Vox - Navigating the wreckagehttps://cdn.vox-cdn.com/community_logos/52517/voxv.png2018-11-12T11:10:49-05:00http://www.vox.com/rss/stream/160542112018-11-12T11:10:49-05:002018-11-12T11:10:49-05:00I'm a woman who fought wildfires for 7 years. Climate change is absolutely making them worse.
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<figcaption>A firefighter fights La Tuna Fire on September 2, 2017 near Burbank, California. | David McNew/Getty Images</figcaption>
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<p>Warmer climate is creating the perfect conditions for long wildfire seasons in the West.</p> <p id="CWPpp3"><em>2018’s </em><a href="https://www.vox.com/2018/11/9/18078916/california-wildfires-2018-camp-woolsey-hill"><em>wildfires</em></a><em> are already proving to be more destructive than last year’s. The Camp Fire near Chico, California has already claimed at least 29 lives, destroyed more than 6,400 structures, and burned more than 111,000 acres since it began last Thursday. It is now the deadliest and most destructive fire in California’s history. Meanwhile, the Woolsey Fire continues to ravage Los Angeles County, burning 85,500 acres. This essay, published during last year’s brutal fire season, tackles many of the same issues as this year’s season.</em></p>
<p id="BGfB9W">The mundane days all run together. But those days when I was genuinely unsure if I would make it to the end of my shift intact are the ones that stand out.</p>
<p id="e0iOCM">I remember fighting a fire on the Angeles National Forest in 2002. Our crew flew onto a ridge in a helicopter. The rotor wash, or wind created by the helicopter blades, flung orange embers into the unburned vegetation — the “green.” Immediately, it started burning.</p>
<p id="iR0fe1">We jumped out of the helicopter, ran underneath the fire, and started digging. The goal was to quickly create a line free of any vegetation that could burn, called a fireline, which we used to stop fires from growing. Digging fireline is grueling; I often lost myself in the sound of chainsaws and rhythm of my tool hitting the dirt and ignored my physical pain.</p>
<p id="2CnTLc">Some of us had to run deep into the green and find embers<strong> </strong>or put out new small fires before they began burning out of control. There were full minutes when I thought, <em>This may be it. We may not make it.</em></p>
<p id="Oymjh6">I worked as a wildland firefighter for seven years in the 2000s. And so I’ve been watching the smoky footage on my computer of the fires burning across the West this last month with great unease. Take the La Tuna Fire, which ignited on September 1. It was one of the largest fires Los Angeles has ever seen and burned more than 7,000 acres before it was contained. And it’s the kind of fire that is increasingly common in the age of climate change.</p>
<p id="uNARTj">Wildland firefighters are especially attuned to how climate change puts us all at greater risk for destructive fires. We understand how higher temperatures and long-term drought are the perfect conditions for ignition. To us, there’s little controversy that it’s happening, although not everyone believes it’s human caused. I do, and, along with others in the field, I wonder when those in power will take the steps needed to address climate change.</p>
<h3 id="U1Nyuf">Climate change and wildfires are a vicious cycle of worsening conditions</h3>
<p id="R4nE5z">Wildfires <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/10/10/556822426/public-calamity-as-california-wildfires-leave-apocalyptic-scenes-in-wine-country">currently burning</a> in Northern California have destroyed thousands of acres and homes and resulted in the deaths of 11 people. Counties including Napa and Sonoma have been declared a state of emergency.</p>
<p id="QdxnTb">It’s been a brutal wildfire season. Last month’s La Tuna Fire in Los Angeles was, I’m sure, one of those fires that seemed uncontainable. In a speech, Ralph Terrazas, the LAFD fire chief, said, “We can handle everything. We have to. We don’t have an option.” He sounded exhausted and less hopeful than his words.</p>
<p id="ofviMi">Southern California’s fire season usually lasts into late September and October when hot, strong winds called the Santa Ana blow through the region. I witnessed this. Fires often started on roadsides, ignited by discarded cigarette butts or even a spark from a motorcycle. The La Tuna Fire didn’t bode well for this year’s California fire season, and we’re seeing those effects.</p>
