell it meant, but we knew that it couldn't be good.

The road began to narrow. It was a freeway, but we were being funnelled off. We could see that the opposite direction was closed down completely. There was a long line to exit the road, but we were in a hurry. We pulled out our get out of jail free Red Cross badges, skirted the line and turned right at the exit. The directions got a little sketchy from there. We pulled into the only gas station in sight. We could see the houses across the road from us. Except for the blue tarps covering all of their roofs, the line of houses looked intact, and pretty good for that matter. I walked up to the doors of the mini mart of the gas station, and it was then I noticed the chains across the door.

I looked inside the mart, and it was destroyed. Cans, bottles, cheetos, all over the floor of the store it was dark inside. I turned and saw the bags over the gas nozzles. I hadn't noticed that either. We take so much for granted. Its as if your brain simply completes the picture for you without you really having to look. "Bobby", was busy asking strangers where the heck this shelter was.

None of the folks at the gas station knew, because none of them were from the area. All of these people had come down from neighboring states to make a buck off of the distraught. The guy at the pumps next to our car was an especially vile specimen. He was short, dirty and ugly. His thinning Raggedy Andy hair was scattered to the wind. He had a violent bubbling red and purple birthmark that covered half of his face, and dragged down one eye so that it drooped and watered constantly. To detail the portrait, this joe was missing a goodly number of his choppers. He was drunk. You could smell it from where we stood 12 feet away. He was a crude cruel looking scum of the earth. This is who had come down to,"help".

All around us, in cars and trucks bearing license plates from everywhere *but* Louisiana, there were twenty more like him . We asked this creep if he was familiar with the shelter that we were looking for. He told us that he "was a f***ing roofer from Michigan", and that, "no, he couldn't F***ing help us". God help the people of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Texas.

We drove on looking at the useless map that we had been given. Looking at the blue tarped houses that were getting closer. We saw as we neared, Boats thrown on lawns with no water nearby. Trees ripped apart and RVs tumbled over like toys. We turned around and drove the other way. We finally found the shelter in a place that had no relation to the map that we had been given. Over a bridge and at the end of an otherwise empty spit. It looked like it was not completely built.

Rushing in, we figured we had beat CBS, only to find that they had been there about the time that we had left Baton Rouge. It didn't matter to us. The clients still needed the blankets, and we had them. "Bobby" went to unload the Moose, and I went to get help for him. Who do I run into, but, "Amy", from day one at my shelter. This is where she has been sent for her assignment. We said our hi's, and she gave me an upbeat overview of the site. As I went inside I saw that our first impression was right. This shelter wasn't finished. Not even kinda. What the heck was going on?

I saw cots amid food, and even more food. Dry goods scattered everywhere. Doors wired shut, wires exposed, walls torn up and worse, some kind of pump had blown, and there was no water. None for washing, none for cleaning, no water for sinks or toilets. I spoke to some of the staff, but they had developed Stockholm Syndrome, and were more concerned that I would turn in the fact that they were in a half built wreck of a building, than the fact that they had clients and themselvesin an unsafe shelter in unsafe conditions. Made my head spin. I knew we were coming here tomorrow for a walk through, so I took mental notes as to what to look for.

"Bobby" had finished, the unload, and we were ready to turn around and go back. We headed out of the shelter, talking to a few clients along the way. These clients loved the Red Cross. They all wanted to shake our hands. Because the ARC volunteers lived day in and day out at this shelter with the clients, they shared everything, food, lack of water, sleeping arrangements and had formed a tight bond. Most of these clients had lost everything, and the sense that someone understood what they were going through was important. Many asked if the ARC was going to send any more VIenna Sausages. Huh?

I went back in and asked the ARC staff about the little weenies. The staff informed us that that particular product had taken on a singular cachet among the clients at this shelter. Arguments had even broken out about them. A "greenie"/requisition had been put in a week prior, but still no saucies. The situation was getting dire. The staff seemed as stressed about it as the clients. Vienna Sausages eh? I could see that when you have lost everything, it is the little things, no pun intended, that become important. It is similar to prison in that way. Tubular canned meat products, processed to within an inch of their lives into a overly salty somewhat unpalatable end result had taken on an overwhelming importance in this shelter. These wee weenies were a serious matter to them, no matter what I thought. Ok then. I think I understood. I would be absolutely sure to ask about the hot doggies in a tin when we got back.

Before ripping back to Baton Rouge, "Bobby" and I decided to go have a look around Slidell. We drove in the direction of the blue tarped roofs, thinking that would be a good place to start. As we got closer, we saw that although the houses looked intact, they were definitely not. In this area, the water had risen to second floor level destroying all of the contents of the house if not ripping the things out of the house and scattering it outright. On either side of each and every house and across the street were smaller versions of the dunes of trash that we had seen earlier on the way into town. Couches, tables, bedding, toys. appliances, chairs, tanning lotion. We saw all of it, and all of it was totally destroyed. Anything and everything that any one of us might have in our own homes was in one or most of those plies of detritus. Ruined. The sheer volume of personal things was overwhelming.

I stopped to take some pictures so that I would remember this in detail. The water marks on the walls, the marks on the houses made by rescue crews telling everyone how many died in this house or that, or if there were none. Luckily, there were almost none. The spray painted marks made by insurance companies letting all know that this house had been inspected. The boats on the lawns picked up and thrown like so many dice on a craps table.

The one image that has stayed with me to this day on that forlorn street was the dishwasher that had been ripped apart and thrown. Two baskets that used to be in the washer lay amidst items that had formerly summed up peoples day to day lives. One basket contained all of the dishes just as they had been placed by the homeowners when they had loaded them up to be washed.The second basket was about thirty feet away, the glasses and cups placed in the basket in the same careful way. Nothing was broken, nothing was cracked. It was as though the tableware had just been loaded in to be washed, only it was all akimbo on some random trash heap now. Untouched. It was all we could do to keep from crying. and this was one of the "good" streets.

As we drove farther we saw cars that had been dragged up from somewhere wet, completely trashed. In the end, there would be three hundred thousand cars recovered from the affected areas. Each car would have to be stripped. Tires disposed of separately from useless engines. Toxic batteries taken out and dismantled. It is and will be a nightmare, and that is just the beginning.

In every area we would see refrigerators with the words, "full", painted on them, taped shut. "White teams" were hired to remove home appliances which had to be dismantled one by one to remove the toxic elements in each one, like the mercury in the refrigerators. There were hundreds and thousands of these too. Where was it all going to go? how were the governments going to fix this, dispose of that? As we all know, they haven't.

"Bobby" and I drove on. We saw giant 40' boats tossed around like potato chips. Some were piled on top of each other like pick up stix. Several of these former luxury yachts were thrown into and onto houses and apartments. We saw houses that had collapsed into themselves, gigantic trees lifted up and thrown onto roofs. Cars in trees,suspended in mid air...... Upside down. Another three story apartment complex had its bottom floor totally stripped down to nothing but 2x4's and studs by the intensity of the winds, while the two floors above it were so unscathed that bycicles and shade umbrellas still sat untouched on patios. We drove to the end of one road where a salvage company was dragging up boats that had sunk. They were lined up tilted on the grass. Ghost ships dripping algae as if they were being prepped for some Disney movie. It had been some storm. Driving back towards the highway, we passed one apartment building with a simple, plaintive, spray painted message: " I want to come home".

As we headed back to Baton Rouge, we didn't talk much. we had seen too much. Part of why you volunteer for a disaster such as this, is because you want to see it first hand. We had. It wasn't even the worst of it, it wasn't even much of it. What had happened here that our government was so oblivious to the danger and the outcome? We were ashamed that anyone had to experience something of this magnitude with no help and no support. Seeing house after house destroyed, and the inhabitants, now our clients and what they were reduced to made us even more ashamed. If nothing else, it gave us a renewed compassion,and an empathy that couldn't be gained only from watching news reports. We would never forget.

We got back to HQ late. Dropping off "Bobby", I ran into two people from another department who had a clipboard, a flashlight and a miner's light on one of thier heads. They were going into the parking lot to try to find some of the missing rental cars. By the end of my deployment, the ARC had apparently misplaced or lost hundreds of them. Our HQ was no different. "Bobby" and I said our goodbyes. I went back to Moosie and began to turn out of the lot.

Just as I was almost gone, who do I see but Big Daddy and some of the Material Girls. They stop, I stop, and we all decide to go to dinner. After this day, I needed a break. Off we went to some rib joint down the way. Walking in to be seated, we pass a no necked man about the size of a volkswagon. He was an amazing sight, and we couldn't tear our eyes from him. He was sitting on a stool, that we couldn't see because of his girth. I could almost swear that the steel pole that held it was bending, but I digress.

Daddy, "Mo", "Minna" and I were seated at a plank style table. I showed a slide show on my computer of the things we saw that day. Others from the restaurant gathered around to watch. No one asked questions, the pictures spoke for themselves. Apparently at some point, "Mo had whispered to the waitress that it was Daddy's eighty- third birthday. The waitress was thrilled. Daddy was not. He is sixty two and it was not his birthday. To make it more interesting, we also told her that I was his wife. Waitress-girl gushed all night how Daddy looked so good for his age, and married to such a young woman too. At one point we all practically laid down on the seats we were laughing so hard. This went on for the whole night, and only got worse. The climax came when the excited waitress brought out the birthday cake and the whole restaurant sang Happy Birthday to poor Daddy. We all about strangled ouselves out-cackling each other. What a bunch of hens.

Night ended at last. I felt as though I had been attacked by elves and beaten with sticks. What a day. And it was just another day in this screwed up situation. If you like stress, intensity and constantly having to think on your feet in a situation that will change completely from one second to the next and inevitably screw itself up some way, no matter how hard you try, then join the Red Cross in a disaster. It is certainly not for everyone, but we were happy and proud to do the best job that we possibly could.

Finally got back to the shelter about midnight. Stayed up writing on the computer, finishing some more drafts of fliers that I had promised for other departments. Tomorrow we all go back to Slidell. Can you believe it?

xxoo

Lisa

#22 Day Who's who.

2006-03-24T22:55:00.000-08:00

This brings us to my new department and inevitably to ""Tandaleo". How the hell does any organization allow someone like "Tandaleo" to get past their radar?? Description: Short, heavy, bottle blond. Diabetic, pop-eyed chronic drinker, possibly bi-polar. Nasty nasty temper, manipulative, unreasonable, erratic, dramatic, overbearing, mean . On the up side: Loud, sarcastic, funny, quick witted and really at times kinda fun. She's a lotta laughs. Look in the dictionary under: "train wreck". For some bizarre reasons she likes me. For some bizarre reason, I kinda like her too. Go figure.

"The Material Girls". At least that's what we call them "Minna", "Mo" and "Jaqui". We loove them. "Minna" is a tall dark haired mama, thin and wiry, married with children, possessed of a smile that goes ear to ear. She is also a very efficient employee. "Mo" is the actual Lesbian at the fort. Of course for the first few days of contact, yours truly had like no idea whatsoever. In fact, so far, I had thought that just about every woman in sight was over on that side of the fence, but her. Shows to go ya, that you can't trust me at all in this department. Anyhoo, "Mo", is tall, no nonsense and blond. Looks like a slightly butch surfer girl. She also has an ear to ear smile, and is as raunchy as a Hustler magazine, only in the pink version. We all love her to death too. "Mo" doing her job is like sending Sherman in to take Baton Rouge.

Ahhhh "Jaqui". Hmmmmm......how do I put this? We all think that there is the distinct possibility that "Jaqui" may be a manski. Ok...she looks like a girl...sort of....ok..I mean she looks like a girl. She is attractive, thin, taller than average. Dark and of indeterminate nationality, race, and or background. All of the correct parts in the correct places, only something is amiss. Or a mister. For one thing, she wears a big poufy wig. I can't help looking at the thing each time I talk to her. Secondly, she just doesn't relate in any tangible way to any of the other girls,including "Mo", who came up with this theory in the first place if I remember correctly. Thirdly, well...I don't quite know what thirdly would be, except that she might be a guy. "Jaqui" is oh so quiet and proper, unless of course she is busy popping out something that you just can't believe came out of her mouth. Some weird non-sequiter that brings the room to a full tilt halt when she says it. I don't know how to make this clearer, but then if it was clear in the first place, I wouldn't have to would I? "Jaqui" does her job, although she does have a tendency to winge over it and everyone else's job from time to time. Hey, maybe she is a girl.

So part of today was spent on writing about yesterday's walkthrough at Shreveport, and my resulting report. That which has never been written before at the ever amazing ARC. Just think about it, I feel like Dr Livingston...I presume. Apparently, no one in anyone's memory contained in this derelict old building can remember anyone doing a photo walkthrough of a site. Now that is just sick.

In other words, all of this time, pre-me, the ARC has been throwing away perfectly good donation money on shelter sites due to sheer ineptitude salted with a dash of laziness. I mean no one has bothered to take pre-use photos, or even post use photos until moi? Yew have got to be kidding? Why don't we just burn the cash and charge admission? It would make more sense. When I brought up the question, one of the long termers told me that we , "didn't have the time". Damn. Didn't have an hour to walk through and document what was right and wrong either before or after we had used the joint for our nefarious housing purposes. Ergo, Mr Owns-The_Place can say:"Sob sob....woe is me....this was the Taj Mahal until the American Red Cross got aholt of it. Alas, alak.....sob sob...guess the ARC will just hafta pay bundles of dough to bring this dung heap..I mean magnificent edifice back to its formerly sartorial splendor....And then we apparently do. Yark!!!!

Well LOGIC WOMAN to the rescue. Or at least Handy dandy camera and computer to the rescue I guess. So I wrote up the walkthrough and attached the pictures, et voila! Instant Protocol. Or so says Big Daddy. I spend the rest of the afternoon doing show and tell with my computer, teaching the rest of the somewhat reluctant Logistics staff the new and future permanent way to do a walkthrough. Photos and narrative. Ain't I special? The girls took it better than the boys, that's for sure. Gals sucked it up, Guy thought I sucked. The usual division of opinion. Like it or not this is now ARC protocol for walk throughs. They have to be kidding? Apparently not.

