I'm often torn between my desire for peace, harmony and forgiveness and my desire to make the world a better place by pointing out the shortcomings of others.
Take St. Louis (And I would gladly give it you). The city has some wonderful qualities (great architecture, wonderfully distinctive neighborhoods, and a whole lot of free attractions), but its citizens are widely regarded as the most parochial in the nation. No matter how old you are, it's a regular occurance to be asked where you went to high school, and if the answer is not somewhere in the St. Louis area, you will be immediately dismissed. This happened to me about once a week when we lived there.
Depite our "outsider" status, we were there for 2 years and I thought we made some strong friendships in that time. But, living up to the parochial stereotype, everyone we know there seemed to forget us the minute we left town.
It actually started even before we left. On our moving day, we were confident we had a team of volunteers from our church to help. Instead, precisely one couple and one close friend managed to show. Even our pastors stood us up. One pastor had promised to show up and help, and the other told us he had a slight conflict, but would be there late. We never heard from either of them. And we've hardly heard from anyone since.
This was particularly startling when the flood waters hit. I had several concerned messages from people at the church we left in Alabama 5 years ago, and our current church in Nashville has been terrifically supportive. But not a single word from St. Louis. Even among our dozens of facebook friends.
Our old church has an internet message board where people regularly post prayer requests and make small talk. Prayer requests are posted there all the time. There's no mention of us, or even Nashville, anywhere on it.
I still have a user account on that forum. I can't tell you how badly I want to start a thread on it saying:
"Not that anyone asked, but we're doing just fine thank you. But if you aren't too busy in your own self-absorption, maybe you could throw a prayer or two towards Nashville, because it appears that one here has thought of that. And by the way, how self-absorbed can you people possibly be?"
I would say it nicer than that, but you get the point. It would make me feel a little bit better. But I also know I'll regret it if I do.
Still, the city of St. Louis has a reputation for insularity and indifference toward the rest of the world. That's never going to change unless someone challenges the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy that so many people there have. It's really not about me. I want people there to overcome their regional myopia that represents the city's biggest downfall. But doing so will doubtlessly enrage a lot of folks, and fray any remaining bit of goodwill from the people there that I still care about.
So, do I outrage people to help them, or just leave it be?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Life as a Sports Fan
I know it's unwise to place my happiness, for any periord of time, at the mercy of a group of distant strangers. I just can't stop myself from doing it.
I'm talking about being a sports fan. There's no logical reason why the athletic performance of a group of celebrities in a distant (or even local) city should have any affect on my mood. If they should happen to win, it wasn't because I did anything to cause it. I don't make any extra money or gain fame or popularity because my team wins. My team winning doesn't magically take away work assignments or the need to cut the grass. It doesn't in any material way give me a better life if my team wins, or hinder my life if my team loses. So why do I care so much?
Some people cite some vague notion of civic pride, but I don't buy it. It makes sense in a few cases (rooting for the Saints is an approriate metaphor for rooting for the comeback of the city of New Orleans), but this kind of parallel is the exception, not the rule. Besides, I know tons of Atlanta Braves baseball fans scattered throughout the South who hate the City of Atlanta with a passion.
Don't get me wrong. I can explain rationally why I like to watch sports in general. In just about every field of life, I enjoy watching people do things that I wish I could perform but can't. I like the drama and inherent storylines that come along with competition. But I don't know why I can't watch sports they same way I watch a sitcom, where I'm entertained by the spectacle, but my life doesn't hang on the outcome. I don't know why I let sports ruin my day.
The other day, after my beloved Cincinnati Reds (who I adopted as my team many years ago team for no apparent reason) blew a 6-run 9th inning lead, I was surprised to remember about 30 minutes into my moping that this turn of events wasn't actually my fault. And that actually helped.
Maybe my fandom represents some improbable dream that I couldn't fulfill on my own that I'm trying to achieve through proxy. Maybe it's a way to add meaning to my life by creating a personal connection to each game, or a way to fool myself into getting excited something to help pass the time.
I think it's something a little deeper, though. I think, after a certain amount of time, your team's logo becomes interwoven in your soul and becomes a part of who you are. Your choice of team says something about you. Your collection of favorite teams, college and pro, reveals a fair amount about your personality.
I know a couple of Republicans who root for the Yankees and Cowboys because they appreciate that the owners of those teams worked hard to build the structural advantages that they enjoy. Other people enjoy rooting for underdogs or teams with tradition or flashy colors. The person who roots for the most geographically proximate teams from their childhood in every sport probably still lives near where they grew up. A person who grew up rooting for teams from across the nation probably does not. The person who doesn't care about sports likely hates competition and just wants everyone to get along.
Of course, I didn't think about what type of political statements I was making when I was picking favorite teams at age 7. At that point, I just wanted to follow sports and realized that the entry fee into fandom was picking a team with which to align my emotions. But one's personality has something to do with which allegiances grow stronger and which ones fade over time.
Mine keep growing stronger. I'm actually in the midst of the sports year of a lifetime. My undergrad alma mater Alabama won the national title in January, and my near-hometown New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl in February. Both events provided a few days of glee, but months later, those outcomes no longer turn grey skies blue. As I write this, my Reds are in first place and my childhood favorite hockey team is in the NHL Finals. It's been an entertaining run, but it hasn't made my problems going away. The joy of a win is fleeting and never as gratifying as a loss is devastating.
I know this. But I'm still going to watch the next game.
It's just part of who I am.
I'm talking about being a sports fan. There's no logical reason why the athletic performance of a group of celebrities in a distant (or even local) city should have any affect on my mood. If they should happen to win, it wasn't because I did anything to cause it. I don't make any extra money or gain fame or popularity because my team wins. My team winning doesn't magically take away work assignments or the need to cut the grass. It doesn't in any material way give me a better life if my team wins, or hinder my life if my team loses. So why do I care so much?
Some people cite some vague notion of civic pride, but I don't buy it. It makes sense in a few cases (rooting for the Saints is an approriate metaphor for rooting for the comeback of the city of New Orleans), but this kind of parallel is the exception, not the rule. Besides, I know tons of Atlanta Braves baseball fans scattered throughout the South who hate the City of Atlanta with a passion.
Don't get me wrong. I can explain rationally why I like to watch sports in general. In just about every field of life, I enjoy watching people do things that I wish I could perform but can't. I like the drama and inherent storylines that come along with competition. But I don't know why I can't watch sports they same way I watch a sitcom, where I'm entertained by the spectacle, but my life doesn't hang on the outcome. I don't know why I let sports ruin my day.
The other day, after my beloved Cincinnati Reds (who I adopted as my team many years ago team for no apparent reason) blew a 6-run 9th inning lead, I was surprised to remember about 30 minutes into my moping that this turn of events wasn't actually my fault. And that actually helped.
Maybe my fandom represents some improbable dream that I couldn't fulfill on my own that I'm trying to achieve through proxy. Maybe it's a way to add meaning to my life by creating a personal connection to each game, or a way to fool myself into getting excited something to help pass the time.
I think it's something a little deeper, though. I think, after a certain amount of time, your team's logo becomes interwoven in your soul and becomes a part of who you are. Your choice of team says something about you. Your collection of favorite teams, college and pro, reveals a fair amount about your personality.
I know a couple of Republicans who root for the Yankees and Cowboys because they appreciate that the owners of those teams worked hard to build the structural advantages that they enjoy. Other people enjoy rooting for underdogs or teams with tradition or flashy colors. The person who roots for the most geographically proximate teams from their childhood in every sport probably still lives near where they grew up. A person who grew up rooting for teams from across the nation probably does not. The person who doesn't care about sports likely hates competition and just wants everyone to get along.
Of course, I didn't think about what type of political statements I was making when I was picking favorite teams at age 7. At that point, I just wanted to follow sports and realized that the entry fee into fandom was picking a team with which to align my emotions. But one's personality has something to do with which allegiances grow stronger and which ones fade over time.
Mine keep growing stronger. I'm actually in the midst of the sports year of a lifetime. My undergrad alma mater Alabama won the national title in January, and my near-hometown New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl in February. Both events provided a few days of glee, but months later, those outcomes no longer turn grey skies blue. As I write this, my Reds are in first place and my childhood favorite hockey team is in the NHL Finals. It's been an entertaining run, but it hasn't made my problems going away. The joy of a win is fleeting and never as gratifying as a loss is devastating.
I know this. But I'm still going to watch the next game.
It's just part of who I am.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A Million Bizzare Moments
We were in the mood for a bookstore tonight and our local Barnes & Noble is still closed, so we were stuck going to Books-A-Million. After a couple hours there, I'm not sure if I should swear it off forever or spend the entire day there again tomorrow and every day thereafter.
It started ominously when Liz and I walked to the front door and noticed a rather unlikely pair consisting of a moderately hippyish-looking young woman and conservatively dressed elderly woman deep in conversation on the bookstore's outdoor patio. We arrived just in time to hear:
Hippy: I love everybody. I don't even know you, and I love you already.
Old Woman: (in thick Southern drawl) Well, the Bible says you have to love people and...
I wasn't quite sure who was trying to convert whom (or to what), but we walked in nonetheless, grateful in the knowledge that love was flowing on the patio. Twenty minutes later, as we sat drinking our coffees, hippy girl walks by.
"You guys have matching shirts! That's so cute!"
"Yeah, we noticed that we both had on green shirts as we were leaving," I said. "It's just a coincidence."