<aside id="fBgPoM"><div data-anthem-component="readmore" data-anthem-component-data='{"stories":[{"title":"Map: where Western wildfires have made the air outside too dangerous to breathe","url":"https://www.vox.com/energy-and-environment/2017/9/12/16295246/wildfires-air-quality-map"}]}'></div></aside><p id="lb7jsA">Last month, I spoke with my friend Jesse Moreng, an ex-hotshot — or wildland firefighter — who now works as a multi-mission aircraft manager, mapping fires for the firefighters on the ground. When I asked Jesse if he thought this fire season was more severe than most, he said yes, “just in terms of how many places are burning at once.” </p>
<p id="B0635K">The US Fire Service and the Department of the Interior in September <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2017/09/12/us/politics/ap-us-interior-wildfires.html?mcubz=0">reported</a> spending more than $2.1 billion on fires this year so far, which is what they spent for the entire fire season in 2015, one of the most devastating fire seasons since 1960. What strikes me most about the report is the predicted length the 2017 fire season. Some predicted containment dates are well into late autumn. Many of these large fires are under 5 percent contained, with no rain or helpful weather in sight. That’s going to take a lot of resources to stop or contain.</p>
<p id="jvf6Iy">As some fires continue to get worse, <a href="https://www.vox.com/energy-and-environment/2017/9/12/16295246/wildfires-air-quality-map">air quality will suffer</a>, and more often, there may be loss of property and loss of life due to the increasing number of people who live in wooded areas. Most importantly, <a href="http://blogs.ei.columbia.edu/2014/10/13/what-do-wildfires-have-to-do-with-climate-change/">large fires emit greenhouse gases</a>, which have been proven to accelerate climate change and burn trees, which are crucial for oxygenating the air. This will inevitably affect the quality of life of most people living in the United States. This isn’t just happening here, but around the world.</p>
<p id="1pwcoM">As Puerto Rico, Texas, the Caribbean, and Florida continue to recover from hurricanes Maria, Harvey, and Irma, there seems to be an <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/08/us/hurricane-irma-earthquake-fires.html?mcubz=1&_r=0">Armageddon-esque dread</a> floating around on the internet. The Tubbs and Atlas fires are carving a path of destruction through Northern California, and 33 active fires burn throughout the state. It will only get worse as the effects of climate change continue.</p>
<p id="1GTxxv">Climate change will continue to affect fire behavior. According to an article published in <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2650296/"><em>PNAS</em></a>, data from western North America confirms that human-caused climate change will lead to widespread and more frequent fires. This is because the continual warming trend sets up conditions for a longer burning season — climate change means higher temperatures and more erratic precipitation, which leads to drier fuels ripe for burning.</p>
<p id="LW925O">It’s not hopeless. Although the wildfire news makes it feel as if the end of the world is upon us, it isn’t. Not yet. The USFS motto is “Caring for the land and serving people.” But how can we enforce that when the current administration denies climate change altogether? To keep our forests and air healthy, we must be actively educating ourselves and voting for people who will be stewards of the land.</p>
<h3 id="BEswgd">The grueling work of fighting fires</h3>
<p id="nRrKbL">When I was 19, I dropped out of college, and a friend suggested I apply at a nearby fire contracting agency in Eugene, Oregon. We were on a fire within two weeks, and I loved the job. It was intense and exhausting, but I loved the camaraderie I had with my fellow crew members.</p>
<p id="aDQn6T">For four years, I worked on three different hotshot crews. Hotshots are on the front lines — a crew consists of 18 to 22 members, the bulk of whom are seasonal federal employees and the rest permanent government employees.</p>