In the midst of all of this protocol crap, Boss walks up to me and tells me under his breath that "they", want to hire me on permanently. Paid. I of course took Boss man to be speaking of invisible aliens, as the only alternative available would be the All American Red Cross, and we knew that was not a possibility. Not in this dimension at least. Boss swore that he had heard rumor, I was ergo convinced that I was being punked in the worst way. Next up to bat was Big Daddy, who sidles up to myself, and whispers to me that the ARC ought to be paying me. Would I consider hiring on to the dark forces for lucre? I was guessing by now that this was Doggy Daddy's bright idea, and so it was. Had me going for about a tenth of a sec there. Daddy's plan was to put the bug in the ear of the forces that be to hire me to overhaul their sorry rear ends and make everything right. Yep...that was going to happen soon. I told him that I would hire on to consult for money, but they would never listen to anything I have to say. The ARC would hire me when hell freezes over. That's a fact.

Big Daddy. Big Daddy as I said before, had been an honest by god colonel in the Army. As he explained it, he had been, "a spook" in other words, a spy, which resulted in further explaining and much doubling over in hilarity when he used this description to our local self proclaimed felon/thug/former gang member that annoyed....I mean worked in our department. "Joey" told the tale of being an "OG" Original Gangster. Shot, knifed, mugged and mugger. Jailed and jacked. Jammed up an jammer upper The Joe portrayed himself on the fringe with a criminal record as long as your arm, oh but he was now reformed. In reality, "Joey" was most likely a grocery bagger from Compton, but he did like to show his colors to get a rise out of anyone who would bite.

One Day the Dad, the thuglet and another volunteer, also black and from the west were driving back from some recon mission. Thuggie asked Daddy what he used to do. Daddy replied "spook in the Army" Thug was unfamiliar with the terminology in any sense other than the Jim Crow back in the day sense and felt as though a thorough pummelling of Daddy might just be in order. "Joe-bob" proceeded to quite vocally express his very strong opinion, much to Daddy's confusion. In between laughing like hell and random riotous snarfs of the nasal sort, the western volunteer attempted to explain to Thugster the espionage take on "spook", and to Daddy the venacular of the same. It apparently took a while through the tears and rolling around on the floor of the car gasping for a breath between choking on laughter. She of course was the only one who thought it was funny which of course made it even funnier. Cured Pops of the "spook" line for at least a little while though.

Mid day, we are told that we are all to go and inspect a local church shelter, so we all pile into a few cars and shoot off to the church. Its not that far from HQ, which is tweaked, because this is a bustling city full of people who live here. The shelter thing does just twist the brain around a little bit, but then when you think about it, we are all staying in shelters and so it seems is half of Louisiana. "Nough said.

Get to the church and we are given a run down on the staff prior to entry. I tell the two new ones to please listen and not speak if they can help it so that the staff doesn't feel cornered and get their back up. There are five of us. As soon as we get there, we all introduce ourselves, and Boss starts talking to the big church boss in charge. From what we understand, the clients have done thousands of dollars of damage, and the church wants the red Cross to again scrub down and replace everything. "Cootie Sydrome" again. Again, there has been no prior photo walk through done. Again, I have brought my camera.

The two recruits can't keep their yaps shut, a serious problem with the female who is wound tighter than a top. I have no one to blame but myself as I recruited them. She is an environmental engineer. He has a cleaning service in his home state. Sounds like they would be great for our department no? No. From all appearances, she is here to be in charge. Show the world htat she is better smarter sharper than anyone on the planet. She is there to kill something or someone. She is one unhappy puppy. I gotta remember to look up once in a while when reading a resume dang it. He is going through a bad divorce. Two days into his deployment we have all heard all of it. It is not pretty, but he is sorta ok. She is sorta not. We will have to live with them. Mea Culpa.

Walk through begins. Armed National Guard troops are posted everywhere. Clients are everywhere. The building is like a giant evacuee anthill. We go hall by hall, room by room, documenting and taking notes. Boss has made a bunch of ccolorful Cat's Cradle loops for the kids, and is busy teaching them the game. I am almost the only one who can do the game, but he is persistent. Kids do love it even if they can't do it. He and we teach them anyway.

In one hallway I come across an interesting sign. It says something about clients leaving bags of body fluids in bags in the halls, and threats to lock doors. Apparently some of the clients have been sneaking hookers through the back at night. One wonders if the "girls", are taking ARC credit cards. I so do not want to know. One of the things we do notice is the bleach stains on the carpets all over.

A sure sign of the Red Cross is bleach stains. The RC founder, Clara Barton who began the ARC in the 18oo's dictated the use of bleach for cleanliness. The ARC still adheres to that for some stupid reason, but then the ARC is still having volunteers and clients fill out gigantic stiff paper forms with carbon paper for f's sake. Oh yeah...I forgot, those forms can be folded into handy dandy folders. ARC origami if you will. There are only a handful of us at the ARC who have noticed that Clara Barton has been dead for quite a while, and that the rest of the world seems to have entered the twentieth century without her. The majority of the ARC apparently still worship at her dusty altar.

While everyone else was jotting and noting and schmoozing with bosses, I recorded all on a digital card, then slipped off and happened to find the departing manager, who told me that the church had already voted to pay for repairs itself, and that some meddling somewhat racist deacons' wife was the one making all of the noise about clean up. This manager told me that the church fully expected the type and scope of damage, and wished to take care of it. That it was not seen as a problem, and that there were twenty deacons at this church so as far as the church was concerned, the old trout could go whistle dixie...hmmm...whistle dixie. Perhaps that is a poor choice of musical selection considering the local.

My new info was confided to the group. It was a relief, as we had been gearing up for a chess match. Meaning, leave the church as we had found it, but no massive redecorating project a la the desires of unnamed wives of deacons. Whew!! We all said our goodbyes, took our notes and went back to HQ to write the whole thing up. Not me this time thank the lord. Or at least thank Boss and Big D.

End of the day. Where did it go? paper and more paper. Forms, protocols, lectures. What the heck? How did I get here from there I ask you? I am tired. went to din din, went to the shelter which is thinning out considerably since they plan on closing this one soon. Volunteers have slowed to a trickle, and I am still here. Cots are folding up and disappearing, Blankets are being bagged, air matresses are being deflated and stored. Looks like the ARC is giving it all over to the church which makes no damn sense at all as it was donated to the ARC, not the Hebron Baptist Church.

What the heck does the ARC plan to do in the next go round? Get more donations? Not from me. After seeing all of the waste, I will be damned if I give a penny to the good ol' ARC as much as I admire most of the organization. This donation and distribution thing is just a royal mess. In my time here I have witnessed massive wastes of money time and resources. It is supremely discouraging. I really pray that they get a handle on it before some doo doo hits some fan somewhere and you know it will. My time is another thing. I will give my time. In any case, my time is almost up, and the shelter is almost empty. Whats up with that? I plan to stay here until I go. I don't mind the drive, after all, I am from Southern California. Land of the long haul. I am in this for the long haul.

See you tomorrow.

xxoo

L

#21 a day at the office ...and then some.

2005-12-29T23:34:00.000-08:00

Today I slept, and slept, and slept. Wish I wasn't lying. How do you sleep when they slam on the overheads at six am? Some can, like crazy "Bob", the maroon that got me my new jobski. "Bob" could snore his way through armageddon. I figure he will. When the evening is done and all is quiet, everyone is abed, tucked in and exhausted from the day, you can hear "Bob" , at decible 13,486, attempting to singlehandedly cave in the roof with the ungodly racket coming out of his sleeping mouth and nose. If you heard and saw it in a bad "I Love Lucy" rerun, you would watch, frustrated. Impatiently wishing that the show wasn't so over the top. That was "Bob".Every single bad episode of "I Love Lucy", all rolled up into one fat neurotic dork who snored like a house on fire. Kill me now.

In any case, this morning was the same as most other mornings. I rousted myself up, only I did meander instead of rush through the particulars. In any case, I was too groggy from yesterday's whirlwind trip to Shreveport, Clansville of the north, to be fully awake. I finally dragged my sorry rump through the door of headquarters at about 9:30. What decadence. Needless to say, Boss Daddy and the girls were all there waiting for me, paperwork at the ready, with big grins on their faces. I had promised them that today I would re-up. What was I thinking?

So far, my first ARC stint had been designed by the same guy that thought "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", was entertaining. Oh yeah...it was. Never mind. You get the idea. It was like living in the funhouse without the fun. Like looking in those crazy mirrors and having a laugh only to leave the mirror maze and find out that the way everything looked in those bent and twisted mirrors was how things really were. That was a good part of the reality of the ARC. The rest of the reality was all of the nice competent people who made up for the bulk of the midway. I guess I was signing back up for them.

I went through all of the rig-a-ma-roll to re-up. Go here, sign this, go there, sign that , answer this, no, that's wrong, answer that. Oh, we made a mistake, you have to start over again. Is that right? No, ask her, oh, ask him. Yes that is how you do it. No it is not, yes it is. Do you need more money? No? Why not? didn't you spend all of yours? No? Why not? Oh, well, ok, but if you need more, then let us know by tomorrow. Is there a supervisor who know how to do this? Yes, but she just signed on today, she won't know. Do you know? Yes, I told them I knew. This is how you do it, this is what I sign. These are the right papers, these are the wrong papers. They believed me. After multiple hours. I was in again for the next four days at least, if not longer. What next?

As you stick around Baton Rouge and the Red Cross, you began to get a feel as to those who fit in and those who didn't. There was a kind of uniform. Not that stupid smock with the big red cross on it. Those were for the hicks and the newbies, those who wanted to be a visible part of the club, for whom this was summer camp and a chance to trade collectable pins. Not for us, we were the cool kids. Our kind of uniform that developed out of practice and convenience. For example. No one in our department wore that idiot smock. It fit noone, got in the way, and in any case, if you were running around the inside of the building with a Red Cross badge around your neck, bearing your picture, someone would figure out eventually, that you were actually with the American Red Cross. Good grief!

Our cell phones were these little jobs that got lost easily. Several of us figured out, that if you folded the thing over the cord holding your ARC badge, it was readily available. A necessity, as someone or another called you every 2 and 1/2 minutes on the average. Easier, than running around looking for you in the cavernous old WalMart where we were stationed. We wore comfy clothes and sports shoes. Unlike my real self, here, I wore makeup and perfume every single dang day. Can't really tell you why. I just felt it was more corporate or some semblance of what I thought corporate looked like on TV. In any case, Mascara and Moschino were derigeur as far as I was concerned. So there we were, mostly women, mostly made up and scented, trotting around in hip hop clothes with little phones swinging from cords around our necks, carrying clipboards and writing while walking most of the time, while talking on our flip phones. We looked like a really lame, ugly cult.

About mid day, I got a call from "Dora" up in Shreveport. You remember, the ultra Christian woman from Kentucky who's son in the airforce had married that nice jewish girl? She had an awful story. Turns out that the night I stayed there, she had left her wallet on the bedside table. "Dora" had apparently forgotten it was there when we left the next morning. When she returned to the room later, "Dora", discovered that the wallet had been stolen. Lock stock and barrel. Damn damn damn!!! Ok, she didn't say that, but she was really upset about it. I didn't blame her. If it was my wallet, I would have been upset about it too. She asked me if I had seen it at all? I told her that by the time I crawled into bed, the lights were out, and I didn't notice a thing. Not even the next morning as I was packing to go.

She pushed me to remember something. Anything. "Didn't I see it at any time?"" No, I wish I had." "Well," she said, "the police will be calling you ." She had filed a report, and there was an investigation in progress. "It was going to be really serious." "DIdn't I remember anything? The police would call and they would be questioning me in depth."I thought that was silly, as I had just told her that I hadn't ever seen the wallet, but I didn'[t say anything. Instead I sadi, "No, I remembered nothing at all about her wallet. Never even saw it" We continued to speak as I walked across the building. I was incensed that this nice woman had been robbed. I told her that, "she should be able to leave her damn wallet out in plain view with cash hanging out of it, and all anyone ought to think about it, is where to return it to." She agreed wholeheartedly. She said that "she only wished that →whomever← had stolen it had taken only the money, and had left her identification and the rest of the contents." The poor thing. I felt so sorry for her.

I got back to my desk and told Boss about "Dora's" wallet. everyone in the department listened raptly. They exchanged glances that I didn't pay much attention to at the time. As I walked back across the building to make some copies, I was thinking, "hmm...now, I bet I could get copies of her identification for her, as we had those here in headquarters. Yeah, that's what I would do!" Midway across, I came to a screeching halt and clapped my hand across my mouth. If I could have writhed on the floor on my back, kicking my heels, pounding my fists on the ground, screaming at the top of my lungs, while throwing my head from side to side, at that moment, I would have. Son of a bitch!!!! "Dora" thought that "the Jew" stole her wallet!!!!!!!!! That was me, "the Jew" !!!!!

She actually believed, and had evidently told others that I had stolen her wallet as she slept. That was what the call was all about, and I had missed it. Here was a woman, that had spoken at length about her Christianity and her belief in God, yet there it was. "The Jew stole her wallet". I realized, that no amount of fact would ever convince this woman otherwise. She would go to her grave thinking this was reality. There was little I could do.

I ran back to Boss and blurted it out. He and everyone else had already gotten there on their own. Beat me to the punch in fact. They were madder than I was if that was possible. Really, though, I wasn't mad at all. Just disheartened. "Dora" and I had talked into the night. I believed naively, that I had made an impression upon her that "Jews" were just like her. We lived the same lives, dreamed the same dreams, raised our children with the same love and worry, shared the same God. I was a fool. I had to laugh at myself for it.

Even funnier, was the fact that my father was a Jew. I am technically not. That would have required a conversion that I had not had, but this was the south, and ergo I was a jew. I had never been so Jewish in all of my life. I waited for the police to call. Of course they never did. I was able to confirm later that yes, "Dora", believed to the bottom of her heart," that Jew ", had stolen her wallet, even though others told her that they had been robbed by the staff at this particular hotel. Later, the whole crew moved to another hotel because of the thievery, but "Dora" still held on to her beliefs.

Weeks later, Boss still wanted to call her up and have a serious talk about it. I told him not to bother. Even though I didn't tell him, he knew that it broke my heart.

#20 Shreveport Part Deux

2005-12-16T21:27:00.000-08:00

Up-and -at-em! Woke up in a bed, what a pleasure. My last for a while. Took a shower and washed my hair, "Dora" took hers, we packed up for the day and together, down we went, to breakfast with the boys. Breakkie was short and sweet. Boss and I were off to close a shelter with problems. What did I care, I was leaving the ARC day after tomorrow. It was the end of my tour. My attitude was: Bring it on!