"You mean you didn't do it on purpose?" she said with a dejected look on her face roughly akin to what one would expect had she just watched her only child attacked by rabid porcupines.
"Nope, just a coincidence."
"Well, I think it's great," she said, somewhat illogically. "I think it's just great."
The moment we ceased talking about how awkward the interruption was, she was back.
"Did you know your purse is green too?" she asked Liz.
"Yes, I know what color my purse is."
"Well, I think it's great. (after a beat) How are you guys?"
We said we were fine, as she lingered by our table and considered pulling up the extra chair that unfortunately sat empty at our table. As she cast a few furtive glances into her gargantuan purse that appeared to contain enough published material to make her presence in a bookstore wildly unnecessary, I was expecting her to ask whether we had found Jesus or perhaps some more obscure deity. Instead, she asked us what time it was.
"7:20 already? Wow, umm... are you sure? How can it be....oh wow," she said in considerable dismay, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the March Hare. This news seemed to alarm her even more than hearing that we hadn't intentionally matched our shirts. Though I can't imagine why; she clearly had no where else to be.
She continued:
"Is it hot out there? I hate it when it's hot outside. I have all this extra padding (pointing to her ample midsection). I just hate it when...
I tuned her out and resumed reading my book as she rambled on aimlessly. After about 5 painfully long minutes, another target mercifully walked through the door.
"How tall are you?" she asked, to which he thoughtfully replied, "How short are you?"
Clearly, she had met her match. The two continued in conversation.
Roughly five minutes later uproarious laughter broke out at the table next to us. The subject of this merriment was a 5-second clip of video being replayed endlessly by a group of three people bearing the unmistakable look of those who don't make it out much. The audio content of the video, which I never had the pleasure of viewing, consisted of 3 high-pitched "eeks." "Eek, eek, eek," it went, and the laughter, inexplicably followed. For the next 5 minutes. As the laughter and "eeks" continued, I spent considerable energy, failing miserably, in an attempt to come up with any possible visual image that might accompany this rather annoying sound that would account for any humor whatsoever.
Meanwhile, another woman who had been on her cell phone since the moment she walked in the store, began laughing hysterically while speaking on her cell phone.
"Gee, why aren't we having a better time?" I asked to Liz.
We decided that a number of people in the area must have living rooms bearing a striking resemblance to this Books-A-Million, accounting for the overly familiar behavior inside. As we came to this conclusion, yet another woman walked in, and noticing another customer dressed in her work uniform, yelled a series of questions across the store to this perfect stranger concerning the details of her job, including her salary and hours.
In the midst of the noise, the man who had been accosted by the hippy broke away from her to order coffee.
"Would you like a snack as well," asked the clerk.
"Well I would like one," said the man, but are you asking if I want to actually buy it? Cause that's a different story. Just so we're straight.
As this unlikely semantics debate continued, the hippy walked back into the store from the patio, enthusiastically accompanied by a similarly overweight man wearing a t-shirt that cleverly bore the imprint of a tuxedo on its front side.
I thought that was just great. If only she would have had one to match.
It started ominously when Liz and I walked to the front door and noticed a rather unlikely pair consisting of a moderately hippyish-looking young woman and conservatively dressed elderly woman deep in conversation on the bookstore's outdoor patio. We arrived just in time to hear:
Hippy: I love everybody. I don't even know you, and I love you already.
Old Woman: (in thick Southern drawl) Well, the Bible says you have to love people and...
I wasn't quite sure who was trying to convert whom (or to what), but we walked in nonetheless, grateful in the knowledge that love was flowing on the patio. Twenty minutes later, as we sat drinking our coffees, hippy girl walks by.
"You guys have matching shirts! That's so cute!"
"Yeah, we noticed that we both had on green shirts as we were leaving," I said. "It's just a coincidence."
"You mean you didn't do it on purpose?" she said with a dejected look on her face roughly akin to what one would expect had she just watched her only child attacked by rabid porcupines.
"Nope, just a coincidence."
"Well, I think it's great," she said, somewhat illogically. "I think it's just great."
The moment we ceased talking about how awkward the interruption was, she was back.
"Did you know your purse is green too?" she asked Liz.
"Yes, I know what color my purse is."
"Well, I think it's great. (after a beat) How are you guys?"
We said we were fine, as she lingered by our table and considered pulling up the extra chair that unfortunately sat empty at our table. As she cast a few furtive glances into her gargantuan purse that appeared to contain enough published material to make her presence in a bookstore wildly unnecessary, I was expecting her to ask whether we had found Jesus or perhaps some more obscure deity. Instead, she asked us what time it was.
"7:20 already? Wow, umm... are you sure? How can it be....oh wow," she said in considerable dismay, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the March Hare. This news seemed to alarm her even more than hearing that we hadn't intentionally matched our shirts. Though I can't imagine why; she clearly had no where else to be.
She continued:
"Is it hot out there? I hate it when it's hot outside. I have all this extra padding (pointing to her ample midsection). I just hate it when...
I tuned her out and resumed reading my book as she rambled on aimlessly. After about 5 painfully long minutes, another target mercifully walked through the door.
"How tall are you?" she asked, to which he thoughtfully replied, "How short are you?"
Clearly, she had met her match. The two continued in conversation.
Roughly five minutes later uproarious laughter broke out at the table next to us. The subject of this merriment was a 5-second clip of video being replayed endlessly by a group of three people bearing the unmistakable look of those who don't make it out much. The audio content of the video, which I never had the pleasure of viewing, consisted of 3 high-pitched "eeks." "Eek, eek, eek," it went, and the laughter, inexplicably followed. For the next 5 minutes. As the laughter and "eeks" continued, I spent considerable energy, failing miserably, in an attempt to come up with any possible visual image that might accompany this rather annoying sound that would account for any humor whatsoever.
Meanwhile, another woman who had been on her cell phone since the moment she walked in the store, began laughing hysterically while speaking on her cell phone.
"Gee, why aren't we having a better time?" I asked to Liz.
We decided that a number of people in the area must have living rooms bearing a striking resemblance to this Books-A-Million, accounting for the overly familiar behavior inside. As we came to this conclusion, yet another woman walked in, and noticing another customer dressed in her work uniform, yelled a series of questions across the store to this perfect stranger concerning the details of her job, including her salary and hours.
In the midst of the noise, the man who had been accosted by the hippy broke away from her to order coffee.
"Would you like a snack as well," asked the clerk.
"Well I would like one," said the man, but are you asking if I want to actually buy it? Cause that's a different story. Just so we're straight.
As this unlikely semantics debate continued, the hippy walked back into the store from the patio, enthusiastically accompanied by a similarly overweight man wearing a t-shirt that cleverly bore the imprint of a tuxedo on its front side.
I thought that was just great. If only she would have had one to match.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Why Work Days Shouldn't Begin Until Noon
Yesterday, I had one of those frazzled Monday mornings where I got up in plenty of time but everything went wrong and I ended up being late for work. In the midst of the chaos, I even forgot to shave, so I was not only late, I looked like a terrorist to boot. The whole episode knocked my day hopelessly off course and I never really recovered.
So in an effort to prevent a repeat of something like that today, I decided that I would start getting ready for work at 7:30 rather than my usual 8. (I need to leave by 8:40 to get the office by 9). Here's how it went:
6:20: Liz wakes up to the alarm (going off for the 3rd or 4th time) and exclaims how horrifically late she is.
6:25: Same.
6:34: See above.
6:40: Wake up, make coffee and deliver to Liz (who has impressively recouped about 30 minutes of morning prep time) on her way out the door 10 minutes later. Do a brief Internet search while drinking coffee.
7:30: Turn on water to take shower, but remember that I forgot to eat breakfast. Crap. This is not starting off well.
7:40: Quick breakfast complete, I turn on the water to take a shower. But my towel and change of clothes are upstairs, so I walk up to get them. Forget to put contacts in while I'm up there. Vision-optional shower begins, back downstairs, 5 minutes later.
7:55: Forget whether or not I've already washed my hair and decide to do it again just to be safe.
8:00: Get out of shower, put on pants and only matching pair of socks, and immediately step into a giant pool of showerside water, which I didn't see without my contacts.
8:02: How does one quickly dry a sock when one's dryer has just been destroyed in a flood? Hmm...
8:05: Microwave sock. Successfully.
8:07: Put in contacts and dress shirt and return downstairs.
8:10: Cat needs water.
8:12: Remember that I forgot to shave yesterday and, vowing not to repeat the mistake, go back upstairs to shave.
8:14: Remember that I left razor and shaving foam in downstairs bathroom, walk back downstairs to shave.
8:20: Shave complete, I remember that garbage pick-up is Tuesday and ours is overflowing. Walk to back door to take out trash. Remember that dress shoes are in my car, which is parked out front. Search unsuccessfully for downstairs shoes and return upstairs to grab a pair.
8:24: Our back door deadbolt can only be unlocked (from either side) with a house key. I have no idea where those are.
8:27: Key found, I unlock back door and take out the trash, hoping no one sees me rocking the dress shirt, slacks and slippers look.
8:31: Bathroom.
8:33: Vitamin.
8:35: Remember that I've only halfway packed my lunch. Frantically search for easily prepped food, as I need to leave in 5 minutes.
8:40: Lunch packed, and I'm ready to go, just in time to get to the office by 9. But I forgot to pack gym clothes. Run upstairs.
