I become aware of a new day emerging, as sunshine bores through crevices in room-darkening hotel curtains, searing the stiff cloth with truth. My eyes reluctantly open to face the light, as I struggle to keep them shut, and reality at bay. I am weeping, spontaneously, uncontrollably, from imprints that won’t fade, clutching scattered slivers of my life with bleeding fingers, stroking sweet memories turned rancid and grim. I am exhausted with the weight of it. Tears are the only constant now. I awake each morning to ghosts, screaming uninhabitable addresses, unthinkable truth, shadows of tormented homeless people. I am awake.
I grow sicker each day, without the benefit of my medical equipment: for I am disabled, and every day is one more crisis to bear, until the last: and then we have to deal with FEMA too. When you are weak, terminal or old, time is a vulture poised to gash and gobble your flesh: you must stand stronger than the others, focus on the horizon, and keep walking.
My weary heart screams, “I want to go home. I want to belong. I want to do relevant things again. I want to do relevant things again! I want my treasures. I want people to remember me before I fell. I want to remember me before my world went black.” I want to slay the nightmares, but my weapons were mangled and swept away.
And reality screams back at me, “You have no home! Your house is an empty shell: without walls, without floors, heat, electric, a toilet bowl, a kitchen, without furniture and belongings. Your house is without comfort and security, growing black mold, foul smells and unknown strains of bacteria. Your house is a wasteland, devoid of history. You never existed. Apocalypse! You are chewing rancid morsels of sweet yesterdays, and gathering scraps of sewage soaked memory. It is disease. It will take you down. You will perish, unless you let it float away. It cannot be saved.”
I look into the mirror and I see a woman wrinkled beyond recognition by one fleeting blow. I see a crowd of faces, lost and wandering, dreading the dawning of each new day. I see a child without toys, hysterical, because there is no place left to play. I see pets squirming, in boxes, cars and blankets, hidden away. I see a walled-off class of people, the Hurricane Sandy homeless, survivors not victims, traumatized: keepers of scattered slivers of lives shattered forever by grim reality, disillusioned, hope on hold, slipping away, looking for tools to rebuild, cast off, ignored.
I waiver unbelieving through a bleak mine-field between reality and hopefulness. Every opportunity for aid, every promise, explodes and disintegrates: there is no help. There is only disorder and apathy.
I see cash as the great equalizer, money for repairs, for hope, for tomorrow: great mounds of money lie between obliterated lives and home. People who worked their lives away are unexpectedly destitute, in the hands of others, with no control of their own fate, living in their garages, houses without walls, and their yards: desperate to retain some autonomy. I see the survivors creating their own positive outcomes, and reaching out to help each other: the human spirit rising above the failures of the system.
People require hope. Without hope, there is no reason to get up in the morning and choose to go on. America is nation-building in countries far away, and forgot its own, the people of the SuperStorm: who wander streets alone, hungry, disbelieving, contemplating suicide. Hurricane Sandy Recovery has become a National Tragedy: our national shame; a sad chronicle of governmental failure.
But we are a nation of mongrels: immigrants all mixed together in one pot, enhanced by the qualities of each, forged by centuries of pioneers, mellowed by history. If you give us a place to stand, we will move mountains!