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Helping Out Victims of Hurricane Katrina
"It was overwhelming—that just that clean pair of socks at last could mean so much to people who had gone through hell and high water, literally."
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By Geeta Persad
The pictures had been all over the news. Water. Everywhere. Debris and gasoline mixed in with Mother Nature's attempt to take back her territory. Parts of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana decimated by the hurricane's effects, most notably New Orleans. I watched the exodus that followed unfold on TV along with millions of other Americans, feeling shocked and helpless. I had to do something. I cleaned out my closet; I filled grocery bags with canned goods; I scanned news site upon news site.
So, naturally, when the wave of evacuees brought plane loads of the affected into the Austin-Bergstrom airport and the doors of the Austin Convention Center opened to offer them food, clothes, and shelter, I had to help. On Monday morning, I found myself in the broad, sunny lobby of the Convention Center filling out my volunteer registration form. We were given bright purple wristbands and ushered into a volunteer waiting room, where the smell of coffee and sharpies (used to write makeshift name tags) mixed with the early morning chatter of those eager to help.
We were greeted by Mayor Will Wynn, who expressed words of thanks and encouragement as volunteer coordinators entered the room. “We need two people in child care” came the first summons and one batch of volunteers exited. I was soon enlisted to the clothes sorting and distribution crew. One huge room of the Convention Center had been converted into what looked like Goodwill’s dream home. Cardboard boxes marked “Mens XL” and “Children’s clothing” lined the walls. Tables were strewn with an assortment of shirts, socks, and pants from those who had opened their hearts and closets to the evacuees. I immediately dived in. Small women’s blouses over here, infant clothing over there.
We unpacked boxes upon boxes of clothes. As I carried armfuls of socks out to the distribution tables, I was engulfed with thank yous. It was overwhelming—that just that clean pair of socks at last could mean so much to people who had gone through hell and high water, literally. A man asked me for a pair of jeans, size 35. When I came out of the sorting room with a pair, he clasped my hand in gratitude. A woman thanked me for volunteering as I unpacked men’s underwear for her husband.
As I chatted with evacuees about everything from the origin of their last names to their sock size, I couldn’t help but be amazed at their fortitude and candor. The Convention Center truly was a city within a city. People were building their own routines and communities. Children were playing basketball and checkers. Even though I left exhausted, I was uplifted by the spirit of those that I had met. They are rebuilding their world around them. They’re not looking back. I’m just glad I could do a little bit to help.
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