A local university had opened its doors to evacuees. This I was told, was a black university. What a funny designation. Marking a school of higher learning by the dominant color of those who attend...sigh. We got to the school, and soon found the fellow in charge. As I took out my camera and started shooting photos of what might be considered damage, the conversation with in-charge guy took an interesting turn. In-charge guy wanted the whole place, "disinfected floor to ceiling". His words. In fact he was insisting upon it. Apparently he seemed to believe that poverty was contagious, as none of the evacuees had been found to have leprosy.

Before I go further into how clean he wanted the place, the disinfecting, the scrubbing, the thorough revulsion of the evacuees that peppered this guy's language, let me describe him. Standing about 6'3", he was tall and thi, slightly stooped. Balding, in his 50's, casually dressed, soft spoken, black. Thaaats right. Black. This was a "black university" , he was the "black" in charge. This man went through each room with us, me snapping photos, telling Boss and I how the dirty contaminated evecuees had wrecked their place of temporary residence, and how he wanted it rectified. To our eyes, the university was in very good shape. Barely dirty in fact. But no. Señor fix-it felt that every surface had to be scoured, in order to rid the rooms of the stink of poverty. The Black haves against the black have-nots. Holy mother of god.

At one point he took us into the laundry room, and insisted that the evacuees had destroyed the new washer and dryer that now had to be replaced. Believe me, we were willing to replace them. Boss took a look, and wrote down "replace" on the form. By this time, I was pissed, so I turned on the washer. Lo and behold...Hallelujah! It worked. I started the dryer. It worked too. I didn't say a thing, but I left both machines on as continued the destructo tour of poverty contamination. Every once in a while, I would force both Boss and Fix-it to return to the laundry room to check on the cycles, with the excuse that I didn't want to leave the school with appliances that were missing some cycle or another. In fact, I was rubbing in the point. Couldn't help it. Needless to say, both washer and dryer were in tip top shape. We weren't replacing them.

In the end, it was Boss-man who figured out that fix-it believed that because of some rumor he had heard, white schools who had volunteered their facilities were getting thousands of dollars in compensation, while the ARC was stiffing the darker section of town. Had to stop myself from banging my head on a wall, or at least trying to bang his head on one. ARC national is truly color blind. That is not to say that the local volunteers had a collective brain in their heads because they didn't, but it wasn't color directed, they were just stupid. Someone had sent in something asking for payment of some ridiculously high cleaning bill. That did not mean that they would get their wish. Just meant that they sent it in and were giving it a go. National would review it and laugh heartily and tell them to go f* themselves in short order when they saw the amount was ludicrous. Tons of moolah were being misdirected, but not on my watch.

We finished the walk through, I had the pix. The cleaning staff was up in arms as Fix-it felt that his black staff was too lazy to get the job done correctly, and he wanted some white contractor to do the job. Shall I tell you how well that went over with everyone? We just nodded, and figured to take it all up with management when we returned to HQ. We left as the cleaning staff and the coach were spitting nails.

From there we went to lunch. VIncent's High Point Cafe. What a place. All seafood all the time. Chock full of locals eating gumbo and seafood. Boss continued his tour de chicken fried steak, and I had the gumbo with a side of fried green tomatoes and crab fingers. I wanted them to throw in one fried green pickle, and I was disappointed when I didn't get it. No oysters here either. They say that the oyster beds won't come back for at least two years. That is a huge let down.

Took us a while to notice, but as far as the local restaurants and bars are concerned, colors don't mix here. Chances are if they knew I was half Jewish, someone might find my body sometime next spring or not at all. That impression was pretty strong. The waitresses all did decide that they just loved my perfume though. Especially when I told them that I was from Malibu. The girls made me write down the name so that they could all go on-line and get the same. Somewhere in some little racist dive in Shreveport, there are a bunch of over-dyed, over-plucked young delectibles wearing Moschino, not knowing how to pronounce it, but happy that they are wearing the same perfume that some lady from Malibu had on.

Next we toured the warehouse. Got there and looked around. everything looked normal except that staff wasn't following any kind of sensible non contamination procedure. Body fluid soaked cots were inside, strewn about, instead of bagged tagged and out of the building. Staff was sorting buckets and buckets of donated clothes without gloves or masks. When we brought it up, we were told that they were handling things correctly. They weren't. We had been told of the water shortage, but we could see pallets upon pallets of canned water sitting outside. When we asked why, we were told that the evacuees wouldn't drink the stuff. Thinking that It couldn't be that bad, I tried one, with the resulting suggestion that the cans of water be used to wash the dirty cots. It was that disgusting. Bleah!!!

After scraping my tongue with my shoe, we went off to check on the shelters before we headed back home. On the way, boss called HQ about the decontamination procedures. I listened as they gave him the run around. FInally, as I could see his frustration mounting to the boiling point, I asked him to pass me the phone. After ducking same phone furiously thrust in my direction, I took it in hand, and In my softest little girl voice, I asked the nice doctor on the other end of the line if the ARC had to comply with OSHA standards? When he replied with some bluster, "of course", I pointed out that OSHA standards required dust masks for sorting new clothes and materials, goodness knows what they would think of sorting used unwashed icky ones without protection of any kind. I meweled that we could stand out in a really bad way, and might get the whole of the ARC in serious trouble for non compliance with government standards. We didn't want the Feds to get involved, did we? I suggested that the big strong knowledgeable doctor-poo could be the hero by making a stand and fixing it all. To OSHA standards of course. By the time I said goodbye, Boss had pulled off the road and was laughing so hard and holding his sides, he was almost crying. He told me very decisively, that he would remember not to cross me anytime in the near future.

At Hirsh Center, it was a madhouse. What a horrible place to be stuck. Cots on cots in a dark dank arena. It was a huge dungeon. Too many people, few supplies. Under-trained staff. Not enough medicine or equipment, and the system wasn't working for anyone. They had a great nurse in charge though, fighting hard for them, and the new day supervisor was caring and smart, so these evacuees were at least getting another chance at things going right. It was an uphill fight. this place was a mess.

On the way in, we met up with the local troublemaker "Georgette", only it turns out that "Georgette" was a troublemaker in my mold. She was trying to get things done in the face of the CLS, complete with identical run-ins with the same dingbats that went after me. We decided that on our return, "Georgette" would transfer to our department ASAP. As we were talking to her, I looked on the ground beside us and noticed a dime bag of marijhuana. Well how-dee-doo! This tiny baggie was stuffed to the gills with weed! I picked it up and laughed, waving it at Boss and "Georgette".

To my surprise, Boss literally snatched it out of my hand. Did he think I was planning to use it? God knows under the trying circumstances, if I did do that, and I don't, I might have, but as I didn't, it hadn't entered my mind. Ai yi yi! Before I could ask what he was doing, Boss opened the bag and strewed the contents around the grounds, walking around and shaking the bag violently, finally ripping the seams to make sure that every last bit was gone. I was totally stunned. I loved Boss, but anyone this anal could have certainly used some weed. In the end, we took the empty bag over to the police who were stationed in front of the shelter and in an AHA! moment, Boss handed it over with a flourish, as though the cops didn't have any idea that this was going on. Poor Boss. He was such a nice guy, but so behind the times. I didn't have the heart to tell him.

While we were there, "Barney" showed up with the day's bananas. When called on the carpet, again, he gave Boss-man a talk to the hand motion, and stalked off. That would have been my cue to send ol' "Barn" back to Iowa, or wherever he came from, but I think Boss doesn't like actual confrontations, so Monkey-boy stayed, much to my disgust.

As we drove out of Shreveport, I noticed the beautiful architecture and Victorian details of the older section of town. It was a really pretty place if you could forget the racism stupidity and isolationism that seemed so pervasive. On the way back, Boss talked a bit about his life, and asked if I would re-up for another few days. What could I say. He and Daddy had saved my butt. I called HQ on the way back, and got the paperwork in motion. Sigh...

We got back to HQ late. I picked up the car that was left for me and hauled my tired self back to the shelter. I had had one night in a bed, and a bath. I had agreed to sign up for another four days at least. What a roundheels. I had lost my mind....again. So what else is new?

#19 Shreveport

2005-12-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

Left the shelter this morning late. Late. Just wonderful. They rescue me from the CLS, and I am late. To compound my transgression, there is suddenly massive amounts of traffic backing up back to east nowhere. I am in east nowhere. Notice that I have a message on my cell phone. Uh oh.......Get the message. More good news. Boss wants to make sure he reaches me before I left the shelter. Not quite. Sigh.

Boss wants to make sure that I have packed for an overnight, because we are going to Shreveport. Just he and me. Yeah, I know that's grammatically incorrect, but it sounded cool didn't it? SIgh sigh sigh. I am not packed, I did not get the message in time and I am late, stuck in traffic, one third of the way into headquarters. Great start to a great morning.

Turn around, call Boss, grovel at 50 mph in a 35 mph zone, roaring back at warp speed to the shelter. Squeal into the church parking lot looking like a flufffy blond Popeye Doyle. This sucks. I pack at the speed of light, run back to the car, well actually it is a Ford Explorer the size of my living room. I have dubbed it "The Moose". Leap into Moosie, and I am about to screech out of there when I remember that I forgot my jammies. That would have been an unfortunate intro to my new employer. Jumped back out, bailed back in, got the jammies and tore back to the car. Drove into Headquarters like a bat out of hell. Or at least like a dingbat out of California. Yikes!

I was out of breath and way late. Boss didn't even look up. Just sat me down at my new desk, actually a six foot foldable table that I shared with him and whomever chose to sit across from me that day. Had to steal one of the "good" chairs every day until I finally marked one with blue tape bearing my name, the words, "my chair", and a picture of the skull and crossbones on it. Good chairs were solid plastic and cream colored. Bad chairs were flimsy plastic and brown. It was a pecking order thing. I own a flock of chickens at home, so I know from pecking orders. I made sure to grab only the good chairs. guessing that it might make me one of the head chickens.

In any case, Boss man right away, started to give me things to do. He called it debriefing. I called it a lot of notes. It was: call this guy, ask this thing, find out this, find out that, go here and coordinate those etc...etc..etc... There were about twenty things on the list. It took me about an hour to do them, and get it all on paper, answers printed out using my laptop. I gave Boss the printout notes of the finished tasks, and he just looked at me and laughed. Big Daddy came over, and Boss gave him the list, and then Daddy laughed. I couldn't figure out what was so funny. Turns out what was so funny was that I finished a list of to do's in an hour that had in the past taken others days to get through. I figured they must have been forced to work with some new ARC rule that required their basic intelligence to be tied behind their backs or something.

Somehow, in this situation, I became my previously unknown super-hero alter ego: LOGICAL WOMAN. Around here, I appeared to come from another planet. that worked for me. Luckily, it worked For Boss and Daddy too. Boss and I hung out for a few hours solving ARC puzzles, and finally hit the road to Shreveport. It was going to be a five hour drive. We got over the bridge in about forty minutes, and stopped to get directions. I took the opportunity to obtain some pork rinds, pralines and a pecan pie. I love weird foods. Boss was horrified. Off we went, into the next town. We noticed that we needed gas.

Problem number one: There was no gas. Anywhere. The electricity was out, and the pumps were down and there was no gas to be had. Station after station was either locked up completely, or had plastic bags over their nozzles, and were making hay selling pork rinds to tourists like myself. Crud! Around we turned and back we went, over the bridge and back into Baton Rouge until we found a gas station that had gas. How the heck did we not notice that virtually no one had any gas? Turned out that many in Baton Rouge had no gas either. We just hadn't noticed before, because the station near Headquarters always had gas. SIlly us. 40 minutes later, we were back over the bridge and on our way. An hour and a half detour. Hate it when that happens. Deja vu of this morning all over again.

Drove and talked and drove and drove some more. Boss hit the exhaustion wall, and I took the wheel. I am from Southern California. With me driving, we averaged 85 to 90 on the almost empty roads. I ignored Boss' white knuckles, and we made up the time that we had lost. Hey! I said I was from L.A. Cars, ya know? Got to Shreveport in chop chop time.

The Shreveport ARC chapter was in the middle of a run down residential area. I was later to notice that much of Shreveport was somewhat run down. I also noticed that there was a church of some kind on virtually every corner. Some streets had two churches within a couple of hundred feet of each other. They all had names like: "The Blood of the Lamb and the Righteous Light Baptist Church". This did not bode well to my way of thinking. Not because I am half Jewish, hey, the other half were a bunch of Unitarian ministers, but because of something that I have noticed. What I have noticed has happened so frequently, that I have made up a rule for it. I like to call this little rule, "The Rule of Devoutness". "The Rule of Devoutness" holds that anyone publicly making the declaration, "I am a Christian", does so only when it is right before or right after, they have done, or are going to do something absolutely despicable. Things like throwing a five year old out of a preschool because his mama's a stripper. Often, it involves something so un-christlike, that it makes your head spin. This berg had the statistical propensity to hold myriad of these kind of folks.

We went through the office meeting, "our people". Technically, these guys worked for our department. In actuality, because of the lack of staffing and leadership from Headquarters, many of the outlying chapters had created their own little feifdoms, picking and choosing the rules and regulations that suited them, ignoring the ones that didn't. This was one of those.

At first glance, They were a swell group. "John", the short, wiry, mixed asian leader from San Francisco was upbeat, friendly, cheerful, and decidedly in charge. It was his way or the highway. "Barney", was the warehouse/not a warehouse manager. We weren't allowed to call the warehouse a warehouse for some bizarre reason, the locals didn't want a warehouse in their neighborhood. Felt it ran the area down. The area couldn't get any more down. Funny idea, as though not calling it what it is would make it into something else. Gotta love that way of thinking. In fact, from here on out, you can call me a 22 year old. Is it working yet?

Barney was an interesting specimen. He couldn't figure out for the life of him how to create a flow chart so that he could order supplies ahead of need. Instead, he would rush out to the store using a credit card to make "emergency" purchases, which consisted of anything the shelters might need on that given day. He would then rush back and get reimbursed by the chapter. He did this single dang day mind you. Unfortunately, this was totally against policy, and the chapter was going to be oh so surprised when National refuses to reimburse them. Barney was doing this for the benefit of thousands of clients currently housed in arenas and other sites across the area. Barney was also financially screwing the ARC and his chapter because of his own laziness.

When I pointed out that his method was not cost effective, as we had already contracted for and stored in our own ARC warehouses, many of the things that he was paying top dollar for at the local WalMart, he just refused to get it. His statement?: "Well...like how could we order things like bananas? I mean, bananas are perishable and we need them right away?" Interesting that a total monkey would use bananas in an analogy. I suggested to ol' "Barn", that bananas came from Costa Rica, a far toss from the Shreveport WalMart, and somehow that WalMart managed to order bananas in advance all the way from Costa Rica so that he could rush out every day and buy them. Hmmmm.... One would have thought that he might have seen the irony, but not so. Instead, I, who knows virtually nothing about creating an ordering type of flow chart, but do possess an IQ higher than room temperature, spent the next half hour drawing out and explaining how invoicing and projecting need works. Sigh.

