In high school, I looked forward to the hour-long bus trip to and from what was then MSSC for Joplin English Field Day. I took first place in mythology crossword puzzle one year. I was totally stoked. I was totally a geek. I always thought of the inevitable stop at the McDonald's on Rangeline as an enormous treat--almost as if McDonald's in Joplin was somehow better than McDonald's in Springfield. Years later, my husband would hail from Joplin and I would find myself spending even more time there.
In the last couple of weeks, I have watched how other people are processing the destruction to their town.
This afternoon was the first day I really had the opportunity to drive around the areas that got hit the hardest nearly two weeks ago. It was jaw-dropping for my co-worker and I as we wove our way through the neighborhoods around 20th Street and then over where St. John's Hospital used to be functional. The reasons photos and descriptions can't capture it, is because you would have to put a million photos together, and maybe then you could see how vast the damage actually is. In certain places, it literally stretches as far as you can see.
What is difficult for me is the fact that Joplin isn't my hometown, and I can never truly grasp the loss in the same way that my family and friends feel it. Jeph says that it's because I haven't spent time "in it." "It" being the disaster zone. I don't know.
I know for many ex-pats, it has been difficult to stay away. There's an uncanny need to be here, in spite of the fact that I think many of the ex-pats I know would be unlikely to call Joplin home again. For some people here, I think the overwhelming idea of the loss is so great, that it's almost impossible to face. For the front line "soldiers" who live here, and have been lending hands in different ways since the beginning, I think the wall is just inches away. The breaking point of compassion overkill is the next moment away.
As my friend Abby, and I drove around this afternoon, the most overwhelming thing was all of the piles of rubble. She asked "Where will all of it go?" I don't know the answer to that. Superficially, it's scrap metal, lumber, rubble and garbage. Several layers deeper, every scrap of metal, lumber, and debris represents someone's life--specifically someone's life that will never be the same. People will clear away their plots. People will rebuild. They will find new jobs, and they will start walking forward. But no matter what they do to move on, the life they move onto will look and feel very different. It may never "fit" in the same way the old life did.
Those of us who live outside of Joplin, and who are only serving short "tours of duty" here are fortunate. Yes, we, too, will be changed by our time here in the disaster zone, but we will return to our lives that are intact. The people who live here everyday will still be here when we go home. Those who were lucky enough to come out of the storm with families and homes unscathed will still be changed by what has happened here. Storm season will be taken more seriously. Precious family items might be stored in containers that are easier to pick up and run with. Understanding and patience will wane for those who are having trouble getting back to "normal." Some survivors might not survive.
As an outsider, I think it's easy to come into town and approach assisting others with a fresh energy and sense of compassion and hope. It's easy to make the snap judgment that the people I'm shoulder to shoulder with don't understand the full meaning of what they are giving back to the people in their town with everything they are doing. It's easy, because I haven't been walking or driving the streets of Joplin everyday for the last two weeks, and I won't be driving the streets of Joplin everyday six months from now either.
When disaster becomes your everyday, it's no wonder you find yourself wanting to look away.
http://youtu.be/wHa4y0uGKZw
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