<p id="qgza9Y">It’s intensely physical work. The fire season typically lasts May through October, and in a busy season, a crew will log more than 1,000 hours of overtime. On “rolls,” a crew leaves home base for two to three weeks at a time, depending on the fire situation nationally, and will only come home for a couple of days before being called out again. Every few years, some crews have a slow season, resulting in less pay. Each hotshot gets paid differently due to experience, but most are paid $13 to $17 an hour, plus overtime and hazard pay.</p>
<p id="SH7lCI">Wildland firefighters are also often looked down upon by city fire departments. We aren’t considered “real” firefighters, and seasonals don’t get benefits such as health insurance or retirement that structural firefighters enjoy. A permanent position is not guaranteed and can be hard to find.</p>
<p id="S1ArfA">In 2002, my crew was called to the Biscuit Fire, historically one of the largest fires in Oregon. It clocked in at more than 500,000 acres, or 781 square miles. We spent most of our time fighting the Biscuit Fire using a method called “burning,” using drip torches to burn fuels along old logging roads and new dozer lines. We hoped that when the larger fire reached the burned fuels, it would stop, because there was no more fuel to burn. We spent three weeks fighting the Biscuit Fire. Eventually, it crossed the border into California. The fire would not be contained fully for another five months.</p>
<p id="kPVBAA">Burning, which also can be done using flares or dropping napalm balls from helicopters, is just one method of fighting fire. Another method is fireline, which is when a fire crew or dozer creates a fuel break by removing all vegetation along the edge of the fire so it can burn no further. There’s also the “slurry line” method, where planes and/or helicopters drop fire retardant in a line across the vegetation to slow the burn.</p>
<p id="LVn54O">For any of these methods to work, the elements have to be cooperative. Often they aren’t, and firefighters spend weeks implementing these tactics repeatedly, starting over each time they fail. We could only do so much.</p>
<p id="kZYqit">Big fires are often unwilling to be contained. One day, while on the Bitterroot Complex, which burned more than 350,000 acres, we were feeling around for embers hiding in roots and stumps when it began to snow. My boss told me stories about how, when the snowy season came, embers would hide for the entire winter underground, only to pop up in the spring and reignite.</p>
<p id="Y992Y4">Even if we thought we’d have a hard time getting hold of the fire, we worked hard. After the initial frenzy of a new fire, our shifts were pretty regular: 16 hours on the fireline every day. We woke around 5 am and refilled our water, ate, and sharpened our tools in the dark, using the yellow circle of our headlamps. Throughout the day we’d lag and then become reenergized; we’d pour Emergen-C into our mouths, eat crystallized coffee, make tea with the water in our water bottles, which was almost always hot.</p>
<p id="ZSsmCd">Sometimes I hated the job; I’d dream of going to a restaurant and eating a steak, taking a shower — something we rarely did while in the field — sleeping in my bed. I wished, sometimes, that I could go swimming in a lake or do other summer activities I often missed out on during fire season. But firefighting was what I knew how to do, so I stayed. I loved working in the woods, where I didn’t have to be part of what I called “real civilization.”</p>
<p id="8c69xj">There’s a part of me that misses my days of firefighting. But when I see the ongoing fires in California, Oregon, and Montana, I think about just how intense it was, and how much worse it’s getting every year. There will always be men and women at the forefront of these fires, doing whatever they can to contain the devastating impacts of nature. The politicians in charge of climate change policies need to make these hotshots’ jobs a little easier.</p>
<p id="kT0jp5"><em>Anastasia Selby grew up in Washington state and spent most of her </em><em>20s</em><em> fighting forest fires. She is now an MFA candidate in fiction at Syracuse University and looks forward to graduation in 2018, when she can head out </em><em>W</em><em>est again. Find her on Twitter </em><a href="https://twitter.com/anastasiaselby"><em>@AnastasiaSelby</em></a><em>.</em></p>
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https://www.vox.com/science-and-health/2017/9/14/16301876/camp-fire-woolsey-fire-california-wildfires-2018Anastasia Selby2018-04-20T09:55:31-04:002018-04-20T09:55:31-04:00I’m a TV weatherman. Here's what happened when I discussed climate change on air.
