Faith - Chapter Two - Ricki Crowe

We all cope with disappointment and frustration in our own ways. Faith transcends this and calls us to believe, without evidence, that the Universe is unfolding as it should. Sometimes, that feels like cold porridge on a wet morning and we struggle to hang on. Sometimes we just give in, give up, and move inside ourselves to a very dangerous place.

This is the story of Ricki Crowe, a resident of Pearlington. Ricki is about my age, with grandchildren and no home. He came into the Pearl*Mart one day to check his standing on the trailer kit list. I looked and told him I believed there were 50 coming the following Monday and that he was number 48. When Monday came and tornadoes were sweeping the midwest, I reasoned with him that they were probably delayed. Tuesday came and went and no trailer kits. On Wednesday, he came in for the last time and I told him they were still not in but expected them the following day. He turned abruptly on his heel to leave. I tried to lighten the moment. “Ricki,” I said, “If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.” He quietly replied, “Just forget the whole thing,” and left the store. That’s when I knew Ricki was in trouble.

Later that day I saw him eating alone in the food tent. I went to his table and apologized if it seemed I had been flippant and that I was just trying to defuse the moment. He told me, “I didn’t appreciate your words. I don’t really care anymore. No one is helping and no one cares.” I asked him if he had received his FEMA trailer yet. “No one has done anything for me or my family,” he said, quietly. “I’m done. I’m fed up. I don’t want anything from anybody.”

I knelt in the sand beside his table. I found I was more emotional than I should have been. I cried a little as I told him that I knew how he felt, that once I had lost everything and how powerless that had felt. I asked him if he would come with me to the FEMA tent and talk to these new guys, that things were getting done and I would help him in any way I could. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see.”

The next morning, Ricki showed up at my door and I took him over to the Disaster Recovery Center. I explained how difficult the situation was and I left it in their hands. I told him that the trailer packages had arrived and I had one with his name on it. He said he would finish with the FEMA folks and bring his truck on Monday to get his package. What I didn’t tell him was that only 45 kits had arrived and, in fact, he had missed the cut. I didn’t have the heart for it.

Later that day, Mark from FEMA told me that he was getting right on Ricki’s trailer. I asked him, as a personal favour to me, to work as fast as he could. I knew they were pulling strings and skirting whatever they had to, trying to get the rest of the people off the ground. It was Day 81 out from the storm. That Saturday I helped organize a big meeting of the community in the food tent. All the government players were there and there was a lot of emotion and unanswered questions. Earlier that day, I had been accused by the Emergency Operation Center of racism, favouring whites over blacks in the distribution of goods. Apparently, someone didn’t get something they thought they should get and out came the race card. It was merely my turn. Others had been similarly accused - blacks about whites AND whites about blacks. I had deflected it all and borne it with irony that in a state infamous for racism, the Canadian guy - who had never once in his life ever gone there - was being branded a racist.

The director of the EOC was present at the meeting and I asked the very last question. I turned to the people in the tent and explained that I had been accused. I told them how hurt I was and that if they believed that to be true about me, and that the EOC was right, I was prepared to get in my car and go home. If they did NOT believe it to be true, then I would just get back to work. There was an uproar, people leaping to their feet in support of me. Ricki was one of them and yelled out loudly: “Canada Jon has done more for us than any of YOU!”

As I left the tent, I was jumped by the director of the EOC and his sidekick. I had embarrassed them, which was, of course, my intention. They demanded a meeting to get it straight and I agreed, knowing that it would take them weeks to organize such a simple thing, if at all. In the end, I was right, of course. Ricki saw them badgering me, even as other residents were coming up to me as I was being screamed at and offering their loyalty and support - blacks and whites. This further infuriated the EOC guys. When they were done completing my sentences for me and huffed off self-importantly, I sat on the bench outside the Pearl*Mart to catch my breath. Ricki appeared beside me. “I’m sorry that happened to you. What can I do for you?”

I almost broke down again. “Ricki,” I said, “I am the one charged with doing for you, not the other way around.” “I know,” he said, “but I want you to know how we all feel.” I was very touched. “Ricki,” I told him, “I already knew how you all felt. That wasn’t for me, that was for them.”

On Monday, he came for his trailer kit, the one he wasn’t supposed to get. But the Americorps kids and I had looked up the list of what was supposed to be in one of them and made up the goods from stock and other sources. We even added a few things. It was a kick-ass kit and I was thrilled to give it to him. He thanked me over and over and gave me a hug; a real hug, not a man-hug. But there was still the issue of his trailer.

As my last day approached, Ricki showed up with a steak he had cooked for me, complete with a baked potato and peas - cooked over a BBQ at his camp site. I asked him for word of his trailer; I knew it was coming but had learned to say nothing until it was in my hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It will come when it comes. It’s alright now.”

The day before yesterday, home just a few hours, I was having a luxurious shower when Mark from FEMA called. Marian handed me the phone through the curtain and I dried my ear enough to listen. “Ricki Crowe is in his trailer,” Mark said. I thanked him for his diligence and he thanked me for mine and we promised to stay in touch. I was two-for-three and a very happy wet guy.

Ricki, if you ever read this, please know that it was the finest steak I ever ate, marinated as it was with so much affection and mutual admiration. As we say in bayou country, I hope you got the biggest-ass trailer on the coast! Journey well, friend, and I won’t forget you promised me another steak when next we meet.