8:43: Remember that I packed gym clothes yesterday but decided not to go, so I still have everything I need in the car. Back downstairs.
8:45: Except the shoes I took out to wear to Target. Back upstairs.
8:47: About to walk out the door again, but really thirsty after all this activity, so I go to the kitchen to grab a bottled water. And that library book I was going to finish at lunch.
8:51: Finally leave the house for good, but notice a beer can a cigarette pack someone has thrown on my front yard, which I deposit in the trash bin.
8:53: Leave for work and realize there's only a 50 percent chance I have enough gas to make it to the office. Inexplicably, I decide I'm feeling lucky and take my chances.
9:05: Miraculously sputter in to my office parking lot, which of course, is completely full for the first time in recorded history. Finally manage to wedge into a small crevice and get to the office by 9:15 after the 10-minute uphill walk.
5:15: Stop by the gym after work and stopping at first available gas station. Find gym shorts, socks and shoes in the back seat, but an exhaustive search reveals no t-shirt. Which is curious, because not only do I remember packing one yesterday, I received an additional free t-shirt Saturday while volunteering that I'm positive should be in there. But it isn't.
5:31: After surveying the contents of my car and considering a workout in button-down dress shirt, rain coat or just topless, I decide to walk over to next door wine store instead.
I'd say I deserved it.
So in an effort to prevent a repeat of something like that today, I decided that I would start getting ready for work at 7:30 rather than my usual 8. (I need to leave by 8:40 to get the office by 9). Here's how it went:
6:20: Liz wakes up to the alarm (going off for the 3rd or 4th time) and exclaims how horrifically late she is.
6:25: Same.
6:34: See above.
6:40: Wake up, make coffee and deliver to Liz (who has impressively recouped about 30 minutes of morning prep time) on her way out the door 10 minutes later. Do a brief Internet search while drinking coffee.
7:30: Turn on water to take shower, but remember that I forgot to eat breakfast. Crap. This is not starting off well.
7:40: Quick breakfast complete, I turn on the water to take a shower. But my towel and change of clothes are upstairs, so I walk up to get them. Forget to put contacts in while I'm up there. Vision-optional shower begins, back downstairs, 5 minutes later.
7:55: Forget whether or not I've already washed my hair and decide to do it again just to be safe.
8:00: Get out of shower, put on pants and only matching pair of socks, and immediately step into a giant pool of showerside water, which I didn't see without my contacts.
8:02: How does one quickly dry a sock when one's dryer has just been destroyed in a flood? Hmm...
8:05: Microwave sock. Successfully.
8:07: Put in contacts and dress shirt and return downstairs.
8:10: Cat needs water.
8:12: Remember that I forgot to shave yesterday and, vowing not to repeat the mistake, go back upstairs to shave.
8:14: Remember that I left razor and shaving foam in downstairs bathroom, walk back downstairs to shave.
8:20: Shave complete, I remember that garbage pick-up is Tuesday and ours is overflowing. Walk to back door to take out trash. Remember that dress shoes are in my car, which is parked out front. Search unsuccessfully for downstairs shoes and return upstairs to grab a pair.
8:24: Our back door deadbolt can only be unlocked (from either side) with a house key. I have no idea where those are.
8:27: Key found, I unlock back door and take out the trash, hoping no one sees me rocking the dress shirt, slacks and slippers look.
8:31: Bathroom.
8:33: Vitamin.
8:35: Remember that I've only halfway packed my lunch. Frantically search for easily prepped food, as I need to leave in 5 minutes.
8:40: Lunch packed, and I'm ready to go, just in time to get to the office by 9. But I forgot to pack gym clothes. Run upstairs.
8:43: Remember that I packed gym clothes yesterday but decided not to go, so I still have everything I need in the car. Back downstairs.
8:45: Except the shoes I took out to wear to Target. Back upstairs.
8:47: About to walk out the door again, but really thirsty after all this activity, so I go to the kitchen to grab a bottled water. And that library book I was going to finish at lunch.
8:51: Finally leave the house for good, but notice a beer can a cigarette pack someone has thrown on my front yard, which I deposit in the trash bin.
8:53: Leave for work and realize there's only a 50 percent chance I have enough gas to make it to the office. Inexplicably, I decide I'm feeling lucky and take my chances.
9:05: Miraculously sputter in to my office parking lot, which of course, is completely full for the first time in recorded history. Finally manage to wedge into a small crevice and get to the office by 9:15 after the 10-minute uphill walk.
5:15: Stop by the gym after work and stopping at first available gas station. Find gym shorts, socks and shoes in the back seat, but an exhaustive search reveals no t-shirt. Which is curious, because not only do I remember packing one yesterday, I received an additional free t-shirt Saturday while volunteering that I'm positive should be in there. But it isn't.
5:31: After surveying the contents of my car and considering a workout in button-down dress shirt, rain coat or just topless, I decide to walk over to next door wine store instead.
I'd say I deserved it.
Tuesdays with FEMA
We just got our FEMA award letter and I'm more mystified than ever.
If you read any of my prior posts (and if you didn't, we need to have a talk), you may recall that I've previously complained about the refusal of three different FEMA workers to tell me what exactly I needed to do to qualify for assistance, and what items would be covered, at what rate, if I did. In another post, I questioned the necessity of FEMA sending me a supplemental Spanish copy of each of the 29,516 (give or take) documents it has mailed me thus far, given that I've conducted all of my considerable business with the agency entirely in English.
These petty annoyances could have at least conceivably been attributed to bureaucratic inefficiency. But after receiving my assistance letter, I'm convinced that FEMA isn't actually a government agency at all, but a cover for a hidden camera reality show that's secretly recording the frustrated exasperation through which it puts its applicants. I'm just hoping the payoff for the unknowing contestants prove worth it in the end.
Don't get me wrong. I am glad that a pool of our tax money goes to this sort of thing, and I'm thankful that we were lucky enough to receive even a small measure of assistance from it, even if it means subjecting ourselves to a comedy of errors and the snickers of a studio audience that must be watching this process unfold in parts unknown. I just wish FEMA would put as much effort into assisting people as it does into stupefying them.
We got a letter listing a dollar amount of our assistance, $754.04 (with copies in both English and Spanish, as one might have come to expect at this point). I'm happy for the help, even if it was less of a return than FEMA had led me to believe we might be getting. The inscrutably weird part was that the letter contains no explanation of where how the agency arrived at this precise amount (clearly, $754.05 would have been excessive!), which of our damages were covered and which ones were not, or why the award check didn't fully cover the things FEMA claimed it would. Curiously evasive throughout the whole process, FEMA did, after a whole lot of arm-twisting, begrudgingly reveal to us was that our replacement hot water heater and the wet vac we bought to clean up would be reimbursed. Instead, what we got would have almost paid for the new hot water heater, had we taken the damaged one to a plumbing junkyard and sold it for its parts at a premium rate, and then found a couple of twenties laying beside the road on the way home, while driving a car someone else filled with gas.
And we're left to wonder what became of all our other damaged items. Did FEMA forget to include them, were they not part of the reimbursement program after all, or due to budget limitations, did they just pay us pennies on the dollar for everything, water heater included? Is there any logical reason why FEMA doesn't want me to know this?
Conveniently, there is a fax number listed as to where to direct an appeal (I'm surprised they don't make applicants guess at the fax number as well), but, of course, FEMA provides no information as to what specifically, one might be appealing. If FEMA's letter had told me what items qualify for reimbursement and what doesn't, and what how much I get for each, I would just go about life, happily free from its enigmatic benevolency. As it is, I have no way of knowing whether FEMA shorted me or not. The decision letter contains no information other than: "here's what you get" with a dollar amount filled in, as if it were a number picked from a powerball tank. Which in fact, for all I know, IS how they do it.
I was so perplexed by the letter, that I actually read the Spanish version to see if it made any more sense, hopeful that at the very least, I might reference some obscure reality show on Telemundo recording this whole thing. But to no avail.
Make no mistake, I'm not complaining about not getting enough money to cover our damages; I didn't expect to. I don't want a cent more than to what we're entitled under the federal guidelines that cover these situations. I just wish FEMA weren't so careful about concealing what those guidelines actually are.
I have no idea whether we got the right amount or not. Nobody else does either. So I feel like I might as well appeal, just in case. But I have a sinking feeling that when I do, they are going to take away some of my award (without explanation, of course) just to provide a plot for next week's episode.
If you read any of my prior posts (and if you didn't, we need to have a talk), you may recall that I've previously complained about the refusal of three different FEMA workers to tell me what exactly I needed to do to qualify for assistance, and what items would be covered, at what rate, if I did. In another post, I questioned the necessity of FEMA sending me a supplemental Spanish copy of each of the 29,516 (give or take) documents it has mailed me thus far, given that I've conducted all of my considerable business with the agency entirely in English.
These petty annoyances could have at least conceivably been attributed to bureaucratic inefficiency. But after receiving my assistance letter, I'm convinced that FEMA isn't actually a government agency at all, but a cover for a hidden camera reality show that's secretly recording the frustrated exasperation through which it puts its applicants. I'm just hoping the payoff for the unknowing contestants prove worth it in the end.
Don't get me wrong. I am glad that a pool of our tax money goes to this sort of thing, and I'm thankful that we were lucky enough to receive even a small measure of assistance from it, even if it means subjecting ourselves to a comedy of errors and the snickers of a studio audience that must be watching this process unfold in parts unknown. I just wish FEMA would put as much effort into assisting people as it does into stupefying them.