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<figcaption>A photo of Tropical Storm Harvey taken by astronaut Randy Bresnik from the International Space Station on August 28, 2017. | Credits: NASA</figcaption>
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<p>Broadcast meteorologists are starting to talk more about the issue during their forecasts.</p> <p id="6W7cFu">My former colleagues in the broadcast meteorology field have certainly had a busy past year. Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria devastated the Texas coastline, Florida, and Puerto Rico, where thousands still suffer power outages. Wildfires spread across the West Coast. I know broadcast meterologists’ first job is to protect life and property, but on this Earth Day, I wonder how many of my former colleagues have mentioned climate change in their longform coverage of these natural disasters.</p>
<p id="1eFzcJ">It was not so long ago that climate change was a topic broadcast meteorologists would not bring up. Some still don’t. The reasons are complicated, ranging from what meteorologists are taught in college to not wanting to upset their viewers. But they are increasingly changing. I’ve spoken to many former colleagues who want to start having these conversations on air and doing what they can to inform the public about the issue. </p>
<p id="QwC7wH">When I started on the air in the mid-’90s, climate change just wasn’t something many of us talked about, including me. I was way more focused on the shorter-range forecasting, preparing my audience for the weather of the day and week.</p>
<p id="y5FjmT">But the more I learned about the science, the more that started to change. In 2013, I was the chief meteorologist at the ABC affiliate in Lynchburg, Virginia. And that fall, when the world’s leading climate scientists had released their latest update on <a href="http://www.ipcc.ch/report/ar5/wg1/">climate change</a>, I thought it was time to speak up about how our planet was changing. This was science, not policy. </p>
<p id="nJoIz8">I was still concerned that many in my audience did not want to hear it. However, the information was important, so I made the decision to highlight the key findings on the air one evening that fall. Since 1901, global sea levels had risen 7.5 inches and the average temperature had risen 1.6 degrees Fahrenheit, I said. And this was primarily a result of the increasing greenhouse gas concentration from the burning of fossil fuels.</p>
<p id="qFDbon">After discussing on the air, I shared a post summarizing what I had said on air. I mentally prepared to face any negative reaction. But in the end, I was surprised and somewhat relieved that I received only one comment about it:</p>
<p id="HjcabH"><em>I don't really like the news, but people need to hear it.</em></p>
<p id="R3M97z">No hate mail came; no fussing from my news managers ensued. I realized that I could do this. I started to feel better about discussing climate change on the air, and slowly began peppering in climate change facts whenever possible. I still had to be cognizant of not going too far so as to not repel a conservative audience. Occasionally, I would get a cranky Facebook comment. But I was surprised at how little backlash it ultimately caused. </p>
<p id="aeIuCa">This experience sowed the seeds for me to help other meteorologists talk about climate change on the air. For much of the public, meteorologists are the only scientists people see on a daily basis, so they have a unique position in the media landscape. Talking about climate change from that position could make a real difference in how the public discusses climate change and its solutions. It’s something we increasingly have a responsibility to do.</p>
<h3 id="B5iI4v">Not all meteorologists are required to study climate science </h3>
<p id="qufYDs">Most meteorologists knew they wanted to study the weather from an early age. I’m no different. My two fascinations as a child were weather and astronomy. I had no idea who would pay me to look at the stars and planets, but a good forecast was always in demand, so I chose to study meteorology. </p>
<p id="mg1tLg">Aside from two courses I took in college on climate change and variability, I wasn’t someone who was deeply interested about climate change. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in climate science. It’s just that I didn’t have to learn much about it — you don’t need a deep understanding of the climate system to be an operational forecaster. It is not necessary to understand long-term climate variations, like the coming and going of ice ages, when following an advancing line of damaging thunderstorms. </p>
<p id="Fu15KH">When I think about climate science and the forecasting community, there is still a bit of a disconnect. It may be the lack of exposure to the subject when someone was at college. Those who study climate science look at the entire earth system, including the atmosphere, oceans, biosphere, and cryosphere, as well as how Earth relates to the sun. But for those who study weather forecasting, not much time is spent exploring those additional topics. </p>
<p id="GnEGIG">Instead, we look at how individual weather systems develop. So you can certainly take climate science as a complementary elective course, but it’s not one that is necessarily required. There are also some weathercasters who are self-taught or who take correspondence courses rather than studying meteorology in college, where they might take classes in climate science.</p>
<p id="RCZCf8">There is also a group within the forecasting community that doesn’t like the way the subject is covered in the news. Some are still not convinced it's real, and others view it as overstated and sensationalized by partisan media. I am painfully aware of how politicized the subject has become. In broadcast meteorology, the number of eyes on you ultimately drives your salary and your livelihood. You don’t want to upset your managers or give viewers a reason to turn you off. I have spoken to broadcast meteorology colleagues about this topic, and those concerns are very real to them.</p>