Later that day, Barney was faithfully filling out invoices, and then not sending them out and rushing back to WalMart. When caught in the act, he said that he didn't trust that my system would work, but knew that going out and buying the damn bananas worked just fine. It turned out that " Barney" was unclear that I was his boss, and that my instruction was not a suggestion, but a direct order, no matter how politely I had put it to him. In this feifdom, he thought that "John" was king, and Boss-man and I were just a couple of know-nothings from Headquarters. Well we may have been a couple of know-nothings, but as things stood, we were the know-nothings in charge of "Barney", "John", and the whole Shreveport chapter. Our faithful employees. It was going to be a long trip.

Boss and I then sat in on a meeting between the head of the Chapter and the ARC volunteer heads that we were there to supervise. The chapter head was a guy named "Roman". A tall powerful looking man of fifty-something, with a ready grin, a good ol' boy aura and a mostly full head of dyed red hair. In this area of the state, This guy was the ARC god. Unfortunately, he was not a kind, caring and gentle god. Midway through the meeting, in discussing the dissatisfaction with our operation that some clients were voicing, the words, spoken in exasperation: "These people are getting free money!" slithered out of his mouth. No one said anything to counter him, and several actually agreed. Ok, time to step up to the plate....again. I took a deep breath, as it was a David and Goliath moment. Shreveport was the longtime home of the Grand Dragon/Moron of the Ku Kux Klan. The town was pretty much segregated by unspoken agreement. From what we had seen, blacks and whites did not mix in this part of the country. Although the area was 70% black, whites were owners and blacks were not. Things were not equal by a long shot, but this was just the way it was around here. Nobody planned on changing the status quo anytime soon.

I took that breath, and in the gentlest way possible said, "excuse me "Roman", but "these people", are our clients, and we are here to serve them." You could have heard a pin drop, and that was in a room that had wall to wall carpeting. He turned to me and started to rant about how I just got here and I don't know all of the things that had happened, and I didn't understand the culture and all of the good things that his chapter had done for "these people". When he was done and out of breath, and in a high state of disgust and anger with yours truly, I gently but firmly reiterated, "I am sure you have done many good works, and accomplished a lot. I am sure that you are frustrated and feel at times that your job is thankless, none the less, "these people" are still our clients, and we are here to serve them as best we can." No one stood behind what I had just said. Not one of them said a word in support. Not even my own Boss. I think he was still too shocked at me correcting an apparent racist in charge in the middle of Klan country, in front of the whole group. I was shocked that "John" the asian guy didn't say something or even catch it, but then he had to work with this joker.

The meeting adjourned soon after with nothing of substance decided as far as I could tell. Next on the agenda, Dinner! About time. Went in a mule train to some restaurant, that turned out to be in a casino. Loud as a brass band in there. It was a buffet of every variety of heavy greasy southern chow that you could ever dream up. It was great. The piles of boiled shrimp alone were worth it. I did notice, that I was one of the only ones to eat anything green. Wonder what the heart attack rate is outside of Southern California?

FInished dinner, and dragged ourselves to the hotel. Hotel. Let me just savor that for a wee moment. A Bed! Ahhhh. A BATH! Whoopie!!!! Got our room keys, and said our goodnights. Knew it was too good to be true. There was a knock on the door. Turns out that Boss' room already had occupants. A couple of evacuees who had lied and said that they were Red Cross in order to get a free Room. They would be summarily turned out and charged to boot the next morning, but for tonight, Boss was commandeering my room. Drat! I was to move into the extra bed in "Dora's" room across the hall.

"Dora" was a coordinator in the Shreveport office. She was small and sturdy with jaw length straight brown hair and soft brown eyes. She'd married young and had three kids, one of whom was in the military. "Dora" was really sweet, she came from Kentucky and was now stuck with me. She was actually pretty gracious about it, although I could tell that it wasn't her first choice.

She did all of her bathroom stuff, and then went to bed. We talked for quite a while. Turned out that she was a very devout christian, and her son had gone off and married some Jewish girl. No one was happy about it. She was sure I would understand. Just as she was about to launch into that subject, I let her know that I was one of the tribe. She backpedaled as quick as her mouth would carry her and we ended up talking a lot more. In the end, it felt as though I might have made at least a small inroad into the Kentucky preconception of "my people", as we shared some mutual understanding, and she seemed to relax about it at last.

Odd. I have never before actually felt Jewish. My father is Jewish, but my mother is decidedly not. I wasn't raised in any faith, but I identify myself by who my enemies are, and if this was 1939 and the trains were leaving, chances are I wouldn't have been left behind because I was only half Jewish, or, I didn't look Jewish. What do you think?

Finally, I went to collapse in the bathtub. It felt so good that I fell asleep in the water. Lucky I didn't drown I guess. When I finally extracted my now prunish self from the water, dressed and came out, the lights were out and "Dora" was sawing logs. I sat up for a bit in the dark with the computer, but finally, even I passed out.

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

2005-10-30T00:07:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-10-19T22:12:00.001-07:00

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.

2005-10-18T20:05:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-16T22:00:00.001-07:00

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

2005-10-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

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

#13 The Bellemont Hotel

2005-10-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

So we sat, and we sat, and we sat. Our go-get-em supervisor "Carrie",
was proving to be a royal pain in the butt. She scheduled a meeting
for 8 am, so we were all there. Noooooo, it didn't happen. nor did it
happen at 9, 10 or 11. She is one of those types who has to do every
teeny tiny thing herself. Super bottle neck creator. Lousy manager.
Still, she smiled and rah rahed until she had lost her voice.

HQ has a decidedly rah rah atmosphere. When volunteers are given
their assignment, at the end of yet another useless orientation, the
remaining group cheers. Some wear Mardi Gras beads. It has taken on
the feel of a summer camp. Pretty juvenile. Pretty offensive and
unprofessional. Glad the clients can't see us.

Everyone but me and a few die hards are decked out in their
ever so enormous Red Cross vests and smocks. Damn they are ugly. I
think the designer was trying to channel Shamu. Either that, or they
wanted the thing to double as a big stiff ugly cape in a bullfight.
Its that miserably unattractive and nonfunctional. There we were.
All dressed up, and no where to go. A distinct but growing sense of
mismanagement and poor planning start to creep into my brain. I'm not
the only one. Some have been keeping the seats warm in this burg for
five days. Those volunteers subjected to that particular stupidity
wore the abuse of their time like a crown of thorns. It was getting old.

Third day, half way through it, and they have finally decided to
send me to Kenner Louisiana tomorrow, where they are opening a large
service site. We are about to go "home", back to the shelter, when an
emergency call comes in. Everything is an emergency here. The whole
place seems continually amok with people who's' heads are imminently
planning to explode over something that ought to be trivial. Our
department in particular seems almost completely infected by this
particular form of mental illness. If other people's lives didn't
depend on us here at HQ, it would almost be comical. However, just
then, it was not.

A local site, the newly opened Bellemont Hotel, has put in a call for
case workers as they are overwhelmed with the crush of evacuees who
showed up to apply for the money loaded credit cards that the Red
Cross is giving out. It turns out that this time it really was an
emergency. They didn't tell us, but the rumor was, that its pretty
nasty over there. They weren't kidding. We separate into groups to
carpool over. Six of us in a van. I am with 4 older white women from
places like Ohio and Wisconsin, and one thirty something black man
from Philly. We drove off from headquarters, chatting and a little
uneasy. As we got to the site, uneasy turned to a little panicky.
Panicky turned soon to outright scared.

The Bellemont was once a huge Hotel. Built sometime in the
sixties from what it appears, it has turned to a mildly genteel
decay. Placed for some reason right by a freeway overpass, the grand
entrance is fronted by antebellum style columns. The rest of the
hotel stretches two full blocks in length, and one full block in
depth. It is a mastodon of a hotel.

As we came upon it, none of us was prepared for what we saw.
Thousands upon thousands of people. Most of them angry and frustrated
standing in the hot Baton Rouge sun. Pushing and shoving, they ran in
a line along the entire length of the hotel, wrapping around it and
traveling the entire length of the back side, and then some. We could
see some few police, but not nearly enough. Everyone in the line was
black. Five of the six of us looked like a bunch of cats in a sea of
hungry tigers. It was not good.

All of the women in our car were nervous. The lone black man in the
car was over us and our attitude in about a minute. He sat back
disgusted. We wound around a corner, past the barricades of police,
flashing our red cross badges as we went. As we pulled up, it was
agreed that since I was riding shotgun....so to speak.....I was to go
out alone, get through to the hotel, and bring back an armed police
officer to accompany us inside. Who's idea was that? Mine
probably...lol.

I figured that I was probably overreacting, so I jumped out and
trotted to the front of the building. The police were standing with
bull horns, shouting at the mob gathered at the front of the
building. Many people were pointing their fingers, shaking their
fists and screaming. They were screaming at the cops, they were
screaming at each other. They were mad as hell. Of course, there I
was, white in miniature, sporting my big red mumu Red Cross vest,
wading right into the middle of the almost out of control mob, trying
like hell to push past and get in the door. I thought to myself,
"self, if you hesitate for a minute, you are screwed". To my
surprise, even though I was bracing for it, no one yelled at me at
all. Most barely even noticed me. They were too busy screaming at the
cops.To my unending chagrin and profound relief, the, "mob",
actually made way for me to get by.

Spotting a police officer just past the door, I grabbed him, telling
him that he needed to come back to the car with me to get the others.
He followed me out yelling as he went, hand on his gun. We got to the
car, the others poured onto the lawn, and away we went. Past the mob,
through the door into the lobby. Yikes! We could still hear and see
the crowd just beyond the glass doors. It was not pretty at all.

Apparently, the site had started up early that morning. Our site
supervisors "Simon", and his wife "Lois", were very nice people. They
had arrived on site, expecting it to have been set up for them.
Instead what they found was near riot conditions to begin with. The
site had not been provided with water. Not for staff, not for the
clients wilting fast in the hot hot sun. Nor had the site been
stocked with food, medical attendants or supplies, mental health
personnel, or a manual on how to go about processing the population
of a small town.

There were 5 port-a-potties that were already full. Astoundingly
inadequate for a mob of 6000. there were no facilities at all for the
disabled. No wheelchairs no toilets . no chairs to sit down on, no
shade. "Simon" and "Lois" had not been trained for this kind of
circus. None of us had been. "Simon" and "Lois" didn't know it yet,
but they had been hung out to dry by our department, Client Services.
While you are thinking about it, remember to add that phrase to
"jumbo shrimp", "Army intelligence", and "disaster relief" for that
matter, to your list of oxymorons. Unfortunately, ours was not the
only horror story caused directly by these fools. It was just the one
that made the news for the next few days.

The set up in the grand ballroom consisted of about 40 6'
tables, set up in rows. One caseworker to a table, 6 clients to a
table with 6 processing forms. We were to fill out the top of the
form with RC info, the clients would fill out the rest, or we would
fill out the rest, Or we and the clients would fill out the rest, or
kangaroos would arrive to take over the filling out of the forms, and
we could all go home.

Ok...We did get it better than that, but not
much. Remember, I had an advantage over most, as I had been doing
intake in Los Angeles for the past several weeks. I was supposed to
be one of the supervisors on my next assignment, and originally at
this one, but they needed every body at a table, so I was at least
for the moment, a caseworker. That was fine with me. Less to think
about.

The head of Operations was someone I at first named the Red
Hornet, due to her penchant to overreact and then make a beeline for
whatever or whomever it was that had pissed her off. I later came to
respect her as being pretty fair and balanced overall, even if she
did lean somewhat towards blind belief in her managerial staff, when
all available indicators pointed to their complete and utter
incompetence.

She announced to the volunteers that because of the
situation outside, we would have no lunch, and no breaks. I could see
her point. Besides which, we didn't have any food on site for the
staff anyway. Nice set up. If The Red Hornet was supposed to be the
calvary in this fiasco, she definitely needed more horses more men
and more guns. It was a train wreck.

Her second in command was this absolute idiot. Baby Huey in a
button down shirt. To quote the three stooges, " What a maroon". He
apparently had been trained in the Chicken Little style of
management, running around like the twit that he was, telling the
Site manager that HE was an idiot. Telling the Site Manager that
anything the manager had implemented was shit, and they were gonna do
it his way now. Running from volunteer to volunteer, pointing and
snapping at them. Trying not to miss anyone he could possibly offend.

At one point, as I walked towards him to ask a question, he pointed
at me, snapped his fingers and snarled, " You! Get back to your table!! Now!!!" I
stopped, looked at him, people going every which way around us, and
with my hand on my hip, leaned in and said, "Do I look like your schnauzer?" As I
turned my back on the SOB, I saw it was going to be a very long day.
I was later to suggest to his superior, that in the future, he not be
allowed near actual human beings, but for now, time to go with the flow.

I sat down, at my table, and began to help my clients fill out
forms. After about fifteen minutes, "Lois" approached me with another
caseworker and asked if I could help her out with a "situation". The
other caseworker took my place, and "Lois" led me over to the table
with the problem and left me there. It would be the last time I saw
that table, or acted as a caseworker. Not my doing. Not my choice.

As I sat down, the caseworker at the table filled me in. One of her
clients had just come in. The client was an epileptic. An epileptic
who had just had a seizure. An epileptic who had just had a seizure,
had some form of mental illness, a drug and alcohol problem, had no
ID, could barely speak, didn't know her name, and had been dropped
off at the site by someone else. She couldn't remember her rides'
name either. The caseworker asked me what she should do. This would
be my easiest problem of my time at the Bellemont.

I told the caseworker to bring the woman to the only paramedic that
we had, and let him deal with her.

From there it was nuts. I spent my day with the other three or
four supervisors, running from table to table,running all over the
building in fact, putting out "fires", helping to fill out forms,
answering questions. Nothing was going as it ought to. Forms were
incorrect, ID's were incorrect. People were angry and frustrated. We
tried our best to be patient. we tried our best to do it right.

At one table a woman started shouting at me and the caseworker,
" You just don't know what it's like! You don't understand" The whole
table was getting agitated, and I could see that tables nearby were
listening . I turned to the women at the table and said, "Have you
been watching the TV at all?" They looked at me like I was crazy.
They said yes, and asked what the hell that had to do with anything?