We got a letter listing a dollar amount of our assistance, $754.04 (with copies in both English and Spanish, as one might have come to expect at this point). I'm happy for the help, even if it was less of a return than FEMA had led me to believe we might be getting. The inscrutably weird part was that the letter contains no explanation of where how the agency arrived at this precise amount (clearly, $754.05 would have been excessive!), which of our damages were covered and which ones were not, or why the award check didn't fully cover the things FEMA claimed it would. Curiously evasive throughout the whole process, FEMA did, after a whole lot of arm-twisting, begrudgingly reveal to us was that our replacement hot water heater and the wet vac we bought to clean up would be reimbursed. Instead, what we got would have almost paid for the new hot water heater, had we taken the damaged one to a plumbing junkyard and sold it for its parts at a premium rate, and then found a couple of twenties laying beside the road on the way home, while driving a car someone else filled with gas.
And we're left to wonder what became of all our other damaged items. Did FEMA forget to include them, were they not part of the reimbursement program after all, or due to budget limitations, did they just pay us pennies on the dollar for everything, water heater included? Is there any logical reason why FEMA doesn't want me to know this?
Conveniently, there is a fax number listed as to where to direct an appeal (I'm surprised they don't make applicants guess at the fax number as well), but, of course, FEMA provides no information as to what specifically, one might be appealing. If FEMA's letter had told me what items qualify for reimbursement and what doesn't, and what how much I get for each, I would just go about life, happily free from its enigmatic benevolency. As it is, I have no way of knowing whether FEMA shorted me or not. The decision letter contains no information other than: "here's what you get" with a dollar amount filled in, as if it were a number picked from a powerball tank. Which in fact, for all I know, IS how they do it.
I was so perplexed by the letter, that I actually read the Spanish version to see if it made any more sense, hopeful that at the very least, I might reference some obscure reality show on Telemundo recording this whole thing. But to no avail.
Make no mistake, I'm not complaining about not getting enough money to cover our damages; I didn't expect to. I don't want a cent more than to what we're entitled under the federal guidelines that cover these situations. I just wish FEMA weren't so careful about concealing what those guidelines actually are.
I have no idea whether we got the right amount or not. Nobody else does either. So I feel like I might as well appeal, just in case. But I have a sinking feeling that when I do, they are going to take away some of my award (without explanation, of course) just to provide a plot for next week's episode.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
70 Percent of a Blog Post
Nashville's mayor has just announced that, due to increasing water supplies, citizens can now return to 70 percent of water consumption that they maintained before the flood. This is great news! But for the non-mathematically inclined, it's also a nightmare.
For starters, who remembers how much water they used 2 weeks ago? And even if one does, how does one go about calculating something like this? Does anyone have an intuitive sense of what 70 percent of anything is? If so, can I borrow it? The prior edict, 50 percent, was easy. You just shower every other day, flush the toilet every other time and alternate hand sanitizer with soap and water. 70 percent is much harder. Do my former 12-minute showers now beome 8.4-minute showers? If so, how do I go about picking which 30 percent of myself not to wash on a given day? Instead of putting a stopwatch in the bathroom, can I just shower 7 days out of ten instead? If so, can I go ahead and shower for the first 7 days and hope the conservation order is over by then?
Whatever the answer, at least showering is a once-a-day activity that's easy to keep tabs on. I'm going to need to put a chart beside the toilet and sink to map out 70% of my prior usage of those (3 out of 10 times, I guess I just have to hold it).
Other mathematical mysteries arise: Can I wash 70 percent of my clothes, or should I just re-wear the same clothes 30 percent more often than I normally would? When I'm ready to do laundry, should I leave 3 out of 10 items in the dirty pile, given that different size of each item might screw up the math, or should I just wash 70 percent of each and every garment to ensure mathematical certainty? If I'm washing 70 percent of my car, can I round up to 75 so I clean 3 of my tires, or must I round down to 50 and clean only 2?
Mysteries abound. And don't even get me started on the dishes, which can now get 70 percent of a rinse before going in the dishwasher. Or maybe they get a full rinse and only 70 percent of a wash cycle. Or mabye its both. I'm not sure how the math works.
I would take the time to figure it out, but I'm 70 percent sure I should get back to work...
For starters, who remembers how much water they used 2 weeks ago? And even if one does, how does one go about calculating something like this? Does anyone have an intuitive sense of what 70 percent of anything is? If so, can I borrow it? The prior edict, 50 percent, was easy. You just shower every other day, flush the toilet every other time and alternate hand sanitizer with soap and water. 70 percent is much harder. Do my former 12-minute showers now beome 8.4-minute showers? If so, how do I go about picking which 30 percent of myself not to wash on a given day? Instead of putting a stopwatch in the bathroom, can I just shower 7 days out of ten instead? If so, can I go ahead and shower for the first 7 days and hope the conservation order is over by then?
Whatever the answer, at least showering is a once-a-day activity that's easy to keep tabs on. I'm going to need to put a chart beside the toilet and sink to map out 70% of my prior usage of those (3 out of 10 times, I guess I just have to hold it).
Other mathematical mysteries arise: Can I wash 70 percent of my clothes, or should I just re-wear the same clothes 30 percent more often than I normally would? When I'm ready to do laundry, should I leave 3 out of 10 items in the dirty pile, given that different size of each item might screw up the math, or should I just wash 70 percent of each and every garment to ensure mathematical certainty? If I'm washing 70 percent of my car, can I round up to 75 so I clean 3 of my tires, or must I round down to 50 and clean only 2?
Mysteries abound. And don't even get me started on the dishes, which can now get 70 percent of a rinse before going in the dishwasher. Or maybe they get a full rinse and only 70 percent of a wash cycle. Or mabye its both. I'm not sure how the math works.
I would take the time to figure it out, but I'm 70 percent sure I should get back to work...
Tax Dollars at Work
The majority of the time politicians rant about cutting "government waste," they are just using that line as a politically convenient cover to justify whatever new tax cut or spending proposal they like to promise in election years, without having to list any specific resulting sacrifice the new policy would require.
But in this case, they just might have a point.
When I called FEMA, I was almost immediately prompted to press 1 for English or 2 para Espanol. (For the record, I'm not among those who mind having to do this. I have a law degree and I still can't understand much of the bureaucratic double-speak that often accompanies federal forms and applications. If English is not your original language, then you don't even have a chance.)
So after patiently pressing the English option, I, as you might have expected, conducted my phone application entirely in English. When a FEMA inspector called me, we spoke in English to schedule the interview. When the inspector came to my house, I recounted our losses to her in English. When I called FEMA back with a follow-up question, I again asked all my questions in English (although judging from the responsiveness of the operator taking the call, I would have done just as well to have spoken in Swahili.) In short, I have never conducted any business with the federal government in any other language. It so happens that I've been taking Spanish classes up until this term, but there's no way FEMA should know this.
Since that call, I get daily a new packet of roughly 28,000 pages worth of information from FEMA. It would be 14,000 pages, but for no apparent reason, there is a duplicate Spanish version of every single page in the packet. Just the postage alone on this second set of documents must cost thousands. FEMA knows I don't need this. They even sent me a completed (English) copy of my application along with the Spanish documents that my application itself proves I don't need. Apparently they just think I need to see what all the same forms would have looked like if I had happened to have been from Argentina.
Let me repeat that I'm glad these documents exist in languages other than English. No one should lose out on the benefits to which they are entitled because they use the wrong preposition, or take too literally the question asking for an applicant's "gross income." But does FEMA really need to send copies of every single document in multiple languages to every single applicant? Is it really that hard to just ask the applicant what language they prefer? Or, given that I pressed the "English" option at the start of the process, couldn't the operator just note that on my file and proceed accordingly?
This seems incredibly simple. But since it isn't happening, there are only two explanations. Perhaps FEMA is wasting a whole lot of disaster relief money on the printing and mailing thousands of pages of documents to people that FEMA knows can't comprehend them.
This would be stunningly incompetent, even for a government that allows companies to drill for oil directly offshore even when they have no contingency plan if that oil should happen to spill. So perhaps the true explanation is that FEMA somehow knows that I didn't re-up for summer Spanish classes and now they are trying to make me feel guilty. "See here," FEMA seems to be telling me, "if you took one more semester of Spanish perhaps you could get FEMA relief in TWO languages when the next tragedy occurs!" Of course, they seem to be telling me the same thing in Spanish. (!Mira!, !Si tengas un semestre mas de espanol, puedes obtener dinero de FEMA en DOS linguas cuando el proximo desastre ocurre!)
Or perhaps FEMA knows that I don't have the energy to take formal classes due to the flood recovery efforts and just wants to help me bide the time until I get back on my feet with some free Spanish reading material. This would be a more charitable explanation, but I'm still a bit creeped out by the whole episode, I must say.
"Why would the government care if I take Spanish classes?" you might ask. But since you haven't, I'm just going to go on to my main point. There will be tens (perhaps hundreds) of thousands of FEMA applicants, just in Tennessee, just for this particular disaster. If each person needlessly gets thousands pages of documents that FEMA knows they can't read, that adds up to a whole lot of wasted trees and a whole lot of money that could more appropriately go toward FEMA's intended purpose.
Which is, of course, figuring out how to fit a French copy of all these documents in the packet as well.
