Unfocused anger.
Sadness, unfocused anger, and an overwhelming urge to act have led me to leave work and drive down to the Red Cross emergency shelter.
A young Hispanic man, sweating profusely in the afternoon heat, directs each entering car to its destination. He thinks they have plenty of volunteers, he tells me, but I can try the blue tent over there; he sends me on my way.
I park at some distance from the stadium and trek across the lot. A young black woman, presumably a refugee, is being interviewed by a local news station. A group of children run around, impervious to the heat, enjoying the carnival-like atmosphere, youthfully and thankfully oblivious of its cause.
At the stadium, a knot of people surround the table where two elderly volunteers, friendly and efficient, answer questions. No, they don't need any supplies. Yes, they can accept monetary donations and provide receipts at the table across the way. No, they don't need any volunteers today, but if I fill out this form, they will call me.
A woman walks up behind me and asks where she can register. As a refugee or as a volunteer?, they ask. When the woman responds refugee, the crowd parts instantly and a deputy sheriff whisks the woman away into the locked doors of the stadium.
I begin to fill out the volunteer form but it is four pages long and requires information I do not have with me. Stymied, I go the donations table and offer assistance that, though surely more needed, is less satisfying. I have done almost nothing and yet can do nothing more. I am sad, angry, and unable to act as I drive away from the Red Cross emergency shelter.
A young Hispanic man, sweating profusely in the afternoon heat, directs each entering car to its destination. He thinks they have plenty of volunteers, he tells me, but I can try the blue tent over there; he sends me on my way.
I park at some distance from the stadium and trek across the lot. A young black woman, presumably a refugee, is being interviewed by a local news station. A group of children run around, impervious to the heat, enjoying the carnival-like atmosphere, youthfully and thankfully oblivious of its cause.
At the stadium, a knot of people surround the table where two elderly volunteers, friendly and efficient, answer questions. No, they don't need any supplies. Yes, they can accept monetary donations and provide receipts at the table across the way. No, they don't need any volunteers today, but if I fill out this form, they will call me.
A woman walks up behind me and asks where she can register. As a refugee or as a volunteer?, they ask. When the woman responds refugee, the crowd parts instantly and a deputy sheriff whisks the woman away into the locked doors of the stadium.
I begin to fill out the volunteer form but it is four pages long and requires information I do not have with me. Stymied, I go the donations table and offer assistance that, though surely more needed, is less satisfying. I have done almost nothing and yet can do nothing more. I am sad, angry, and unable to act as I drive away from the Red Cross emergency shelter.