I asked them if they had seen the fires in Southern California?They
answered in the affirmative. I told them that those fires were right
by my house, and in between running around trying to help them, I had
been on the phone with my 19 year old son making an evacuation plan
for my home. They looked at me and didn't say a word for a moment.
One of them told me that she was sorry. The table went quietly back
to filling out forms.

I forgot to tell you all that part until just now. The fires in California
were raging. I didn't know yet if I would lose my house, and I was in
this insane asylum in Louisiana, called the Bellemont Hotel. Good thing that I had
something to do other than think. It would have been worse.

Later in the day, "Simon", sent me with his car back to HQ, to see
about getting some water for the site. I assumed that he had filed
out what is called a "greenie", A requisition form, and it hadn't
been filled.

When I arrived at HQ, I went to the first supervisor in
the chain of command, "Carrie". She smiled as usual, said that she
had too much to do, and sent me to the next rung up the rickety
ladder, "Ronnie". "Ronnie". What can I say about "Ronnie"? Nothing
good, that's for sure. "Ronnie" was misplaced. She not only came from
the Chicken-Littlle-Head-Exploding school of management, I suspect
that she originated it.

There was nothing that "Ronnie" couldn't get completely wound up
about. There was also nothing that she would ever did to lift a
finger. The level of incompetence that "Ronnie" achieved on a daily
basis, was only surpassed by her superior "Deliah", and echoed by the
short old chunky red headed viper in the group, "Jan".

I had heard repeated horror stories about, "Jan". That people had quit disasters,
(quit disasters...now doesn't that sound odd? But that is the
terminology here), and gone home because of her viciousness. I
thought they were exaggerating. I was wrong.

I Tried to speak to all of them one by one. One by one, they told me that I didn't know what
I was talking about, that there was plenty of water and food. The
Port-a-potties were more than sufficient to handle the crowd, and
what was I doing over there anyway? I felt as though I had entered
the Twilight Zone.

I took out my phone, and asked them one by one to please call my
Site Manager. That he had sent me over to them for help, and that we
had nothing at the site but 50 or so workers, a couple of cops some
"hot cards", (cards loaded with RC money), and 7000+ angry hot
clients.

I told them that we needed help. I told them that clients
were keeling over from the heat, and that we had no water to give
them. They told me that I misunderstood the situation. They told me
that water and food were on site. They told me told me to go
somewhere else.

I went somewhere else. I went to Health Services. There, they at
least seemed concerned. I spoke to the Head there, and she agreed to
some diaper changing stations, as no one can prepare for a nine hour
wait without having been given some prior information. Needless to
say, the Red Cross was not forthcoming with any information of that
type. Bad for publicity.

I thought it might be worse for publicity,
if someone keeled over and died there, but that's just me. The Health services person
suggested that I go and speak to Feeding to address the food and
water issue. Feeding. That at least made sense.

At Feeding, I spoke to one of the desk workers. I apprised them of
the situation, told them that my Site Manager had sent me over, and
asked them to call and confirm. They took my word for the condition
of the site. Another worker, overhearing our conversation remarked
that there was already an invoice out for Bellemont. I asked to see
it. You guessed it, he couldn't find it. The first guy put through
the order.

Returned to Feeding, about fifteen minutes later, to confirm the
shipment tomorrow of one pallet of water, and one pallet of snacks. A
supervisor in the area started to question why I was there. She was a
piece of work. Her exact words were:, "Who the hell are you?" I again
recounted my purpose, and again called my Site Manager for
confirmation.

She told me to put the phone away, and, "get the hell
out of her area". She then pointed at each of her workers and said,
"don't any of you give her food or water. its not our job". I
remembered her name. Later when the psycho supervisor wasn't around,
I snuck back. The first guy promised to get the food and water over
to my site, first thing the next day. What a relief.

I got back to the Bellemont just as things were winding down.
Everyone was exhausted. Several had decided to leave the site.
Several transferred into other areas, other sites, other departments.
Who could blame them? I gave the Site Managers my report on what had
happened. They had a hard time believing the total lack of support
they were receiving from their own department, in a fiasco created by
that department. While I was at HQ, they had called and gotten the
same response.

My coworkers were great. They gave me hugs and patted me on the
back. For a brief second, I felt like I had actually acomplished
something here. then I remembered the four to six thousand clients
that would arrive tomorrow. Like today, they would be left in the
lurch. Uninformed, waiting for hour after hour in the hot sun to get
a chance at some money.

We would botch their applications, and leave
them in a horrible line all day in the sun. Most would get their Red
Cross Credit card. Some would be turned away with explanations that
seemed arbitrary, as the reasons for denial changed from hour to hour, day to day.

The National Guard arrived just as we were leaving, fully armed
with M-16's. They made it look as though we had gone to war. It felt
as if it was a war. The volunteers and the people against
bureaucratic ineptitude. Bureaucratic ineptitude was winning so far,
but we were still up and fighting to do the right thing by our
clients.

The only comment that anyone from the Red Cross Volunteers
made as the arriving military slowly ambled past us, was that it didn't look
like there would be nearly enough of them.

Take care. Count your blessings,

Lisa

#12 Day Two: Orient Yourself

2005-09-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

At the shelter I sat up talking to "Alex" and "Amy ", until very late. At about midnight, "Alex" hushed us, and told us to listen. In about a minute a loud crackling and rushing shot through the large air conditioning vent above us. It sounded like an alien roaring through the vent. Everyone in the room shot up in their beds, and then lay back again to sleep. It happens twice every night.

Woke up the next morning to the woman next to me bumping my bed while she was getting dressed. I opened my eyes to see a great big mostly naked butt, practically in my face. Closed my eyes quickly and rolled over. Jeeeeeezzz........ Good morning. It was 5 am.

The shelter told us to pack all of our things, and take them with us, in case we weren't going to be coming back to that shelter. Sleeping bags, pads clothes, everything. I, "Amy", "Paul","Wanda", and a new guy, "Rolf" from Alaska crawled into the car and took off. FIgure of speech. Got to headquarters after an hour and a quarter's drive in miserable traffic.

Sat through an orientation. Sat through a second different orientation. Sat through the first shelter assignments for the day. We were not assigned to a shelter.Sat through a third orientation by "Client Services", the department that I am to work with. Still no assignments for anyone, but then we just got there.

"Paul" and I decided to go ahead and take the "Supervisor" orientation. Thought we were both going to slide off of our chairs into a stupor. It was very badly taught. The class kept on having to correct the instructors instructions. "Paul" had acted as a supervisor previously. He kept on saying with surprise, "Hey, that isn't right", and then proceeded to correct her again. It was a long long class.

Went back for another orientation. Still no assignment. Heard from "Wanda", that "Amy" had gotten assigned to a shelter in the south. We wouldn't see her again.

I have noticed a few things: Disorganization is an overriding theme. Hard and fast "rules", change from day to day, hour to hour. No one knows what the next person is doing until they are doing it there, right this minute. People have sat for as many as 5 days before getting assigned. We'll see. Another thing the Red Cross seems to breed, is people who are unable to delegate. They insist on crossing every T, and dotting every i all by them selves. This leads to an incredible backup of process, as no one person is capable of adequately handling the volume of information and logistics that this has generated.

There is also a problem with the staff tossing newbies into the fire without adequate training or information. At the Slidell location deep in southeast Louisiana, this led to at least 5 people collapsing from the heat, and being sent out of the area. In this location, information was taken from clients, in a drive through set up. It ended up in chaos, as some waiting for hours with their families in their hot cars were turned away. The next day, the head of that project described it to a new group, as, "going beautifully!"

On the other hand, we have sheltered more than 500, 000 people across the country, in last minute circumstances. Everyone works really hard, even if not a lot gets done in a timely manner. Ok, I am discouraged, but being politic.

Other than "Amy", the rest of us ended up there at headquarters all day, with no assignment. I think I can now confirm myself as "oriented". Hope there is at least somewhere I will go to help eventually, since this is what I came here for. Here I sit in Baton Rouge. All dressed up, and no where to go. Sorry this post isn't more interesting or amusing. I think they might have oriented it out of me at least for now.....
Best,

Lisa

#11 In Baton Rouge

2005-09-28T07:01:00.000-07:00

The flight out to Atlanta was uneventful. I had a row to myself and relaxed. Reread all of my RC materials and reviewed. Second flight was a bouncy little prop plane with cramped seats. As we flew over Baton Rouge, I couldn't help thinking how dry and normal it looked. In fact, the only water I saw was a small pond that didn't look particularly menacing.

The normalcy of the airport struck me too. People milling around. Going about their business as though nothing had ever happened in Louisiana. I retrieved my luggage on one of two small platforms. As I went out of the doors to look for the shuttle. I was hit by a wave of hot humid air. Sweating started immediatelt. I was in Louisiana.

No shuttle. Figures. Sign posted says that the last one leaves at 5:30. It is 5:35. Figures again. I call the Red Cross line to call for a shuttle. A message machine picks up stating that no one is avaialable, and that the message recorder is full. I start laughing. I started to call the after hours number, expecting about the same, when I see the shuttle.

Although I hadn't seen any of them before, there ended up being 5 of us in the van. We came from all over. One even from Canada. I struck up a friendship with a blond woman from California named, "Amy". She had somehow managed to pack everything she needed for her 10 day deployment, into a rolling book bag. I was impressed. Needless to say I overpacked, and it was not in a book bag.

We drove to the headquarters of the Red Cross. Still, everything looked normal. Driving up to the door, that changed. HQ is located in an old Wal-Mart. It looked like we were deploying for war. there was a guard outside, checking ID. You went in, lined up your luggage in the outside section, and went in. There were tables and people everywhere. Lines of people leading up to them, and loads of others in RC vest walking from one station to the next.

I logged in, did a short interview, and moved to the next staion, where I was placed in a staff shelter in Denham Springs, at a Baptist church, who's name I still keep on forgetting. The next stop was to have my picture taken, and get an ID. From there, to CLS, the department that used to be called "family services" . I registered there, and started to schmooze. It pays to schmooze. I ended up with a car to drive. I rounded up our group and a few others, and away we went.

It was a long drive to the Staff shelter. Our group consisted of "Amy", "Paul", who had come down from Alberta Canada, "Kathy", a quiet rangey woman from South Dakota, decked head to toe in Red Cross regalia, and "Wanda", a young, slightly overweight woman from Moussourri...I know...I spelled that wrong....Most of the talking on the way over was about where the heck we were going.

The directions were terrible. One said,"go a short way". The "short way" was 3 miles. We finally arrived, the church was out in east nowhere. Not many people outside, it looked pretty calm. Walking in, that changed. The floor was covered in metal cots with bodies in them. Men and women. I signed in, and went to the women only section.

I found a cot in the middle of the small sea of women, found a squishy air matress and started to drag out my stuff and set up. After setting up, I went to find "Amy" and "Paul" to drag them out for something to eat. I found "Amy" sitting on a cot, talking avidly with a young man that I was later introduced to as "Alex". I told her that I needed to get something to eat, and asked if they would like to go with me.

After some hemming and hawing, the two came along, sans "Paul". We went to a local joint where the waitress promptly dropped a bottle of Hot Sauce on the floor next to me. It went all over my foot. There I was, baptized with hot sauce. Welcome to Louisiana. Dinner was steamed shrimp and fried alligator. Yeah, you read it right. Fried alligator. Don't start.

We talked at dinner, we found that we had come out for pretty much the same reasons, a combination of curiosity and altruism. "Alex was an IT guy from Boston. "Amy", was from Orange County. She had quit her job as a teacher a year ago, and now imported something comprised of earls and magnets, or something like that from China. She loved her job. Hse told us that she had taken a year off once and back packed across Australia. That was pretty interesting.

Back at the shelter, the lights were out. I found my bed, and went to take a shower with the help of "Alex's" loaned flashlight. Four showers for 100 people. We were comparatively lucky. Some staff shelters had no showers. Wish they had as many plugs for powering up our phones. It took a while, to settle in, but I finally managed. I forget...... people snore. Hope I don't. More later,

Take care,

Lisa

#10 A Word About the Red Cross

2005-09-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

I really don't want to be a complainer. Ok...now you know that I plan to complain. (Here it comes) But I had to write this before I go off to Baton Rouge, to put some of what I have and will write about in perspective. There is a word I would like to mention in regard to the Red Cross. The word I would like to stamp...by hand, on every article item and form and some of the staff of the great and powerful OZ...I mean....Red Cross.... is "antique"." Antique" about sums it up. I read the word in a recent article I came across in The New York Times, recounting the recent ejecting of the Red Cross from a Georgia shelter, due to ineptitude. I couldn't agree with it more.

The Red Cross is a lumbering dinosaur, where Luddites abound, knuckles are blithely dragged and much like most of the administration presently in Washington, where the principles of Darwin could never be proved.

Lets start with this little revelation: All processing at the RC is done by hand and on paper forms....and I mean everything. As I have told you before: carbon paper is involved......excuse me while I go choke on that one more time. Let us now all have a moment of silence for the forests that have been eradicated in order to stock the Red Cross with once and future paperwork. Take your time.

Don't get me wrong, not that you could, there are computers in the place. However, they are seen for the most part, only on the desks of the staff, for their own mysterious use. No "client" or volunteer processing that I have seen, is done on a screen with a keyboard. Nor does anything resembling an intelligent design..(hic), include a template or database.

Passing the many idle, ancient PCs, I am sure they are occasionally used for looking up vital information, but a nagging sense of reality in the form of colored documents filled in by hand that virtually carpet the offices, almost forces me to suspect that some of the old clunker PCs, see more solitaire games than interfacing.

Oh I take it back...sort of. In the Greater Los Angeles intake building on Wilshire Blvd, where upwards of 1000 of the current California total evacuees of approximately 1600 have been processed, there is one computer that gets regular use. It is old. That one computer, is used by volunteers, Some of whom, are not what even my long dead grandmother would call "proficient". Their job is use this one computer to search on-line for the records of all evacuees who come in with no identification, so that they can be properly processed. It takes forever.

In the case of my personal processing experience, it has worked out to about 2 clients in 8. You do the math, I still count on my fingers.

Once the ever so long and large first form...the one with the unmentionable disposable part that starts with "c", is laboriously filled out by hand by a volunteer interviewing a client, the volunteer then hands that form to a second volunteer, who's job it is to also file the oddly shaped c-copied pink section of the first form in a small worn box, with small, frayed, paper, alphabetically tabbed separators. Did you get all of that? Me neither.