But in this case, they just might have a point.
When I called FEMA, I was almost immediately prompted to press 1 for English or 2 para Espanol. (For the record, I'm not among those who mind having to do this. I have a law degree and I still can't understand much of the bureaucratic double-speak that often accompanies federal forms and applications. If English is not your original language, then you don't even have a chance.)
So after patiently pressing the English option, I, as you might have expected, conducted my phone application entirely in English. When a FEMA inspector called me, we spoke in English to schedule the interview. When the inspector came to my house, I recounted our losses to her in English. When I called FEMA back with a follow-up question, I again asked all my questions in English (although judging from the responsiveness of the operator taking the call, I would have done just as well to have spoken in Swahili.) In short, I have never conducted any business with the federal government in any other language. It so happens that I've been taking Spanish classes up until this term, but there's no way FEMA should know this.
Since that call, I get daily a new packet of roughly 28,000 pages worth of information from FEMA. It would be 14,000 pages, but for no apparent reason, there is a duplicate Spanish version of every single page in the packet. Just the postage alone on this second set of documents must cost thousands. FEMA knows I don't need this. They even sent me a completed (English) copy of my application along with the Spanish documents that my application itself proves I don't need. Apparently they just think I need to see what all the same forms would have looked like if I had happened to have been from Argentina.
Let me repeat that I'm glad these documents exist in languages other than English. No one should lose out on the benefits to which they are entitled because they use the wrong preposition, or take too literally the question asking for an applicant's "gross income." But does FEMA really need to send copies of every single document in multiple languages to every single applicant? Is it really that hard to just ask the applicant what language they prefer? Or, given that I pressed the "English" option at the start of the process, couldn't the operator just note that on my file and proceed accordingly?
This seems incredibly simple. But since it isn't happening, there are only two explanations. Perhaps FEMA is wasting a whole lot of disaster relief money on the printing and mailing thousands of pages of documents to people that FEMA knows can't comprehend them.
This would be stunningly incompetent, even for a government that allows companies to drill for oil directly offshore even when they have no contingency plan if that oil should happen to spill. So perhaps the true explanation is that FEMA somehow knows that I didn't re-up for summer Spanish classes and now they are trying to make me feel guilty. "See here," FEMA seems to be telling me, "if you took one more semester of Spanish perhaps you could get FEMA relief in TWO languages when the next tragedy occurs!" Of course, they seem to be telling me the same thing in Spanish. (!Mira!, !Si tengas un semestre mas de espanol, puedes obtener dinero de FEMA en DOS linguas cuando el proximo desastre ocurre!)
Or perhaps FEMA knows that I don't have the energy to take formal classes due to the flood recovery efforts and just wants to help me bide the time until I get back on my feet with some free Spanish reading material. This would be a more charitable explanation, but I'm still a bit creeped out by the whole episode, I must say.
"Why would the government care if I take Spanish classes?" you might ask. But since you haven't, I'm just going to go on to my main point. There will be tens (perhaps hundreds) of thousands of FEMA applicants, just in Tennessee, just for this particular disaster. If each person needlessly gets thousands pages of documents that FEMA knows they can't read, that adds up to a whole lot of wasted trees and a whole lot of money that could more appropriately go toward FEMA's intended purpose.
Which is, of course, figuring out how to fit a French copy of all these documents in the packet as well.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Truth Stranger than Fiction
Let me get this straight:
there was a localized environmental disaster caused by pollutants in the water;
there are no easy answers to fix it;
so the best idea anyone comes up with is to put a giant dome over the affected area to seal it off from the rest of the world.
This is what's happening on the Gulf Coast. It's also the plot of The Simpsons movie. I wonder if this is where BP came up with the idea...
there was a localized environmental disaster caused by pollutants in the water;
there are no easy answers to fix it;
so the best idea anyone comes up with is to put a giant dome over the affected area to seal it off from the rest of the world.
This is what's happening on the Gulf Coast. It's also the plot of The Simpsons movie. I wonder if this is where BP came up with the idea...
Monday, May 10, 2010
My Surreal Chat with FEMA
Setting: After inspecting our house for damage, a FEMA inspector couldn't answer one of our questions and referred us to the 1-800 number for assistance. The conversation:
Me: I'm calling because the inspector at our house the other couldn't answer this question but told me that you could. I was wondering if it was mandatory that I file a claim with my insurance company...
Operator: (Interrupting) Yes, definitely.
Me: You see, I don't have flood insurance so it isn't going to be covered anyway. I've already provided a copy of my policy where it shows that. And that last time I filed a claim, my insurance company dropped me, and I had to look for three days to find new coverage, and there's only one company who would even write that policy. If I file another claim, I may lose the ability to have insurance altogether. So, given all that, since the claim is going to be denied anyway, I was wondering if I still had to file it.
Him: What you need to do is call the National Flood Insurance Commission, and they can answer your question. But if it were me, I'd definitely go ahead and file that insurance claim. Would you like the number for the Flood Insurance Commission?
Me: I don't think you are understanding my question. I'm not asking about obtaining insurance, I'm asking if I still have to file a claim with my liability carrier to be eligible for FEMA assistance if I don't have flood insurance.
Him: Yes, I understand. You should call your insurance company and they can answer your question, or I can give you the 1-800 number to the National Flood Insurance Commission and they should be able to help you.
Me: Ok, but an outside organization is not going to be able to tell me what FEMA's own requirements are. I'm asking if you are going to deny my FEMA application if I don't file an insurance claim.
Him: Right...(stuttering) Look, an inspector has already come out to your house. (Editor's Note: So what?) We can't make you file an insurance claim but if it were me, that's what I would do, even though I understand why you don't want to.
Me: But is it required in order for me to receive FEMA assistance that my file actually show a denied insurance claim, or is it enough to just show you that my policy doesn't cover flood damage?
Him: Well, we recommend that everyone file an insurance claim. (after a beat) What you should do is just wait a few days and you'll see what assistance you will be receiving.
Me: But my application won't be automatically denied because I haven't filed an insurance claim?
Him: (stammering) Well, umm, hmm, I can't tell you whether that's required or not. What you need to do is talk to your insurance company and see if anything is going to be covered. But an inspector has already come to your house.
Me: Ok, do I actually have to file a claim, or is it enough if I just call and ask if I have flood coverage?
Him: Well, there's no requirement- your file does not indicate that any further action needs to be taken. I don't see where you have to do anything, I'm just telling you what I would do. But you should have your notification as to what assistance you are getting within the next couple of days. An inspector has already come to your house.
Me: Ok, thank you.
Him: Now, would you like that number for the National Flood Insurance Commission?
I wish I were making this up.
Me: I'm calling because the inspector at our house the other couldn't answer this question but told me that you could. I was wondering if it was mandatory that I file a claim with my insurance company...
Operator: (Interrupting) Yes, definitely.
Me: You see, I don't have flood insurance so it isn't going to be covered anyway. I've already provided a copy of my policy where it shows that. And that last time I filed a claim, my insurance company dropped me, and I had to look for three days to find new coverage, and there's only one company who would even write that policy. If I file another claim, I may lose the ability to have insurance altogether. So, given all that, since the claim is going to be denied anyway, I was wondering if I still had to file it.
Him: What you need to do is call the National Flood Insurance Commission, and they can answer your question. But if it were me, I'd definitely go ahead and file that insurance claim. Would you like the number for the Flood Insurance Commission?
Me: I don't think you are understanding my question. I'm not asking about obtaining insurance, I'm asking if I still have to file a claim with my liability carrier to be eligible for FEMA assistance if I don't have flood insurance.
Him: Yes, I understand. You should call your insurance company and they can answer your question, or I can give you the 1-800 number to the National Flood Insurance Commission and they should be able to help you.
Me: Ok, but an outside organization is not going to be able to tell me what FEMA's own requirements are. I'm asking if you are going to deny my FEMA application if I don't file an insurance claim.
Him: Right...(stuttering) Look, an inspector has already come out to your house. (Editor's Note: So what?) We can't make you file an insurance claim but if it were me, that's what I would do, even though I understand why you don't want to.
Me: But is it required in order for me to receive FEMA assistance that my file actually show a denied insurance claim, or is it enough to just show you that my policy doesn't cover flood damage?
Him: Well, we recommend that everyone file an insurance claim. (after a beat) What you should do is just wait a few days and you'll see what assistance you will be receiving.
Me: But my application won't be automatically denied because I haven't filed an insurance claim?
Him: (stammering) Well, umm, hmm, I can't tell you whether that's required or not. What you need to do is talk to your insurance company and see if anything is going to be covered. But an inspector has already come to your house.
Me: Ok, do I actually have to file a claim, or is it enough if I just call and ask if I have flood coverage?
Him: Well, there's no requirement- your file does not indicate that any further action needs to be taken. I don't see where you have to do anything, I'm just telling you what I would do. But you should have your notification as to what assistance you are getting within the next couple of days. An inspector has already come to your house.
Me: Ok, thank you.
Him: Now, would you like that number for the National Flood Insurance Commission?
I wish I were making this up.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Slow Return to Normalcy
Usually by this time (10 p.m.) on Sunday night I'm not quite dreading the work week in front of me, but I'm at least trying to store up some adrenaline for it. Having run on adrenaline and only about 2 hours sleep per night for 5 staight days last week, my energy supply is lower than that of Nashville's clean water.
