Ms. P is pissed. She is not polite or friendly. She hasn’t asked me to sit down, nor does she thank me for trying to help her. If it wasn’t for her son letting me in, she probably would not have spoken to me. She is impatient and often rolls her eyes at the things I say.
"Mississippi Center for Justice? What kind of justice are ya'll talkin' about?"
Her anger makes me nervous. I find it difficult, all of sudden, to remember all my reassuring phrases: "I know the feeling, ma'am," "I understand your frustration, ma'am" and, " I am soooo sorry to hear that, ma'am."
Ms. P doesn't care that I am standing in the living room of her small FEMA trailer. She often looks away when I speak. I realize at that moment that reassuring someone is easier when she has some hope in betterment. People with hope are receptive to learning about their rights and options. Ms. P has no more hope left. I don't know what to say. I fall silent.
She holds up a white cloth that has strange red stains on it and tells me that this cloth is from her son's morning nose bleed. I gasp.
The cloth makes my stomach turn. It is a startling realization. The cloth reminds me that I am breathing the same poison that pushes blood out from that little boy's nose. I am breathing the same poison that swells her eyes shut in the mornings. I am breathing the same poison that caused her children's asthma, and that causes her regular headaches and congestion.
The blood on that cloth is real. These children are real and so is their looming, lurking, death. It is possible that at least one of the children I met will develop cancer and die because of prolonged exposure to formaldehyde.
Ms. P says that FEMA is trying to kill them. The hurricane didn't kill them, but FEMA will. And they are going to do it one trailer at a time.
"Mississippi Center for Justice? What kind of justice are ya'll talkin' about?"
Her anger makes me nervous. I find it difficult, all of sudden, to remember all my reassuring phrases: "I know the feeling, ma'am," "I understand your frustration, ma'am" and, " I am soooo sorry to hear that, ma'am."
Ms. P doesn't care that I am standing in the living room of her small FEMA trailer. She often looks away when I speak. I realize at that moment that reassuring someone is easier when she has some hope in betterment. People with hope are receptive to learning about their rights and options. Ms. P has no more hope left. I don't know what to say. I fall silent.
She holds up a white cloth that has strange red stains on it and tells me that this cloth is from her son's morning nose bleed. I gasp.
The cloth makes my stomach turn. It is a startling realization. The cloth reminds me that I am breathing the same poison that pushes blood out from that little boy's nose. I am breathing the same poison that swells her eyes shut in the mornings. I am breathing the same poison that caused her children's asthma, and that causes her regular headaches and congestion.
The blood on that cloth is real. These children are real and so is their looming, lurking, death. It is possible that at least one of the children I met will develop cancer and die because of prolonged exposure to formaldehyde.
Ms. P says that FEMA is trying to kill them. The hurricane didn't kill them, but FEMA will. And they are going to do it one trailer at a time.
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