What mold can teach us about Hurricane Katrina

[Guest guest]

What mold can teach us about Hurricane Katrina

n Relief work in Biloxi, Miss. acts as testamet to the power of the

individual.

Ben Terris

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Issue date: 5/2/06 Section: Features

Page 1 of 3 next > BILOXI,

Miss- " Is this mold? " I ask Maggie, the leader of our group, while I

balance myself precariously atop a shaky ladder. A dual ventilator

respirator covers my mouth and digs painfully into the bridge of my

nose. My question sounds more like, " uhs dus mole? "

Maggie, a volunteer for Americorps, has been down in the Gulf Coast

long enough to speak the language of respirator, so she leans over

to look at the foreign green smudge on the rafter. With one gloved

hand gripping the top of the metal beam to keep her balance, Maggie

uses her spare hand to rub her finger across the mark and creates a

faint smear across the plank of wood.

" Yup, " she says as if talking through scuba gear.

I take my brush, which looks like an oversized toothbrush with sharp

metal bristles, and start violently scrubbing away at the mark. No

matter how much I scrub, a faint shadow still remains on the beam of

wood. Maggie says that even after everything has been brushed off,

this mark will always remain. It's the mold's ghost.

It's Brandeis' spring break, and I have traveled here with my three

little brothers and my father with an interfaith group based out of

Concord, Mass. called Bridge to Biloxi. There are about 30 of us

volunteering for a group called Hands On Network, a group dedicated

to aiding victims of Hurricane Katrina and other disasters. We are

doing everything from gutting houses to handing out flyers on flood

insurance.

The sheer quantity of volunteers on the Gulf Coast is remarkable.

The 30 of us represent just a speck on the lists of thousands of

people from all areas of the country that have signed on to help.

One member of Hands On tells me that earlier in the spring, groups

from dozens of colleges made the trip.

It is this influx of help, he says, that has allowed Biloxi to get

back on its feet.

Still, there is a long way to go. The Associated Press reported in

April that in the Gulf Coast, the storm killed more than 1,300

people, left hundreds of thousands homeless and caused tens of

billions of dollars in damage. The months of volunteer work have

only put a dent in this damage.

Today, on my last day of the four-day expedition, I am working

the " mold crew " with six other volunteers.

Who would have thought that after a storm with a magnitude of

Hurricane Katrina, one of the greatest dangers would be so

physically miniscule as a tiny green splotch? Yet, upon arriving at

the house, we are told that de-molding a house is among the most

important jobs relief workers can do. Even the smallest mold

infestation can harm residents in the form of rashes, and in more

serious cases, can cause a sickness commonly known as " mold lung. "

Because of the mold's immediate danger, we have to suit up in the

appropriate gear upon arriving on site. We slip into our Tyvex body

suits, strap on our respirators, and pull on our heavy-duty worker

gloves. We look like we are trying to find E.T. rather than spots on

the wall.

It is at this time that we meet Randy, who owns the house. A man of

about 40, he currently lives in a trailer beside his house with his

wife and two dogs, and introduces himself to us with a surprisingly

cheerful disposition. When he comes out to greet us, his smile

cannot be concealed by his mustache, even when showing us the damage

that was done to his house, and telling us how high the water rose

in his living room (waist high). He gives us a tour of what was once

his home, but is now just the wooden skeleton of of a house.

Seeing the house stripped down to its bare essentials reminds me of

a story I heard the first day while canvassing parts of East Biloxi

to inform residents about flood insurance. At first, I was just

going door to door with my brother, Eli, to tell people that if they

wanted to have flood insurance by the start of the fast-approaching

hurricane season, they needed to fill out the paperwork as soon as

possible.

By midday, however, I realized that my job was not just to inform,

but also to converse, to offer sympathy and to listen to people's

stories. I heard dozens of accounts of the storm and dozens of

expressions of gratitude toward volunteers, but one story really

stuck with me.

One of the final houses in our canvassing area was boarded up and

covered with " No Trespassing " and " Do Not Enter " signs. At first,

Eli and I were hesitant to approach the house, fearing the wrath of

an angry recluse, but in the end we decided to go for it and not

judge a house by its exterior. The house was still standing, but the

entire first floor had been completely gutted.

When Mike, a gruff man in his 50s, opened his front door, I

immediately offered my sympathy for his loss.

" Ah, don't be sorry, " he said in a slow Southern drawl. " I've got my

health, my family and the support of my community and folks like

y'all. "

He proceeded to tell us that as all his belongings had floated out

of his door and windows into the street (he had eight feet of water

in his house) he had an epiphany.

" I realized I didn't really need all that stuff, " he said. He

believed that the storm helped him realize that he should live a

simpler life.

" It's a shame that it took such a horrific event to teach me this, "

he said. " But at least I learned something. "

Many residents are left with much less than Mike, as was apparent

the day after I met him. I was assigned to do interior work for a

low-income housing development called Hope Six. The development had

been completed just before the storm, and just before anyone could

move in, it was destroyed.

While working at there, I started to feel daunted by the task at

hand. For every wall I knocked down or nail I pulled out of the

wall, there were a thousand more to go, just in this one housing

development. As I drove through the Gulf Coast, I saw that Hope Six

was just one among hundreds of completely destroyed communities.

Entire families sat outside their trailers in lawns decorated with

signs with a common message " State Farm screwed us too. " The

desperation and despair was everywhere. It seemed hopeless.

I think about all this on my last day, as I brush, vacuum and wipe

chemicals through the house to kill off the mold. I think about how

no matter what I or anyone else does there will still be more to do.

And, even after the work is through, mold's ghost will forever stain

the walls of every house, a reminder of the damage and a sign that

effects of Hurricane Katrina will always be present.

Still, there is something to learn from the mold. Even something

seemingly tiny can have an enormous impact. I might just be one

person working on one man's house, but I am still affecting a life.

Without the help of Hands On Network, Randy would still be gutting

his house alone. At the end of the day, Randy comes out of his

trailer, freshly showered, to thank us for our help. We are drenched

in sweat from the 92-degree plastic sauna suits we are wearing, and

covered in sawdust, fiberglass insulation and mold particles. Even

so, Randy does not let any of us leave until he has given us each a

backbreaking hug.