So it's a good thing that this week I'm actually looking forward to a Monday, for a change. I have a brutally busy schedule with about 3 things due that I had budgeted to start on last week but didn't get to. I was actually scared to attempt any important legal work due to the frazzled stupor in which I spent last week, so there's a lot on my desk.
I can't say I'm looking forward to any particular task in front of me, so much as just returning back to a normal work day-- one that doesn't include calls to FEMA, the rescheduling of unreliable contractors or frenzied callls from loved ones upon hearing the lastest image on TV.
As the workweek begins, life is slowly returning back to normal for those fortunate Nashvillians who still have a place to call home and an office in which to work. The media is always quick to measure each disater of this type in dollars, but I think the most difficult part of something like this isn't financial at all. The worst part is that it throws you, without warning, into an entirely different and unrecognizable life. A life where you have to find reasons to get out of your house because it's too hot to stay inside; one where you cut out any sweat-producing activity because you can't take a shower; where you can't make evening plans because you are waiting on a contractor; where every guest in your house is someone who will leave requiring payment for their services. The worst part is the break from normalcy, which serves as a constant reminder that your life isn't the life you'd come to know.
I often find myself getting bored when my life falls into a predictable rut. But at the moment, nothing thrills my soul more than the idea of a day of utter predictability. Even if that day is a Monday.
So it's a good thing that this week I'm actually looking forward to a Monday, for a change. I have a brutally busy schedule with about 3 things due that I had budgeted to start on last week but didn't get to. I was actually scared to attempt any important legal work due to the frazzled stupor in which I spent last week, so there's a lot on my desk.
I can't say I'm looking forward to any particular task in front of me, so much as just returning back to a normal work day-- one that doesn't include calls to FEMA, the rescheduling of unreliable contractors or frenzied callls from loved ones upon hearing the lastest image on TV.
As the workweek begins, life is slowly returning back to normal for those fortunate Nashvillians who still have a place to call home and an office in which to work. The media is always quick to measure each disater of this type in dollars, but I think the most difficult part of something like this isn't financial at all. The worst part is that it throws you, without warning, into an entirely different and unrecognizable life. A life where you have to find reasons to get out of your house because it's too hot to stay inside; one where you cut out any sweat-producing activity because you can't take a shower; where you can't make evening plans because you are waiting on a contractor; where every guest in your house is someone who will leave requiring payment for their services. The worst part is the break from normalcy, which serves as a constant reminder that your life isn't the life you'd come to know.
I often find myself getting bored when my life falls into a predictable rut. But at the moment, nothing thrills my soul more than the idea of a day of utter predictability. Even if that day is a Monday.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Faith and the Storm
"God was not in the tornado, but in our response."
So says an inscription in front of an East Nashville church that was in the path of a 1998 tornado that ripped through that part of town. I've always liked that quote, but I can't say I've ever fully understood it until now.
I have faith in God despite this storm, but I now have faith in humanity because of it.
We've gotten help from so many places. People I don't even know were at my house helping to clean out my basement yesterday. We've been offered more fresh water and fans in the last 36 hours than we can use. A contractor, after sitting in an hour of traffic on a road closed by flood waters, took an additional hour-long detour to get to our house to help pump our water out. And he gave us a below-market deal because we didn't have flood insurance. A neighbor three houses down from us lost a moving truck full of possessions-- thousands-upon-thousands of dollars of stuff-- but had the audacity to ask if they could do anything for us.
I want to repay this kindness. But I'm likely to do more harm than good with most any imaginable tool in my hands, so my opportunities are somewhat limited. I signed up with the organization that is managing the volunteer efforts (Hands on Nashville, www.hon.org), but it's almost impossible to find a spot that isn't taken already. I did finally manage to find an opening handing out bottled water on Sunday. I'll be thrilled to help with conservation efforts in the face of our water shortage and to help give someone else a "Plan B" if they suffer the same water outage issue we did.
One volunteer sign-up isn't much, I know. I hope to do more as opportunities present themselves. But I feel noticeably less stressed just in the five minutes since I signed up to be part of the recovery. Partly, it is empowering to feel like I have a stake in my adopted hometown's recovery. But I think the greater satisfaction is just in answering that voice that's been calling on me to do the right thing.
Apparently these are lessons that everyone else here in the Volunteer State already knows. I've never witnessed such a large collection of people offering services from which they get no tangible benefit just because a voice inside of them tells them they should. There is no Darwinian explanation for this, so I'm stuck believing that the same God who allows these tragedies to happen also inspires us to fix them and to love one another more along the way.
A couple days ago, I wrote about not being able to find God's hand in the flood. In the recovery effort, however, it's been unmistakable.
So says an inscription in front of an East Nashville church that was in the path of a 1998 tornado that ripped through that part of town. I've always liked that quote, but I can't say I've ever fully understood it until now.
I have faith in God despite this storm, but I now have faith in humanity because of it.
We've gotten help from so many places. People I don't even know were at my house helping to clean out my basement yesterday. We've been offered more fresh water and fans in the last 36 hours than we can use. A contractor, after sitting in an hour of traffic on a road closed by flood waters, took an additional hour-long detour to get to our house to help pump our water out. And he gave us a below-market deal because we didn't have flood insurance. A neighbor three houses down from us lost a moving truck full of possessions-- thousands-upon-thousands of dollars of stuff-- but had the audacity to ask if they could do anything for us.
I want to repay this kindness. But I'm likely to do more harm than good with most any imaginable tool in my hands, so my opportunities are somewhat limited. I signed up with the organization that is managing the volunteer efforts (Hands on Nashville, www.hon.org), but it's almost impossible to find a spot that isn't taken already. I did finally manage to find an opening handing out bottled water on Sunday. I'll be thrilled to help with conservation efforts in the face of our water shortage and to help give someone else a "Plan B" if they suffer the same water outage issue we did.
One volunteer sign-up isn't much, I know. I hope to do more as opportunities present themselves. But I feel noticeably less stressed just in the five minutes since I signed up to be part of the recovery. Partly, it is empowering to feel like I have a stake in my adopted hometown's recovery. But I think the greater satisfaction is just in answering that voice that's been calling on me to do the right thing.
Apparently these are lessons that everyone else here in the Volunteer State already knows. I've never witnessed such a large collection of people offering services from which they get no tangible benefit just because a voice inside of them tells them they should. There is no Darwinian explanation for this, so I'm stuck believing that the same God who allows these tragedies to happen also inspires us to fix them and to love one another more along the way.
A couple days ago, I wrote about not being able to find God's hand in the flood. In the recovery effort, however, it's been unmistakable.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mind in the Sewer
My mind is in the sewer. I'd give anything if it weren't, but I just can't help it.
I'm not speaking of abstract notions of morality. I'm talking about our toilets.
Bad news usually comes at night. Last night was no exception. Just as the local news was reporting that the city's clean water supply crisis was starting to ease, our water flow went dry (after briefly turning brown).
And that was the best news of the evening.
The worst news was that after flushing a very small bit of toilet water about the same time, a rumble roughly equaling that of a large earthquake shook through our house. Our pipes sounded as if they were going to explode, and the noise went on for several minutes. I can't even describe the stuff that oozed up to replace the toilet water.
This happened at just about the worst possible point in the evening. Had this happened at 7, we just would have gone to a hotel (in the closest county with running water) for the night and dealt with it in the morning. But when your home becomes uninhabitable at 10, it's just late enough that you feel silly driving to an out-of-county hotel for a brief stay. We were already halfway ready for bed, anyway. So after we drove to the nearest 24-hour grocery store to use the bathroom, I decided to call the water company. After enduring the five minutes of number-punching needed to be transferred to an actual human, I was immediately disconnected.
But my second call went something like this:
Operator: Operator number 888 speaking, how may I help you?
Me: I have brown stuff oozing out of our pipes and almost no water pressure.
Operator: What's your address?
Me: (Giving my address)
Operator: Why don't you run kitchen tap for 10 straight minutes and see if it gets better?
Me: Aren't we in a water shortage?
Operator: Yes. But otherwise we'll have to send someone out there.
Me: Ok, but I also have it coming up our toilets, and the house shakes like a thunderclap after we flush them.
Operator: Just call us back in 10 minutes.
So after 10 minutes go by and nothing changes, I call again:
(New) Operator: Operator number 999 speaking, what is your address?
Me: (Giving our address)
Him: How may I help you?
Me: I just called a while ago. I have almost no water pressure and black stuff coming out our taps and up our toilet. The entire house shakes when we flush it. The operator told me to call back in 10 minutes if the problem wasn't fixed.
Operator: What's your address?
Me: (Giving our address)
Operator: Oh, that's right. You know, sometimes when you flush the toilet not everything goes down in one flush.
Me: Yes, but what comes up shouldn't be darker than what went down.
Operator: Ok, I just need you to flush your toilet 3 times and call me back if the problem isn't solved.
Me: If I do that, I think our piping will burst.
Operator: If your pipes burst, that's not our problem.
Me: Look, I have sewage coming up our toilet. I've already called 3 times. I need someone to fix it.
Operator: We'll send someone out, but it may be awhile. And I need your address.
At 4 a.m., I awoke and decided to check things out. The situation had not improved, so I called back. On my fourth call, I reached the same guy.
Me: Hi, I called at 10 about sewage back-up. It still hasn't been fixed.
Him: Ok, I remember you. Let me look in your file... I see a technician went out to your house at 11, but he couldn't work on your system because it was dark outside.