That volunteer, when notified by a third volunteer, hands the form to a fourth volunteer who then walks around the room calling the name of the hapless client who may have gone outside for a smoke. When the client is found, he, she or they, are walked over to another room, where they sit at a table with a stack of forms, with a fifth, and possibly a sixth volunteer.

Volunteer six then goes over form #1 all over again, just to be sure volunteer one did it correctly. Vol. six then proceeds to ask the client many more questions, and fill out many more forms. All by hand. Housing, medical and a few more that I can't recall just now, or would like to forget.

At the end of the large form, form #1, there are two places to sign. One space is if you want your private information to go to FEMA, the other is to acknowledge that the information contained in the form is accurate.The volunteer filling out the form signs on behalf of the Red Cross.

Note: FEMA is a part of the Federal Government. The Red Cross is not. If you are an illegal alien, and have signed the FEMA release section without being fully informed of who exactly FEMA is, then the government now has all of your personal information. Including where to find you. Few volunteers will fully inform you of that. Few volunteers know.

When all possible permutations of forms have been duly filled out, vol. six then walks the paperwork over to an office called, "the bank", seats the client outside, and delivers the paperwork which consists of the first gigantoid hard form folded, which is then used as an ersatz folder to contain the rest of the forms. How ingenious. If you are a monkey. Or perhaps if this was 1850.

The folder/form with all of the paperwork therin, is then placed in a metal tray. That operation involves lifting up all of the other ersatz, paper-filled folders with one hand, or two if you must, putting the new one at the bottom of the tray, and then replacing the rest of the e-folders,("e" is for "ersatz", get it?), back on top of the first, so that the folders will be handled in order. Woof.

The actual money giving is pretty fast. once the "bank" officer, who is a staff member, gets the file they review it for accuracy. Hopefully the "bank officer", was a professional decoder in their last life, as not all handwriting is legible. After all is confirmed, the client is brought in and given a debit card with a set amount of dollars, determined by the number of family members on that first form. Money. Cool. Besides their old life back, just what they wanted.

At that point, if medical aid is needed, the client is walked over with some of the first papers filled out to the Nurse's station, where more questions will be asked, more forms will be filled out, appointments will be made, and housing will be found.

Although things seem to go fairly quickly at our office, riots and near riots have broken out at shelters with the waiting, from what I have read and heard. People with too much time on their hands start to talk among themselves about what might be going on during the wait.

Think of the old game "post office", where one player whispers information into the ear of the next person, who whispers into the ear of the next...well...you've got the idea. Now think of that on a large scale, only the players are disaster victims who have lost everything but the clothes on their backs.

The evacuees are tired, stressed and depressed. Not all are well educated. They are all however, in a beureaucratic maze that they can't begin to find their way through alone, much less understand. It is supremely frustrating. There is a shortage of trained volunteers, emphasis on the word, "trained", and believe it or not, a shortage of money. One day, they might be us. Lets hope something changes before then.

Did I forget to mention, if a volunteer somehow fills out a form incorrectly, they are supposed to tear it up and start over again? Oddly, there is a continual shortage of forms. Loads of recycling materials though.

The Red Cross should take a page from IKEA. You know, the giant Swedish home furnishing store who somehow manage to take your order upstairs and get it downstairs without someone having to walk it there. The only paper a client or staff sees at IKEA, is the receipt at the end.

So..... what happens to all of these forms you ask? Didn't think about it yet did you? Think about it. Take your time. Are your eyes getting wider by the minute at the probability? That's right. They are filed. By hand. Miles of files. All hand written, some difficult to read. All involving carbon paper copies. They are also mis-filed, they are also lost. there is no backup system. Take a minute to get your breath back, as at this point you are either stunned, stupified, or laughing your self into a pile on the floor.

I will have to guess what happens next, as I don't actually know, and haven't gotten around to asking yet. I believe, back in some room, somewhere computers have been invented, all of the mountains of handwritten pages are somehow deciphered by some poor lost mole and entered into some obscure database that few will ever be able to find again.

The doing of this must take entire careers. Entire lifetimes for that matter. Legions. The Red Cross headquarters must be filled to the brim with handwritten folders, notes and other archaic, traditon-bound paperwork. No one had better light a match in the joint.

On one hand, the agency is completely dedicated to helping victims of disaster. Volunteers are for the most part accurate and empathetic. Staff is overworked and underpaid. From what I have seen first hand, Everyone truly does do their best. Money goes to who it should go to. People are helped.

On the other hand, could someone please call the Red Cross and let them know that we have passed the turn of the century? Oh, and could you also mention to them, that its the 21st century, not the last one?

Best,

Lisa

#9 I've been Deployed

2005-09-23T00:02:00.000-07:00

Got the call today, at about 6 pm. The woman on the other end of the line sounded franitic. She said, "Hi, is this Lisa? I'm "Betty", from the Red Cross. We need to deploy you immediately to Baton Rouge. I want you in the air by Sunday at the latest". Kinda figured that might happen with the new storm Rita coming in, and another named Philippe heading for Florida. Hadn't heard that yet, have you?

She proceeded to give me a list of things to know and remember. Disaster number, my personal number, number for the travel agency, number for the hotline telling me what to bring. Number to call her. Way too many numbers if you ask me.

I was to call the travel agency and get the first flight out Sunday. This proved impossible, as for some ungodly reason, all of the flights available were booked solid. Not helped by the fact that several airlines routed their Baton Rouge flight through Houston...whoops. So, I can't get out until Tuesday at the earliest.

The flight is booked. It cost $863 dollars. Luckily within the $900 flight budget allotted. $900! The last time I spent $900 on a flight, I was going to Nagoya, Japan, not Baton Rouge Louisiana. Who in their right mind would spend that much to get to Louisiana, especially in a disaster situation? One would think the going-bankrupt-quickly airlines might be lending a hand in these troubled times. I guess they don't see it as their problem. Guess when they finally do go completely bankrupt, we won't see that as our problem.

After I booked the flights, I contacted the office to let them know when I would be out, but couldn't reach anyone. I then called my pal "Andy", who had been in Baton Rouge on deployment for the last few weeks.

Apparently what we hear on the news is not exactly an accurate depiction of what is going on out there. Quelle Surprise. Still bodies all over the place, and they are still going house to house in search of survivors.....and it just started raining again. They are sending him off to Houston on Sunday if Houston is still there.

I also called my gallery owner friend. Back, staying with friends just outside of New Orleans for right now, who describes her house and family cars as "toast". Opened her car where the water had gone to the dash. She said it was about 150 degrees inside the car. She said that it was full of sludge and black mold. In fact, she said her house was full of the same. Water had gone up about waist high in the house, but that was enough to destroy virtually everything.

I started called my family to let them know. One friend who called in the middle of it all, asked me if I had thought about the possibility that I might lose my life out there? Now that was what I needed to hear. A little dramatic, but no, I had not considered it. Of course I suppose I could get hit by a bus, or carjacked here just as well. In any case, I plan to continue not to consider it.

Spoke to my favorite head woman again. She called at about 7:30 pm. She had been there since 7:30 am. I am anointing her queen of the planet, or at least submitting her for sainthood. She is taking a few days off before the onslaught begins anew. About time. These guys are totally and completely swamped. If you have a few hours, go in and answer phones or something.

So that's it for now. I might go in tomorrow for more hands on experience. I have an orientation on Saturday, taught by either the ranting woman or the guy who speaks little english. Should be edifying. I hope it is.

There they will give me my deployment papers, and my RC charge card to be used for necessities while on deployment. Like food. Wonder how they will do that if the power goes out again?

I am a little nervous, can you tell? I am sure that they must know what they are doing, but occasionally, it does look from this end as though the monkeys are running the zoo. Like I said...can all of you go in for a few hours and help out there? I will be less nervous if I know my friends are helping to run the joint....lol.

I will again let you know more when I know more.

Best,

Lisa

#8 How Things Work...or Don't

2005-09-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

Well...

Another day, another load of paperwork....and people. Worked all afternoon at the Family Services center. This time as a caseworker. Intake was a whole lot easier. After this day, I would look back at the one carbon paper form that I had been using, wistfully.

Before going into work, I first stopped at the main office to talk with the head of services. I happened to walk in at the same time as "Anna", who had just returned from her deployment in Louisiana. It did not sound pretty. Nowhere to sleep, services overwhelmed, teeth to be brushed with bottled water only. Someone even approached her with a kinfe. Still, she said that they had done good things. She welcomed the chance to return as soon as they would let her. "Anna" is 66, and about 5' tall.

As I left, crossed the street, and walked down the alley to the entrance of the Family Services Center, I encountered one of our mental health professionals standing there. His name is "Arthur". "Arthur" is somewhere between 65 and 70 years old. He stands about 6' 3", has a much too long shock of white hair, a large moustache, watery blue eyes and an unfortunate prediliction to brightly patterned sweater vests.

He motioned me over to him, and as is his habit, looked deeply into my eyes and took my hand. Never letting go of my hand, still looking at me with a heavy demeanor of concern, (one, by the way, that he always has, even if he is only asking the way to the bathroom), he told me that we had a suicidal woman in the buiding. Could I go inside the building and find "Josiah", the other mental health worker and send him out? As he said this, a black and white squad car turned into the alley. Things were off to a roaring start.

I retrieved my hand, rushed into the building, and began to canvas the rooms. I finally found, "Josiah" in a hallway, sitting with a woman who was clearly beside herself. She was weeping. I gently pulled him to one side, and very quietly told him that the police had arrived. To my surprise, he nodded his head and left to go outside, leaving her alone.

Not sure what to do, given the information I was told, I went over to sit and talk with the woman. I introduced myself, and asked how I could help her. There was no calming her down, so I just kept on talking. Those of you who know me well are laughing now,(or wincing), because you know just how well I can do that.

I told her that I knew how she felt. That we had many clients that had no ID, and we were still successful at putting them through after a computer search. I told her that I had been in disasters myself, and had needed the Red Cross' help. I started to ask her questions. I just kept on talking, she just kept on crying. Finally she began to respond.

She said that she had no ID, she had just moved to Louisiana from Arkansas and her husband had disappeared during the storm. She still didn't know where he was. She was a mental health caseworker herself. She told me that she had kids, and could give me the number where they were staying. She couldn't believe that she was in this position.

I asked if they had any utilities yet, as we can look up utilities. The answer was no. She changed several parts of her story just slightly, remembering a few things that she hadn't remembered before. Some of those things would help her.

As we kept talking, she calmed down considerably and stopped crying. I took her into the computer room, introduced her, and they started the search. As I was leaving, I turned and saw that she was calm, eagerly talking to the computer tech, handing her what few papers she had. I went outside.

I found both mental health guys in the parking lot talking to the police. I noticed that one of the officers held a bag chock full of pill bottles. Not just a few pill bottles, I mean about twenty pill bottles. They were hers. When she was told that she couldn't be helped without ID, she had gone off crying while the volunteers were trying to figure out the next step in helping her.

Someone had seen her pull out the bag, take out a bottle, uncap it, and pour out a handful of pills into her palm. She had a bottle of water. That was when one of the staff was called to intervene. I stumbled on the scene right after.

The police and the mental health workers talked among themselves and to me. The psychologists felt that although she had calmed down, they couldn't risk her perhaps hurting herself, or someone else, so the decision was made to take her into the hospital for observation. I went back to work.

Later I found out that she had not gone easily. There was quite a scene. The pills that had been in those bottles, were mostly painkillers. Vicodin, Demerol, etc... They were in her name, and came from pharmacies in Arkansas and Los Angeles. Nothing from Louisiana.

Someone finally reached her son at the number she gave in Los Angeles. We assumed from what she said, that he had been evacuated too. He lives here. He thought that she lived here. He said that he hadn't seen or heard from his mother in eight years.

The consensus in the end was that she was local, and she had some serious emotional problems. Speaking with the computer tech, "Sandia", she mentioned that the woman kept on changing her story over and over again. I might hear later how it turned out. I might not.

This is only one kind of situation that comes up in a disaster recovery. Everyone and everything comes out of the woodwork. It is one of our jobs to separate those truly in need from the local knuckleheads and those, local and otherwise, whose emotional stability could use some help.

From what I heard one of the local knuckleheads had come in the day before. he was 16. Tried to claim that he was a "head of household", and put in a claim for himself and his 5 children. When the staff stoped laughing, they threw him out.

Oh...I did hear about "Deewain"....from a few days ago..... After I had to leave, another mental health worker did show up, looked for him and spent quite some time talking to him. He has appointments to go back all of this week. He was given his debit card, and housing. Clothes were found for him. So that at least is good news.

Finally I got to the casework. What a lot of forms!!

First, you review the intake form. Every line. "Just in case". I found there was a lot of "just in case" to correct. Then you make a copy of their ID, and any cross references needed to verify their ID. Then you finish filling out the very very long intake form.

Next there is a form for money and transportation, ranges from $350 for one person to a nice chunk of change for a family of five. After that, if needed, there is housing and medical and more. your hand could fall off from filling them out all day.

After you are finished with the forms, or......you have used up all of the ink in your pen from the filling, you walk the client over to Medical if they need it. There they are seen by a nurse who assesses their needs, and refers them. We pay for this.

When they are done there, you escort the client to the "bank". There, their case is again reviewed, and approved. They are given a debit card with the approved amount of money, and given their housing information and placement. From there we send the information to FEMA.

FEMA. What can I say? I can't. Voicing an opinion about another agency is a no no. FEMA has a 24 hour a day help line. From what the evacuees have told me, the only time that you have even the remotest chance of reaching FEMA is at 2 in the morning....on a phone that works....in an area that isn't affected......because the phones don't work if you are in an area that is affected...and if they do work, you'd still best call at 2 am.

On the other hand, you can get to FEMA by computer. That is if you own a computer.....or know how to use a computer......or are in an area that has electricity. Or computer service....where the server isn't down. Oh yeah....apparently, due to the large volume of people trying to access the FEMA site on line, the best time to access it is at 2 in the morning. Draw your own conclusions.

I did however talk to one client who called FEMA 30 or so times, was able to reach them, only to have them tell him that they had lost his case number when he reached them a second time after the next 46 calls. However, in cross referencing his ID through his bank, we found that FEMA had transferred $2000 into his bank account within two days of the first call to them. Just shows ta go ya.

In case you didn't know much about the Red Cross: There is a paid staff, but it is relatively small. Everyone else is a volunteer. All of the volunteers are unpaid. There are hundreds of volunteers. All of the money to help those in need, comes from your donations, and the vast majority of those donations get to who they are supposed to.

