Disaster washes away the political lines that divide us
Harvey has delivered not only tragedy to many of my fellow Texans, but it’s brought back memories from another terrible moment that occurred around Labor Day weekend six years ago.
On Sept. 4, 2011, the perfect storm of wind, heat and downed power lines created the Bastrop County Complex fire, the most devastating wildfire in Texas history and one of the five worst in the U.S. For a month, I helped manage the city of Smithville’s distribution center, where we saw to it that evacuees and those whose homes had burned received basic living essentials.
Long before the ominous plumes of smoke appeared that Labor Day weekend, I’d watched with sadness how addicted my fellow Texans (and Americans) had grown to a daily fix of anger and righteousness. And, if I thought that addiction was bad six years ago, it pales in comparison to its current intensity. Today, we imbibe so fully and frequently in hating one another that doing so has become a craving on steroids.
Thanks in large part to those who control our media — right and left leaning — we salivate, Pavlovian-like, at the first signs of diverging opinion. Conflict is eagerly exaggerated to keep us snacking on fury, hungry for the blood of those who don’t subscribe to our same dot-to-dot ideology. But as the fires continued — an exhausting 26 days — flames smacked down not only our beloved loblolly pines but the onslaught of our “differences,” those evil dissimilarities instigated non-stop via Twitter, Facebook, TV, blogs, radio talk shows and newspapers.
Since so many of our so-called differences lack real substance, the fires exposed the junk-food quality of our perpetual pissed-offness. I’m not naïve; I knew most of those divisions would grow back long before the post-fire pine seedlings and as soon as folks trekked back up Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. And they did.
But while those September 2011 flames fumed, ultimately consuming over 1,700 homes and rendering nearly 10,000 central Texans homeless, the fire scorched those artificial boundaries between us. It cleared ground so that “liberal” and “conservative” discovered how much they really have in common. Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, Christians, Muslims, Jews. Environmentalists and oil men, too. Once the heat silenced the voices of the “definers,” the ones who provide official guidelines for our many divisions, we naturally worked together. We heard what no voice, no moral authority needed to tell us: that good people help one another.
Like Harvey, the fires affected the very wealthy to the undocumented immigrant. An equal-opportunity act of nature. Folks in every socioeconomic group lost every possession.
But, as they meandered in listless circles, it wasn’t really “stuff ” they missed. No, regardless of ideology, nationality or even social standing, folks from both sides of the aisle longed for familiar patterns and routines. The peace that came with the predictable. They longed for what we all simply call “my life.”
Ashes — and now dirty water — laid bare the essentials of what constituted “my life.” It didn’t include incendiary AM talk radio or cynical shows led by cynical comedians. It’s much simpler than that. It includes: “the pillow I’m used to”; “privacy when using the restroom”; “knowing where my paperwork is”; “the comfort of my cat on my lap (instead of not knowing if she is dead or trying to return to a home that no longer exists).”
Support poured in from throughout the nation, demonstrating to fire victims that they were cared for, that others had compassion, regardless of what they believed or even if they spoke English. Texans spent their own money to rent U-Hauls, filled them with donations and drove them all the way down from Dallas-Fort Worth or El Paso. One woman called from Mississippi and told me she’d made it through Katrina so we’d make it through this, calling me “girlfriend” with her deep Southern twang the whole while. A Midwestern family of four mailed us cards, handmade by the children, while a family in Oklahoma sent a box full of stuffed animals they’d collected from their community. And one man drove five hours to Smithville from Galveston, his Toyota pickup loaded with rakes and shovels because, since he’d been through Ike, he knew we’d need them. He was right. We did. Desperately.
And not one person — not one! — asked how many Baptists, illegals, pro-choicers, progressives, pro-lifers, tea-partiers, Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, Mexicans, blacks, bunny-huggers, or gays we had. No one asked any of that before reaching out a hand in comfort and assistance.
The response to Harvey has been just as generous. Once again, a beautiful outpouring of unconditional love is coming to those in need from all corners of our state and country. This time, y’all, let’s hold on to to that love. Let’s hold on to the good this tragedy has brought our way so tightly that the floodwaters can’t take it with them when they go.