Me: Why does the technician work at night if he can't do anything in the dark?
Him: It's complicated. Sometimes they can work at night, but they don't like to be walking around people's houses at night for safety reasons.
Me: Then why did he drive over to my house in the first place?
Him: (Long pause.) Umm. Anyway, I will send him back out in the morning. But I'm going to need your address.
A utility truck was in fact working on our sewer when I left for work this morning. But for the life of me, I don't know how he ever found our house.
I'm not speaking of abstract notions of morality. I'm talking about our toilets.
Bad news usually comes at night. Last night was no exception. Just as the local news was reporting that the city's clean water supply crisis was starting to ease, our water flow went dry (after briefly turning brown).
And that was the best news of the evening.
The worst news was that after flushing a very small bit of toilet water about the same time, a rumble roughly equaling that of a large earthquake shook through our house. Our pipes sounded as if they were going to explode, and the noise went on for several minutes. I can't even describe the stuff that oozed up to replace the toilet water.
This happened at just about the worst possible point in the evening. Had this happened at 7, we just would have gone to a hotel (in the closest county with running water) for the night and dealt with it in the morning. But when your home becomes uninhabitable at 10, it's just late enough that you feel silly driving to an out-of-county hotel for a brief stay. We were already halfway ready for bed, anyway. So after we drove to the nearest 24-hour grocery store to use the bathroom, I decided to call the water company. After enduring the five minutes of number-punching needed to be transferred to an actual human, I was immediately disconnected.
But my second call went something like this:
Operator: Operator number 888 speaking, how may I help you?
Me: I have brown stuff oozing out of our pipes and almost no water pressure.
Operator: What's your address?
Me: (Giving my address)
Operator: Why don't you run kitchen tap for 10 straight minutes and see if it gets better?
Me: Aren't we in a water shortage?
Operator: Yes. But otherwise we'll have to send someone out there.
Me: Ok, but I also have it coming up our toilets, and the house shakes like a thunderclap after we flush them.
Operator: Just call us back in 10 minutes.
So after 10 minutes go by and nothing changes, I call again:
(New) Operator: Operator number 999 speaking, what is your address?
Me: (Giving our address)
Him: How may I help you?
Me: I just called a while ago. I have almost no water pressure and black stuff coming out our taps and up our toilet. The entire house shakes when we flush it. The operator told me to call back in 10 minutes if the problem wasn't fixed.
Operator: What's your address?
Me: (Giving our address)
Operator: Oh, that's right. You know, sometimes when you flush the toilet not everything goes down in one flush.
Me: Yes, but what comes up shouldn't be darker than what went down.
Operator: Ok, I just need you to flush your toilet 3 times and call me back if the problem isn't solved.
Me: If I do that, I think our piping will burst.
Operator: If your pipes burst, that's not our problem.
Me: Look, I have sewage coming up our toilet. I've already called 3 times. I need someone to fix it.
Operator: We'll send someone out, but it may be awhile. And I need your address.
At 4 a.m., I awoke and decided to check things out. The situation had not improved, so I called back. On my fourth call, I reached the same guy.
Me: Hi, I called at 10 about sewage back-up. It still hasn't been fixed.
Him: Ok, I remember you. Let me look in your file... I see a technician went out to your house at 11, but he couldn't work on your system because it was dark outside.
Me: Why does the technician work at night if he can't do anything in the dark?
Him: It's complicated. Sometimes they can work at night, but they don't like to be walking around people's houses at night for safety reasons.
Me: Then why did he drive over to my house in the first place?
Him: (Long pause.) Umm. Anyway, I will send him back out in the morning. But I'm going to need your address.
A utility truck was in fact working on our sewer when I left for work this morning. But for the life of me, I don't know how he ever found our house.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Splashville follies
There's often a tinge of humorous absurdity in tragic situations. In moments where it seems better to laugh than cry, our city is providing plenty of material:
News stations are showing pictures of sportsmen fishing in major public roadways. People are literally catching their dinner in their driveways. I didn't read the article closely, but it appeared from a headline I saw that one guy caught a record-sized carp in front of a shopping center (No, the center didn't include a Bass Pro Shop). People started fishing in the streets almost as soon as the river waters overflowed into them (the streets, that is). I can't say I understand the mindset of someone who's first response to this type of tragedy is to break out the rod and reel, but whatever floats one's boat, I suppose.
My neighbor got a workout by kayaking through his basement. He's very proud of the pictures.
The Opry Mills Mall, which is completely flooded inside and out, contains a business that operates a small indoor aquarium. Reports are that the fish tanks have been subsumed within the flood waters, and there are now piranhas drifting freely around the mall. No word on whether the sting rays have escaped as well. Either way, they are going to have to pay some adventurous contractors a WHOLE lot of money to clean up that mess. I've heard that shopping can be dangerous, but this is ridiculous.
The city (which locals are now referring to as "Splashville") is on the verge of running out of clean tap water (ironic, isn't it?) and is asking people to conserve as much as possible. So yesterday when we wanted to rinse the grime off of some dishes to put them in the dishwasher (to be run when the water supply increases) we made good use of our basement spring flood water.
Those free-roaming bison I mentioned yesterday still have not been captured.
Seriously, if you have piranhas swimming through your mall, how do you fix that? It seems too dangerous to go in there before the water is gone, but if you drain the water into the nearby Cumberland River, you risk populating it with man-eating carnivores-- who haven't eaten since the mall closed several days ago! But if you empty the water in any other direction, those street fishermen are going to be in for quite an unpleasant surprise.
The social event of the year in town, the Iroquois Steeplechase, is a Kentucky Derby-like event where people sit around in fancy hats, sip mint juleps or some similar concoction and possibly wager on the races. Despite the flooding, the race is still on for this weekend. This year, though, the emerging favorite is not a Kentucky Thoroughbred or a Tennessee Walker. It's a seahorse.
I'm sure there will be more to come as we swim out from this mess. In the meantime, God bless. Please pray for Nashville and text "Redcross" to number 90999 to give $10 to the recovery efforts.
News stations are showing pictures of sportsmen fishing in major public roadways. People are literally catching their dinner in their driveways. I didn't read the article closely, but it appeared from a headline I saw that one guy caught a record-sized carp in front of a shopping center (No, the center didn't include a Bass Pro Shop). People started fishing in the streets almost as soon as the river waters overflowed into them (the streets, that is). I can't say I understand the mindset of someone who's first response to this type of tragedy is to break out the rod and reel, but whatever floats one's boat, I suppose.
My neighbor got a workout by kayaking through his basement. He's very proud of the pictures.
The Opry Mills Mall, which is completely flooded inside and out, contains a business that operates a small indoor aquarium. Reports are that the fish tanks have been subsumed within the flood waters, and there are now piranhas drifting freely around the mall. No word on whether the sting rays have escaped as well. Either way, they are going to have to pay some adventurous contractors a WHOLE lot of money to clean up that mess. I've heard that shopping can be dangerous, but this is ridiculous.
The city (which locals are now referring to as "Splashville") is on the verge of running out of clean tap water (ironic, isn't it?) and is asking people to conserve as much as possible. So yesterday when we wanted to rinse the grime off of some dishes to put them in the dishwasher (to be run when the water supply increases) we made good use of our basement spring flood water.
Those free-roaming bison I mentioned yesterday still have not been captured.
Seriously, if you have piranhas swimming through your mall, how do you fix that? It seems too dangerous to go in there before the water is gone, but if you drain the water into the nearby Cumberland River, you risk populating it with man-eating carnivores-- who haven't eaten since the mall closed several days ago! But if you empty the water in any other direction, those street fishermen are going to be in for quite an unpleasant surprise.
The social event of the year in town, the Iroquois Steeplechase, is a Kentucky Derby-like event where people sit around in fancy hats, sip mint juleps or some similar concoction and possibly wager on the races. Despite the flooding, the race is still on for this weekend. This year, though, the emerging favorite is not a Kentucky Thoroughbred or a Tennessee Walker. It's a seahorse.
I'm sure there will be more to come as we swim out from this mess. In the meantime, God bless. Please pray for Nashville and text "Redcross" to number 90999 to give $10 to the recovery efforts.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Surviving the Storm
Yesterday morning, in the midst of Nashville's catastrophic flood, we were awakened to a strange noise outside our bedroom window. Two exotic-looking birds--of a species I've never seen here before-- were sitting on the window ledge staring at us, as if they expected us to show them the way to the ark we had stowed somewhere out of view.
Such is life in Middle Tennessee these days. Exotic birds appear two-by-two. A country music star lost her fencing in the flood, and now her resident bison are wandering loose somewhere in the carnage. I'm sure they too will eventually show up at our house, expecting answers.
I grew up on the beach and have lived through several hurricanes, but I've never experienced anything quite like this. Things started getting bad on Saturday when 6 inches of rain fell in about 4 hours. We got somewhere between 9 and 15 more inches on Sunday, depending on which estimate one believes. Our basement flooded, but we got still lucky. Elsewhere in town, entire neighborhoods are underwater. Rescue boats are saving people from rooftops in a matter reminiscent of the aftermath Hurricane Katrina. Opryland Hotel, 1.9 miles from our house, has 10 feet of water in the lobby. Most of our city's landmarks-- the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Grand Ole Opry, the new Symphony Hall, both our sports arenas-- are flooded. One of my neighbors has a yardfull of destroyed furniture outside his house.
