"Guild Pension: Gift That Keeps on Giving" by Lou Calvert, San Jose Newspaper Guild, in the January, 2006 Guild Reporter

The newspaper of Tuesday, Aug. 30, was filled with stories about the incredible destruction that Katrina had wrought along the Gulf Coast. Included was a story about the Santa Clara Valley chapter of the American Red Cross marshalling folks to go help. "What the heck, I'm just painting the house—I can let that slide," I reasoned as I made an inquiring telephone call.

Two hours later a volunteer called and asked a few questions: "What do you do in real life?" (Retired.) "Before you retired?" (An editor at the Mercury News.) "Any special skills?" (Well, I like to party.) "Besides that?" (Carpentry, plumbing, some electrical, shoveling, cooking, organizing.) "OK, when can you come to two days of classes?" (Today?) "Too late for today. How about tomorrow and Thursday, 8 to 5?" (Fine. See you then.)

Registration and an overview of the Red Cross mission took up the first half-day. The balance was spent learning what to expect in a disaster zone, how to steel yourself for the mental trauma of dealing with hundreds--if not thousands--of displaced folks, and what to pack when heading into a still unknown situation. The classes, normally conducted for five or six people at a time, were bursting with about 100 responders and more were calling all the time, forcing the local chapter to cut off applicants before the weekend. And this was happening all across the United States, I later found out.

Thursday night I booked a flight to Houston, and the next day recognized several of my classmates on the same flight. When we gathered at the Houston Airport Marriott on Saturday, we were joined by hundreds of other volunteers from all over the country. We were divided into teams of three and given a rental car and a crudely drawn map to the Baton Rouge Red Cross headquarters of the Louisiana disaster relief operation, a five-hour drive away. (I felt right at home at the temporary headquarters: the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers.)

Saturday night was spent in the meeting hall of a nearby First Baptist Church with a hundred of my new closest friends. Other churches throughout Baton Rouge were similarly packed.

By this time many of us were grousing about how long it was taking to get to the actual disaster area with real assignments. The experience was just what I remembered about the military: Hurry up and wait.

A return to the IBEW hall Sunday morning put us into random, larger teams of eight, with my team instructed to travel convoy-style in our three rental cars to Franklin, a tiny town in St. Mary Parish. Our assignment: nine churches had each established shelters for about 25 evacuees each. We were to scope out the town, identify a suitable building and establish a new shelter to house all 225 folks. Here, the story takes an ugly turn that diplomacy dictates I gloss over: let's just say communications broke down and my team disintegrated. By the time a new assignment was issued and we reached our next station, a First Baptist Church in Gray, about 40 miles southwest of New Orleans, we were down to three team members.

But, finally, we were where we could help.

Nearby, in Thibodaux, local government emergency services had established a shelter at Nicholls State University comprising two gymnasiums and a multi-story medical facility. The population stood at about 1,100 when we arrived. Most were refugees from the Louisiana Superdome, so not only had they been traumatized by unsuccessfully fleeing Katrina's wrath, but they also had been crammed into a building with no power and little water or food for four days before being bused to other locations. The Thibodaux Cajun community--volunteers and government workers--and National Guard units from Alexandria, in the central part of the state, were dispensing excellent care by the time the Red Cross was ready to assume control.

My job: a 12-hour night shift, starting at 7 p.m., ministering to the needs of hundreds of children, mothers, dads, grandparents, extended families and single folks whose lives had been uprooted by a disastrous act of nature. The one thing they had in common was their economic status: they were poor. Which explains why they couldn't get away. Many had no cars. Others had vehicles, but simply had run out of gas while mired in the horrendous traffic jam of others trying to flee inland.

Still others found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. One man I met was from St. Croix, in the Virgin Islands, who had flown into New Orleans to visit a long-time friend. He arrived on Friday, barely a day ahead of the hurricane, and never got to see his friend. But he was a bright spot in the shelter, always with a smile and a willingness to help out, even though he was a displaced person himself. He quickly volunteered to hand out bottled water from the canopy just across the street from the often stifling hot gymnasiums.

The National Guard unit from Alexandria that kept constant watch over the operation was impressive. It had been on campus early on and permitted no monkey business, while also being tender and caring to those who were not troublemakers. One young soldier, overheard making a disparaging remark about the individuals he was overseeing, was quickly and thoroughly reprimanded by his sergeant. "These are Americans!" he was reminded. "You will treat them with dignity and respect or you will have to answer to me." The younger soldier hastily nodded agreement and was later seen being as kind and attentive as other members of his unit.

There were some shelter residents I never saw sleeping. It was probably the same in their New Orleans' neighborhood, sitting outside all night long, swatting away insects, telling stories, smoking and drinking from the rarely-empty coffee pot. Many had wonderful attitudes about their plight, most likely just the newest bump in a lifelong journey over an extremely rough road. Most were philosophical: "At least I'm still alive."

Others, of course, were angry. And they aimed their ire squarely at the institutions that had failed them.

I met many marvelous people during my three-week tour of duty. The "clients"--how the Red Cross refers to those it is helping--were mostly Creoles who were grateful, entertaining, disturbing, magnificent individuals who just needed a helping hand . . .

. . . one made possible by my Guild's benefits.


"The money power has grown so great that the issue of all issues is whether the corporation shall rule this country or the country shall again rule the corporations." --Joseph Pulitzer, 1878