One of our jobs is to make sure...through paperwork, references and cross-references that those in need are who they say they are, so that your money and mine goes where its supposed to. Sometimes it takes more time that we would like it to, but all things considered, it is remarkably fast.

There is a lot more to tell...like about the guy who is a band manager and a minister that marries people on cruise ships. Who in trying to help 28 musicians from Louisiana, almost lost the funding for all of them....... and a lot more odd stories......but I have put too many words to pixels today, so they will have to wait. Don't want to bore you.

Until next time...

Take care,

Lisa

#7 More Info

2005-09-15T22:01:00.000-07:00

Spent the day playing phone tag with the head of department. She of whom I cannot say enough good things. Apparently, because I had filled in the wrong answer in the right box, I was not to be deployed. She fixed it. On top of the 12 hour days and the memos screaming at her for attention on her desk that were certainly more pressing than I, she fixed it. Amazing.

As the fix involved finagling, we won't go into it, except to say that we love logic, and we love finaglers.

Of course the rest of the day wwas intermitently spent trying to get signed on for one more day of work....and that was another story.

I called 5 different numbers, got five different people, none of whom knew that the Red Cross has a Family Services department, much less where it might be. Then those 5 transferred me over to another 5, who didn't know any more than the first 5.

Sigh.....Bureaucracy as run by volunteers. Inexperienced volunteers smashed in the face by a situation no one anticipated. Who knew? Anyway....How do you drill for the end of the world?

So the upshot of the day is: I am approved to go.......buuuuuttt...they still may not call me up for deployment. My frind Karen was asked to give the dates that she is available, I was not. So, it is looking more and more as though I will be staying here.

I plan to go into the RC tomorrow to do casework for a few hours. If perchance they do send me, I will hopefully be better prepared. If not, as one friend said: I have been deployed.

L

#6 Intake in Los Angeles

2005-09-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

Hi guys,

Woof.....This will be a long one. Where do I start? Wednsday, I
went in to the downtown Red Cross office to do the volunteer work
they had requested of me. I was supposed to work a10 hour day as a
case worker, processing evacuees. Didn't work out that way.

I arrived late, as the one and one half hour commute to get
there was actually a two hour commute during rush hour. Not fun. Oh
well. First group I encountered was at the front of the building. Red
Cross volunteers like myself. They mostly just looked at me as though
I had just gotten off of the mother ship. Except for this one
enormous man at the front with a shaved head, that was wearing a
badge bearing the name, "Fridge". So he was. The two of us would
have made a good circus act. I am 5'3", and 100 pound. He was easily
quadruple that..... eek. Our official greeter. "Fridge" was very
friendly.

Next, I went into the meeting room where the orientation meeting
that I had just missed was wrapping up. What did I miss? Never found
out.

As things unwound, I was assigned to " Karol", who was a Red
Cross staff member that I mistook for a volunteer. Ooops. He reenacts
mideaval battles and swordplay in his spare time.He spent a little
time telling me about the kind of longbow that he uses. Oh...by the
way, I am changing everyone's name in this narrative, to protect
both the innocent and the inept.

I was following "Karol" around, about to begin processing, when
someone commented that "Tony", one of the supervisors needed help
with intake. In the end, that is where I spent my day. Intake. Not
what I came in for, but that's where they needed the most help.

I sat myself down at a table for 6. three of us on one side,
three clients on the other. "Tony" placed a form...that I had seen
once briefly in training in front of me...the big cartoon one with
the carbon paper, (figures that I would get that one), and called
the first client. From there, I was pretty much on my own. Lord help
them.

Luckily for everyone involved, the form was fairly self
explanitory,(although apparently not to everyone. THe lead case
worker came in later that day, just to tell me that she loved me, as
apparently, I was the only person in the last five days to fill out
the form correctly. Ai yi yi!). Thank God. I took their ID, filled
out what I could using the ID, and then asked a series of questions
relating to their housing, needs and insurance. All of the clients
were completely exhausted. Some of them had been turned out of a
plane with the clothes on their back, without a penny in their
pocket. Some had hitchhiked here. One of them with 4 kids. Most of
them were scared. I didn't blame them. It shook me up too. They could
easily be me. They could easily be you.

It took a while, but I got into a rhythm. I would introduce
myself, ask them their name, and then I would welcome them to
California. I tried to talk to each person during the tedious job of
filling out the form, so that they weren't just sitting there
wondering what the hell I was doing with their lives. At the end of
our interview, I would shake their hand, smile and say jokingly,
"Welcome to the system. You're in it". One woman just looked at me
and started to laugh herself sick when I said that. She wiped the
tears from her eyes as she repeated it to the woman next to her, and
that woman started to laugh too. That felt better.After I would
explain that this was the first step in processing their information
so that we could get the proper help to them as soon as possible.

The room and the building were industrial. Industrial colors.
Beige and green. Our small interview space led into a larger waiting
area, that held uncomfortable seats and one scratchy TV. Hard walls,
hard floors, ugly colors, warm hearts.

We had all kinds of satisfyingly nasty snacks available. Oreos,
chips, crackers. Loads of other stuff too, although no one seemed to
touch the graham crackers. I know I didn't. To drink, there were all
of the varied unnaturally colored Gatorades sitting in ice.

I found it jarring watching a very quiet, old, rheumy eyed,
grizzled man with skin as black as pitch, cradling a bottle of
florescent green liquid. It made the gatorade look like some magic
potion. Kind of like the bottles in Alice in Wonderland, that read:
"drink me". I wish it was. It will take magic to return their lives
to them.

Later we had a big spread of KFC. Biscuits, corn, homey
macaroni salads full of mayonnaise, and sandwiches. Everyone, staff
and clients ate, whether they felt like it or not. If only for a
minute, it took our minds off of the turn this world had taken.

The staff and volunteers were interesting. There was no obvious
chain of command in place, and as a result, several popped up to fill
what they saw as a void. The woman doing intake next to me, came with
an agenda. She would ask the clients benign personal questions about
their needs, and then attempt to fill them herself. She told one
client that she had a coat in the car that would fit her, and several
others that her husband was a doctor, and could take care of them.

Her heart was in the right place, unfortunately, paperwork bored
her. Her forms were a mess, and would no doubt later cause the
clients and caseworkers unnecessary time in fixing them. She didn't
last long though. After her fourth break in two hours, she
disappeared. I am guessing that the kind of rescue work we were
providing proved not to be as dramatic as she had hoped...lol.

The next guy was great though, "Ron". Efficient and quick. He
put the clients at ease. We did have one old man who showed up to
help and for some reason got placed at my table. Not only was he
deaf, he began to ask totally inappropriate questions and make
comments that were religious racial and sexual. I ran for "Tony".
"Tony" yanked the man, and sent him supervised, to sit watching
people sign in at the front.

A young man in a yellow shirt took charge throughout the day. he
seemed very authoritative and knew what he was doing in correcting
and directing us. Unfortunately, he wasn't and didn't. Had to fix
everything he did in the end. Luckily, I had checked in with "Tony",
before changing things. Too bad I was almost the only one. "Wanda"
the woman who was supervising our room, had all of the correct info.
Unfortunately because she appeared a bit timid, no one listened to
her. Authority of the boldest ruled.

If the client didn't have any hard ID. Picture ID with a date,
or Drivers License, we were not allowed to process them, due to some
wise guys in the neighborhood who quickly caught on that a handout
was to be had. This posed a huge problem in several cases, as clients
forced to swim through the muck dead bodies and debris quickly lost
all that they had on them.

In this case, we sent them next door, where for at least a
while, a young Red Cross wizard of twenty-something, large,
longhaired bespectacled and bearded, looking for all the world like
the stereotypical physics major, was able in most cases to pull up a
phone record or a gas bill or some other record on line. He was
amazing. Others followed in his wake, but he was the king and saviour
of the day.

Some still could not find ID, and in those cases, we sent them 5
blocks away to the Social Security office to obtain emergency IDs. I
hated to do that, and weaseled my way around it as much as I could
when I was certain that the person I was talking to was who they said
they were. I only had one that I turned away, and it turned out that
indeed, all of the info that he had given me was bogus. He was in the
end, who he said he was, he just thought it would get him through
faster if he gave someone elses' info as he had lost his. Took him
all day to fix it, and no on believed a word he said after that

I just couldn't see sending someone totally cut from their
moorings, out into a strange city, to fend for themselves, wait in
more lines and be further alienated and exhausted. It seemed wrong.

In interviewing the stream of people that passed by me, I found
several things: Most of them didn't want to go back to wherever they
came from. They had had enough. The ones that did wish to return,
were vehement about it. That was their home. The sooner they were
able to return, the better.

Some of the clients stuck in my mind. " Appolonia", was one of
the patients trapped in the hospital at Tulane when the Hurricane
hit. She was one of the ones that arrived with nothing. 49, still
recovering from illness, delicate and shaken to her core. She was
terrified. Who could blame her? The only thing familiar in where she
had ended up was that she was still in America, and most of us spoke
english. She stayed all day until she could be placed in housing. We
took special care of her.

"Anita and John". An older creole couple possessed of great
dignity and elegance. They had swum to a rooftop where they sat
without food or water for three days more or less until they were
plucked off. She was 74. He was 80. She was concerned because he
needed his cancer treatments and his eye medicine. She needed
medication too, but was reluctant to bring it up. He had the most
beautiful voice. She called me her "angel". That broke my heart. I
could do so little.

"Sally" was a big cheerful 30 ish woman who shepherded through
her mother, her sisters, her three cousins and their families. She
was indefatigable, the rest of her family were basket cases. They all
came from Sunflower, Mississippi. Sunflower...what a name for a city.
It was all kindling now. "Sally" was relentless. In the end, although
they were some of the first clients that went through, they were our
last clients of the day. I and another worker tried to shovel them
all through without obtaining the proper ID's necessary to confirm
them. They had to swim to get out. None of them had any identifying
paperwork with them, the ones with the proper IDs, were able to
identify the others though. We succeeded with some of them, and got
chewed out like hell for the ones that they caught us on. More on
that later.

Then there was "Deewain". He was a 28 year old that looked to be
about 17. He had corn rows, a big baby face, and a mouth full of some
very artistic gold teeth. He was just beaten down, and he was
cracking under the strain.

I found in my interviews, that Houston was definitely not the
place to be when you needed help. Turns out, that in Houston, several
of our clients, including, "Deewain", had been robbed of the few
possessions that they were able to salvage by the locals there.
Stories about that were rampant. Remind me to avoid Texas in the
future. Can't vouch for my own city either. One young couple had
someone approach them to try and rob them on their way to the intake
center. Despicable dregs of humanity, preying on the vulnerable.

All this poor guy wanted was a meal, a change of underwear, and
someone professional to talk to...... He had been wearing the same
clothes for a week, and washing them in sinks when he could. Because
of his lack of ID, he was put through the ringer, despite our best
efforts. The catch phrase of the day turned out to be, "rules are
rules". I spent my time finding ways around that, while still
adhering to the letter of the law.

I looked all over for our mental health guy, but couldn't find
him. I was told he had left for the day. I was worried. For the rest
of the day, I watched "Deewain", like a hawk. I was afraid he would
go off somewhere and kill himself. No, I am not exaggerating. In the
end, I had to hand him off to someone else, who swore that she would
look out for him.

There were others, The woman with 6 children taken in at a local
church. She had nothing, no one, and no where to go. Her hair was
perfect. She had beautiful eyes. We were able to place her and give
her a debit card to use, as we were with just about everyone.

The one lone white man. Tall, blond and rail thin with
pockmarked skin and a bad look to his eyes. He had his two little
boys with him, that he wouldn't let out of his sight. Several
caseworkers offered to take the kids up to the supervised play room,
so that they weren't in the middle of the mess of people downstairs,
but he insisted they would never leave him.

When I sat down and spoke to the boys, they readily agreed to go
with me, however, it turned out to be dad who didn't want to be left
alone. He refused to let them go. Although it was offered, he
wouldn't accept any help for the kids, or enrollment in any programs
for them. No mom in sight. I suspected something else was going on,
but nothing I could do in the capacity I was in, and the crush of
people that waited. That one still worries me.

On the whole though the stories were good. We were able to get
almost everyone through the process fairly seamlessly. The Red Cross
was able to provide them with shelter, money, and food, and direct
them to various agencies for clothing and other help. Every client I
processed was patient, kind and helpful. Amazing with what they had
all been through.

As I mentioned earlier, we got in trouble about the ID thing.
The head of our unit, the "buck stops here" person, is a tall dour
woman with the name o a goddess, but who looks for all the world like
the female version of Barney Fife. She was also unfortunately....
blessed with the bedside manner of the Wicked Witch of the West.

Although I must say she was extremely precise and efficient.
Very directed, intelligent and in charge. She was seriously cranky
by nature. In this case, furious that some had been let through
without hard ID. In one instance, a caseworker had relied on a call
to a mom in Biloxi to identify her 35 year old son in Los Angeles.
Turned out that he was who he said he was after further processing.
Of course "Barney", was no where to be found when all of us were
looking for approval or to ask questions. Then again, she had made
herself so unapproachable, that I don't know if most would have dared.

Apparently she had wanted large signs posted throughout the
building, stating that no one would be processed without ID, but was
overruled on the grounds that the media might see it. She ordered
that they would be placed prominently the next day. Media or not. She
also intended to discontinue the computer help that were were so
relieved to be giving. Instead, she planned to send everyone lacking
ID packing off on the trek to the Social Security office down the
road. We were horrified, but there is nothing that we can do about it.

This news was all delivered in a rant. At the end of the speech,
I was thinking that she should have simply spoke to us in her native
German.....kidding......

You know, I would never wish upon anyone the calamity that had
befallen the gulf coast, but in her case, I can't say that it didn't
cross my mind ever so briefly. I know that she is in a tough
position, and I do understand that should we give our resources to
those who don't need it, then those who do will lack, but just a
little empathy from her would have gone a long way.

We processed 100 + families that day. Apparently a record. One
that will no doubt be broken in the days to come. There are thousands
more to go in the next weeks and months. Not sure where we are going
to put them all. They need jobs, housing, money, clothing,
counseling, understanding, continuity and so much more. It will take
a long time. I hope we are all up to the task.

Sorry this one was so long. there is so much to say, and so much
left unsaid. I still don't know if I am to be deployed. I went over
to the main building on Wednesday, and hunted down the head of the
department, by wearing my "volunteer" badge and looking like I knew
where I was going. Her name...ah shoot...I started to give her name,
but I don't want any grief for her....sigh.... Anyway, she's just
great, possessed of all of the empathy, intelligence and kindness,
that one could hope for. She says she will call me today. I trust
that she will.