When news broke about a nearby dam leaking and Opryland evacuating 1500 guests (which, like all really bad news, happened late at night), we packed up our most treasured possesions into 2 suitcases and a few grocery bags and put them by the door, thinking there was an even chance we'd have to flee to God knows where (interstates were closed with rainwater in all but 1 direction) and never see the rest of it again.
We didn't live through Hurricane Katrina, but practically every loved one in our lives did. We watched enough images back then, as we breathlessly waited to hear from our families, we suffered through this ordeal not only because of the oddly cheery pessimism displayed by our local news anchors, but also the mental image of what might be next.
But the news wasn't as bad as it might have been. The levees appear to have held. One water treatment facility has managed to hang on by a thread, so we can still use tap water. The waters finally started receding, about 24 hours after they were supposed to. Lots of people lost everything, but that seems to be the exception rather than the norm. We lost only a few thousands of dollars worth of heaters and a few mornings of hot showers. A small sump pump that's been flowing non-stop for 72 hours, has finally caught up with the rising flow of underground water and managed to lop an inch or two off our basement water level.
The first water damage mitigation company that came to our house had quoted us one price over the phone but raised it 300% when they arrived on site, citing increased demand. Apparently it had not occurred to them until 48 hours after Nashville flooded that our house might not be the only one. But after we dismissed them, reported a price gauging complaint to our local officials and made a few calls, we were finally able to find a plumbing company that has agreed to clean our basement without seeing this catastrophe as their ticket to untold wealth for generations on end. Of course, I'd be happier about this find if the company's trucks could actually reach my house from its side of the river, but for the moment, I'll take what I can get.
I rejoice in our water salvation. But that doesn't mean I don't have a few complaints. Local officials knowingly mislead the public by presenting an unrealisticly rosey picture about conditions. Emergency officials insisted that the river would crest just below the doorline of downtown businesses, even as they were already flooded. The water ultimately invaded downtown by five blocks. Similarly, the public initally was told that Opryland (which is now under 10 feet of water) was evacuating its 1500 guests due to fear of a potential power outage. We never believed that story, but when your government is telling you something so ridiculous that you dismiss it immediately, it makes it hard to take its legitimage warning seriously. Perhaps not coincidentally, the city is on the verge of running out of clean water because people have ignored the mayor's pleas for conservation.
Some of our other frustrations and traumas could have been avoided. No one bothered to sandbag the downtown portion of the river because the city couldn't find any sandbags. Long after they would have been most useful, an enourmous supply was found in a department of correction warehouse. The scariest moment in our 4-day trauma was late Sunday night when news broke that both downtown and the Opryland had begun evacuations due to unexpected rising water. But this didn't stop EVERY local news broadcast from simultaneously signing off for the evening at 11, just moments later. I know newspeople have to sleep, but they could have worked together to stagger their broadcasts if they were interested in serving the public good rather than maximizing ratings. As soon as the bad news stopped and the recovery began, local news ended their broadcasts. These same local news people failed to warn us about any of this in the first place. The national media, meanwhile, has barely mentioned the destruction here at all, so we may not get the resources necessary for a quick recovery.
But we will recover.
On a larger scale, though, the issue I've been struggling with since long before this flood, is why God created a world where these things happen. An All-Powerful God could have created a sustainable physical world that didn't randomly destroy its inhabitants. I would never stock a fish tank full of fish-imperilling booby traps that go off at random intervals. But for reasons I can't comprehend, that's the type of world in which we live. Whether it was this way since the Dawn of Time, or (as some claim) humanity made it so by failing to reach a standard of absolute perfection that was beyond human capacity to achieve in the first place, makes no real difference to this puzzling moral calculation.
I don't expect to be able to answer this type of quesiton. If it were within human understanding, someone would have figured it out by now. I'm sure there is a reason for stuff like this that will make sense when we find out on the other side. That's the best explanation I have to offer at the moment.
But if I ever get the chance, this will be the first question I ask God. That is, after I ask what to do with those exotic birds and bison He sent me.
Such is life in Middle Tennessee these days. Exotic birds appear two-by-two. A country music star lost her fencing in the flood, and now her resident bison are wandering loose somewhere in the carnage. I'm sure they too will eventually show up at our house, expecting answers.
I grew up on the beach and have lived through several hurricanes, but I've never experienced anything quite like this. Things started getting bad on Saturday when 6 inches of rain fell in about 4 hours. We got somewhere between 9 and 15 more inches on Sunday, depending on which estimate one believes. Our basement flooded, but we got still lucky. Elsewhere in town, entire neighborhoods are underwater. Rescue boats are saving people from rooftops in a matter reminiscent of the aftermath Hurricane Katrina. Opryland Hotel, 1.9 miles from our house, has 10 feet of water in the lobby. Most of our city's landmarks-- the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Grand Ole Opry, the new Symphony Hall, both our sports arenas-- are flooded. One of my neighbors has a yardfull of destroyed furniture outside his house.
When news broke about a nearby dam leaking and Opryland evacuating 1500 guests (which, like all really bad news, happened late at night), we packed up our most treasured possesions into 2 suitcases and a few grocery bags and put them by the door, thinking there was an even chance we'd have to flee to God knows where (interstates were closed with rainwater in all but 1 direction) and never see the rest of it again.
We didn't live through Hurricane Katrina, but practically every loved one in our lives did. We watched enough images back then, as we breathlessly waited to hear from our families, we suffered through this ordeal not only because of the oddly cheery pessimism displayed by our local news anchors, but also the mental image of what might be next.
But the news wasn't as bad as it might have been. The levees appear to have held. One water treatment facility has managed to hang on by a thread, so we can still use tap water. The waters finally started receding, about 24 hours after they were supposed to. Lots of people lost everything, but that seems to be the exception rather than the norm. We lost only a few thousands of dollars worth of heaters and a few mornings of hot showers. A small sump pump that's been flowing non-stop for 72 hours, has finally caught up with the rising flow of underground water and managed to lop an inch or two off our basement water level.
The first water damage mitigation company that came to our house had quoted us one price over the phone but raised it 300% when they arrived on site, citing increased demand. Apparently it had not occurred to them until 48 hours after Nashville flooded that our house might not be the only one. But after we dismissed them, reported a price gauging complaint to our local officials and made a few calls, we were finally able to find a plumbing company that has agreed to clean our basement without seeing this catastrophe as their ticket to untold wealth for generations on end. Of course, I'd be happier about this find if the company's trucks could actually reach my house from its side of the river, but for the moment, I'll take what I can get.
I rejoice in our water salvation. But that doesn't mean I don't have a few complaints. Local officials knowingly mislead the public by presenting an unrealisticly rosey picture about conditions. Emergency officials insisted that the river would crest just below the doorline of downtown businesses, even as they were already flooded. The water ultimately invaded downtown by five blocks. Similarly, the public initally was told that Opryland (which is now under 10 feet of water) was evacuating its 1500 guests due to fear of a potential power outage. We never believed that story, but when your government is telling you something so ridiculous that you dismiss it immediately, it makes it hard to take its legitimage warning seriously. Perhaps not coincidentally, the city is on the verge of running out of clean water because people have ignored the mayor's pleas for conservation.
Some of our other frustrations and traumas could have been avoided. No one bothered to sandbag the downtown portion of the river because the city couldn't find any sandbags. Long after they would have been most useful, an enourmous supply was found in a department of correction warehouse. The scariest moment in our 4-day trauma was late Sunday night when news broke that both downtown and the Opryland had begun evacuations due to unexpected rising water. But this didn't stop EVERY local news broadcast from simultaneously signing off for the evening at 11, just moments later. I know newspeople have to sleep, but they could have worked together to stagger their broadcasts if they were interested in serving the public good rather than maximizing ratings. As soon as the bad news stopped and the recovery began, local news ended their broadcasts. These same local news people failed to warn us about any of this in the first place. The national media, meanwhile, has barely mentioned the destruction here at all, so we may not get the resources necessary for a quick recovery.
But we will recover.
On a larger scale, though, the issue I've been struggling with since long before this flood, is why God created a world where these things happen. An All-Powerful God could have created a sustainable physical world that didn't randomly destroy its inhabitants. I would never stock a fish tank full of fish-imperilling booby traps that go off at random intervals. But for reasons I can't comprehend, that's the type of world in which we live. Whether it was this way since the Dawn of Time, or (as some claim) humanity made it so by failing to reach a standard of absolute perfection that was beyond human capacity to achieve in the first place, makes no real difference to this puzzling moral calculation.
I don't expect to be able to answer this type of quesiton. If it were within human understanding, someone would have figured it out by now. I'm sure there is a reason for stuff like this that will make sense when we find out on the other side. That's the best explanation I have to offer at the moment.
But if I ever get the chance, this will be the first question I ask God. That is, after I ask what to do with those exotic birds and bison He sent me.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Water Apocalyspe
Police are driving around in boats. It has rained as hard as one can possible imagined, non-stop, for two days. If you air lifted Middle Tennessee and dropped it in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it would not look much different than it already does. Our house has water. So does most everyone else's.
We went to the grocery store when there was a period of relative calm. When we came back to our house, there was, literally, a sea gull sitting on our front patio.
I'll post more later...
We went to the grocery store when there was a period of relative calm. When we came back to our house, there was, literally, a sea gull sitting on our front patio.
I'll post more later...
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