Sorry this was so long. If you wish to be removed from my list,
just hit the reply button, and type "remove", in the subject line.

Take care,

Lisa

#5 More Red Cross Classes

2005-09-13T21:33:00.000-07:00

Hi there,

Me again. Took the last of my Red Cross classes yesterday.
Can't tell you how happy I am to be done with them.

First class was taught by a fellow who's grasp of english was limited, and who's thick accent was very difficult to cut through. Second class was taught by a cranky loud woman who spoke rapid fire, and went so quickly through filling out the necessary forms, that many in the class had trouble keeping up with her. Quite a contrast.

Yesterday's class was Family Services. Taught by a man who
absolutely droned. Ai yi yi,...it was like torture. It was one of
those: how many words can I use over and over and over again to
describe this one teeny tiny element of what you need to
know....before I move on to the next teeny tiny element which I will
describe to you in the minutest detail, using the largest possible
number of monosyllabic words that I am familiar with? He exhausted
us.

Also more endless forms. I was shocked at the lack of
computerization in a major agency such as this. One gigantic
cartoonish form measuring about 12"x18" even had carbon paper.
Carbon paper????

One of the forms though was very high tech. As has
happenedin the past, some people show up after a disaster with counterfeit
forms, trying to scam money. In response, they have developed a form
that when you squeeze a certain marked portion of it, it changes
color to verify its authenticity.

Some people left. It was that dreadful. I figured that If I
couldn't live through these three classes and instructors, then I
would be pretty pathetic when any real hardship comes up. Like
someone losing their temper at me because I wasn't understanding
their needs quickly enough. That will happen... I am guessing. Maybe the classes are a test...lol

I did learn a lot though. I learned that the Red Cross is a
bureaucracy, and like any bureaucracy, it is encumbered by rules and
regulations. Most of them for good reason. Some of them a bit
nonsensical to a left leaning Californian.

I also learned that the Red Cross is a short term emergency stop gap. They provide money,food and shelter only...and that is temporary. They also assess
needs, and direct clients to more long term services.

Clients are processed in as an individual or a family. If a
family, the acceptable structure is strict. A spouse for example, is
only recognized as such if the couple is legally married. Parents of
children have to be their birth parents or their legal guardians. I
have no idea how the heck we will be dealing with common law
spouses,grandmas raising kids, aunties who are really just old family
friendsraising kids etc....

Having been to the south many times, I know that those arrangements abound. we were also told that homosexual or lesbian couples would be processed separately. Its all in the legality I was told.

It was a little confusing at times. For some reason it seemed
that we could place a non legally related couple in the same bed,
but were to provide separate beds for same sex couples. One attendee
after hearing that commented, "So... we are not promoting
homosexuality, but we ARE promoting promiscuity?" Our instructor was
proved to be a little unclear on some subjects.

Good stuff: No client pays for anything. We try to find them
housing equivalent to what they lost, feed them, and give them
money.We actually provide them with a credit card that has a daily limit.

Oh...they can't buy guns or alcohol with the card or it will be
cancelled. Damn...don't you hate it when that happens?

The Red Cross collects information on missing prescriptions,
medical or mental problems, and connects the clients to the
appropriate agency. Sounds like they do a lot of coordinating. All
of this lasts however for only a two week period, with the idea being
that by that time, the client has been connected with more long term
agencies to help their continuing needs.

Other things: The clients' privacy rights are paramount. We do
not give out names. Non residents may not enter shelters, or get any
information about any client. Inquiries are processed and delivered
to the individual client so that he or she can contact the person or
not. If immigration officials come to the door looking for someone
that they know is with us, we turn them away with no information
given. We protect the clients above all.

Informing us about the other agencies that work disasters, one
of the questions the instructor asked was, "what does FEMA do?"...He
got almost universal laughter as a response, and many shouts of ,
"nothing!". Several pointed out that it was not a good question to
ask just yet, and someone else pointed out that as far as she knew,
at least no arabian horses have been known to have died in the
floods.

Note: FEMA is having some serious problems getting its act
together, and the director's last job was as the head of an arabian
horse association. However, all of the agencies are having some
problems. Yesterday OXFAM arrived to help. Their last deployment was
the tsunami. They usually help underprivileged countries..Oops.

So still no deployment, but the Los Angeles RC has begun
processing families here, that are arriving from the gulf as of
yesterday. 190 processed so far. I am volunteering for that over the
weekend. My friend David who went with me to the first class
received a deployment call yesterday, asking if he could leave in two days.
Turns out David is 6'3", and used to be with the Peace Corps.

That's it for now. I have made pals with some classmates, and
weare all frustrated by the seeming slowness of it all.We will all
continue to hurry up and wait. I will keep you posted on the
progress, or the lack thereof.

Take care,

Lisa

#4 Bureaucracy

2005-09-12T21:34:00.000-07:00

Hi guys,

Red Cross called this morning. It was a very polite nurse wanting to know about some of the information I filled out in my application. Why I felt that I couldn't lift 50 lbs repeatedly, and what did I mean when I wrote that I was a, "very small woman"?

I told him That at 5'3", 50 lbs was half of my total body weight, and no....I am not a "little person". I guessed that is what he must have been thinking from the ever-so-delicate tone of his voice when he asked the question. He apparently had so much to do that he didn't read further down the application, which would have told him that my stats are 5' 3" 100 lbs, 49 years old...lol

As he started to quiz me more on it. I took a deep breath and said to him, "look, I'm small, I'm old, I am not phisically overwhelming...to say the least. I speak a whole bunch of foreign languages. Some of them really well. I am a business owner and a manager of a lot of complex annoying stuff.

Perhaps it could be a waste of resources to have me hauling sacks of potatoes, as I will undoubtedly be really really bad at it". Again, if anyone had read further, they would have seen that info too.

Message to me...they are swamped. Overwhelmed. Over their heads . Me and a whole raft of others have just agreed to jump in and make my life and theirs a lot more discombobulated......sigh..... As Calvin and Hobbes used to say: "Kawabunga"

To underscore this, not 10 minutes after I had hung up with him, the Red Cross called again. This time it was a very nice young lady wondering if I would like to sign up for some classes if I plan on being a volunteer?

She was calling regarding my signing up a week previously. When I didn't hear back from them after two days, I drove down and registered. Figured it would be faster than waiting for them to call me. So it was. Told her that I had already taken two, and was going for the third on Wednsday, but thanks for the call.

Alll of this happened while I was sitting out at one of the local cafe's here in Topanga, waiting for our local Doc, Doug Roy to maybe have room in his busy schedule to give me my required tetanus shot. Known Doug forever.

When I told him why I wanted it, his brow knitted, his head lowered, and he immediately began fulminating....... and writing. Turns out one of his many interest is disaster medicine. By the time he was done scribbling things down and talking a mile a minute on what I should get, who I should call, what I should do, (this has been most of my friend's and family's reaction by the way), he had me scheduled up for every non-or-semi experimental inoculation currently available now or ever, including Dengue Fever.

Woof! Took me a while to talk him off of the ledge. Explained that for all I know, I might get sent to Chicago, and that despite the possibility that I might contract ebola, I think I was going to wait on the other shots, and stick,(no pun intended...youch!) with just the tetanus for now. Kinda made me think though.

Oh..almost forgot, The Red Cross nurse...RC caller #1..... decided after speaking with me that I would best serve their needs by being in their Family Services department. He was really happy to hear that I spoke more than english, and that they would be able to do something with me. Me too.

That means I will probably be evaluating people for intake, determining their needs and placement. At least that's how he explained it. Guess I will wait to see if he proves to be correct.

Sounds like a lot of responsibility. I will try to do a good job. He asked if he could, " place a big sticker on my application to that effect?" I now have a big sticker on my application to that effect.

Take care,

Lisa

#3 Collecting the Gear

2005-09-11T21:35:00.000-07:00

Hi again mailing list,

Well, Today I went out and about to start to get together all of the "stuff", (wanted to use a more descriptive but profane word here...resisted the urge), that will be required for my deployment. So of course went to Tar-zhee. Otherwise known as Target to the plebian crowd..which of course includes moi.

Because the Red Cross is so overwhelmed, we volunteers must go out and get many of the required travel. " accessories ", ourselves. At our own expense.

Included in the requirements is a sleeping bag. The only hotel rooms will most likely already be taken up by the refugees/evacuees, and so we do-gooders will be making do with a cot or a bit of floor or ground space as we should. Well who knew there were such choices? The only camping I have done as of late is to sit around on a lounge chair waiting for my next mai tai to arrive. KIDDING........Sort of.

So I got together the duffel, flashlight, rain gear etc....and went up to the front to have a little chat with the supervisor. Thought I would wait on the sleeping bag for more "research"..

Explained to the infant "supervisor", the situation. That I was being sent out with the R.C...blah blah blah....can they perhaps give me a wee break on the price considering the circumstances. Forced purchasing etc.... He immediately adopted the proverbial rabbit in the headlights look about him and called his supervisor.

Supervisor #2 was invisible, but on the other end of the phone apparently. Supervisor #1's conversation after explanation went, " uh huh...yeah..ok...uh huh...ok" Answer: No discount of any kind. I was surprised that they didn't charge me double for asking. Employees standing nearby said to me, ....covering their badges, "hey...don't use our names, but we thing that Target sucks for not helping out." How much more well put can an appropriate sentiment be expressed??

Went around the corner to Sports Chalet. Imagine anyone calling anything "Chalet" in Southern California. It invites ridicule doesn't it?

Started out by asking an almost identical infant supervisor the same...hey..can you give a girl a break question. His reply was...well...uh...gee...uh...well...um...I can only give you 15% off. is that ok?? Big big hip hip hooray for the Chalet and its employees!! I am a happy camper...pun intended.

Went to the camping section, and the very very kind, older gent there walked me though all available Chalet-esque permutations of camping regalia. I ended up with a perfectly amazing sleeping bag, first aid kit and a bunch of other required junk that I will be surprised to use, but no doubt grateful to have once I am there. 15% off...To all of you....Please.......skip Tar-zhee, buy Chalet.

Wish I could have gotten together these campy things used, or at least borrowed them, but those that I had went with my ex, the firefighter. The camping pals that I have, are going with me and need their gear themselves....sigh....for the most part, almost all of us have to buy at least some of it......drat it!

So I am now packed up in my new duffle. Turns out that all of those different plastic bags that I use to package and ship out jewelry in comes in quite handy in bundling extra batteries, radios, flashlight parts and the like. Who knew? Sleeping bag fits into the secret bottom compartment of the new duffle perfectly. I feel very organized at this point. No doubt that will soon change.

Did you know that I am required to bring "office supplies"? I am. My kit contains whiteout and paper, envelopes, stamps, blue masking tape and paper clips to name a few things.

Only thing left to pack are my clothes, and I will wait until deployment orders to throw those things in.

I am told that in N.O., they are finally beginning to gather the dead. That may allow us into the city at last, however we will go to first deployments ahead of N.O. Looking more like Mississippi right now, although that may change again.

I take my Family Services class Wednesday morning. No doubt that will be interesting. It is limited to 25 volunteers, and includes how to counsel and assess families who have lost everything.....including other family members Still not sure if you can teach or learn that in a class. I guess I will find out.

Unless something happens before then, I will post next Wednesday.

Take care, be thankful for the things that you still have.

Lisa

#2 Classes start

2005-09-10T21:36:00.000-07:00

Hola,

Just finished my first two classes in preparation for leaving. DIsaster, and Mass preparedness. There were 100 volunteers there. Usually there are 2.

We watched videos, asked questions and filled out papers...lots of papers. No one will be hopping on a plane tomorrow. More classes to go through first, health checks and approval.

We were told today that we can not go to N.O. yet.... for our safety. Only the military is being allowed in at this time, however, we will be deployed anytime from the next two weeks or so through November, in 9-21 day stints to surrounding areas, as well as Houston, Mississppi, Alabama, and perhaps a few other states.

This is the biggest operation that the Red Cross has ever undertaken, and they are understandably nervous about sending in so many newbies like me with so little experience, but they need the people. They are shorthanded.

Once there, the RC pays for everything. You are given a card to charge things on...with limits of course. No day at the spa...sob...

Help includes shelter setup and operation, food, clothing, mental health, mobile food services for those still in a semi livable house, or even living in their car.....and a lot more. No one is called a "victim" Anyone in need of assistance is a "client."

Special care will be given to children and some women's issues. Even dietary requirements such as vegitarianism, or cultural food preferences will be seen to and provided.

This is all done through generous donations and volunteers. No "client" pays for any part of it. Volunteers only give their time and their empathy.

The 100 volunteers in my classes included doctors, nurses, mental health professionals, teachers, retirees, a courier, a moderately well known actor and his wife, and 1 jeweler,(guess who?). Just about every profession seemed to be represented. I was pretty impressed at the turnout and by the devotion to help that everyone expressed.

Makes me think its a pretty cool world after all....although I did read the French newspaper Le Monde this morning. The headline read:"The World Extends a Hand to a Humiliated America". It made me laugh out loud. Apparently more than 60 countries have offered or sent us aid. Thanks guys.

If you are interested, I will keep you updated, in the mean time go out and do something,volunteer, or just give some money. Money is always good.

Best,

Lisa

#1 Katrina Hits

2005-09-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

I recently received a forwarded letter from Michael Moore. I have received it from several of my friends. Below is my reply that I am sending on to my mailing list:

Got the letter, read it, and I believe he is right. This governments' lack of response is despicable. But rather than sitting home and pontificating, Mr. Moore, Mr. Bush and all of their friends both big and small, you, and all of your friends, ought to do something more concrete.

Yesterday I joined the Red Cross. Today I filled out the paperwork. Tomorrow I go in to be trained. It looks like next week I leave for either Mississippi, Houston or New Orleans. I have talked to all of my friends, and two of them are doing the same. Nine days out of our lives. Big whoop.

I will work like hell for those days. I will do what little I can. I will come home to a house that is standing, a business that is doing well and my child who is alive. A life that will go on as usual. Many thousands have lost all of those things and more.

Talk is cheap...

Opinions no longer matter to over a million people in those areas affected by this catastrophe....

So.....

Instead of sitting around and complaining.

Or pointing fingers...(there will be plenty of time for that later)...

Do something....

Get off of your butts...

Volunteer...

Somewhere....

Make a difference...

Change the world.....

Or at least one small part of it.

Send this one on.

Best,

Lisa