<p id="tIqMLS">Nonetheless, as my broadcast career moved forward, I thought it was important to remind my viewers that climate change was already occurring and the impacts were going be more noticeable. Watching the glaciers and permafrost melt across the Arctic was the evidence that convinced me most. </p>
<p id="g5JYal">I began to talk more about climate change on the air, like discussing <a href="http://www.climatecentral.org/gallery/graphics/us-warming-since-the-first-earth-day">how much warmer</a> Virginia has become since the first Earth Day in 1970. I started a blog specifically about climate change to share more with my community. If there were things I didn’t understand, I went after the scientific answers the best I could, steering clear of outside, nonscientific influences.</p>
<p id="1ermUB">While weather inspired me to pursue my career in meteorology, this new desire to learn more about climate science inspired me to take the next step in my career.</p>
<h3 id="Dk32ah">There’s been a huge shift in attitudes toward climate change among weathercasters in recent years</h3>
<p id="Pvssb6">In 2014, after nearly 20 years as a broadcast meteorologist, I saw a change in both the climate and the broadcast meteorology landscape. On the climate front, I knew evidence of climate change would only become stronger. On the broadcasting front, it seemed more meteorologists wanted to approach climate change on air, although some struggled with how to go about it.</p>
<p id="R9kvXe">In both cases, my gut was right. The planet has set a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/18/science/earth-highest-temperature-record.html?mcubz=0">record</a> for its warmest year for three years running. Intense heat waves and rising seas have taken a toll around the world as atmospheric carbon dioxide continues to rise to <a href="http://www.climatecentral.org/news/climate-change-unseen-50-million-years-21312">levels unseen</a> in the history of human civilization.</p>
<p id="eVzv8o">Evidence of a shift in attitudes became clear in surveys of broadcast meteorologists. In 2010, a <a href="https://www.climatechangecommunication.org/tv-weathercasters-reports/">George Mason University survey</a> indicated that 53 percent of broadcast meteorologists say global warming is indeed happening. A similar 2017 survey indicated that number had jumped to 95 percent. However, that same 2017 survey only indicated 49 percent were convinced it has been mostly or entirely due to human activity, so there is still work to be done to bring the science home. When an opportunity arose to make a career shift allowing me to convey the science to a broader audience, I wanted to investigate.</p>
<p id="j12jf3">That’s how I ended up shifting careers to work at the nonprofit Climate Central, a group that provides research and multimedia to broadcast meteorologists to help them tell the story of climate change. Leaving broadcast meteorology was a career risk, but I believed in the work Climate Central was doing, getting the best science in the hands of broadcast meteorologists. </p>
<p id="RYvTVK">I now spend my time working with meteorologists on the forefront of weather and climate communication. The stories behind the growing number of meteorologists talking about climate change are as fascinating as the numbers. </p>
<p id="JARuKI">Greg Fishel, a meteorologist at NBC in Raleigh-Durham, has been at his station since 1981. He was given the opportunity to do a longform documentary about climate change, which took him all the way to the Arctic Ocean shore town of Barrow, Alaska, located in a region warming about twice as much as the rest of Earth. He often uses social media to continually engage the public about the issue, including skeptics. Those skeptics are loud on his social media feeds, but he is not afraid to engage them, treating it as an opportunity to showcase the state of the science beyond just a few talking points.</p>
<p id="0TVj2V">It’s not just broadcast meteorologists. I was in Houston in July — long before there was a hint of Harvey — having dinner with a couple of meteorologist friends who work in the energy industry, a group that tends to lean conservative. They look at decadal trends in weather patterns for their energy clients, trying to determine if the summer will be particularly hot or the winter particularly cold, all in the service of helping energy companies plan for consumer demand. </p>
<p id="1SaO56">One of them, a converted climate change skeptic, told me, “You know, I don’t understand why some people in the energy industry haven’t accepted it, especially after these last few years. Ten years ago, they kept saying, ‘Just wait, we’re about to go back into a cooling period,’ but that has obviously not been the case.” It's the kind of conversation I would never have had with them a decade ago. </p>
<h3 id="mQAoim">We have a huge platform. With that comes a responsibility to inform our audience.</h3>
<p id="BnT40Y">I understand there are still broadcast meteorologists who do not want to discuss climate change. They have their reasons. Some may not accept that humans are playing a role. Or maybe they feel like it’s not their job to discuss topics on which they’re not experts. However, at most television stations, they are the only people on air with any grasp of earth sciences, and that puts them in a unique position.</p>
<p id="qwsbww">Like it or not, meteorologists will be asked by the news managers to discuss high-profile science events on the air. Any time there is an earthquake, volcanic eruption, or astronomical event, the meteorologists are needed and required to put those events into context for viewers. At the core, that is part of the job, and climate science is no different from geology or astronomy.</p>
<p id="hI2UjM">Having sat in the same chair as other broadcast meteorologists, I understand their constraints, but there is also an opportunity to lead. That’s why I’m working to help produce materials for them to use to quickly answer the questions the public has. According to a 2017 Yale/George Mason University survey, <a href="https://www.climatechangecommunication.org/all/may2017ccam/">70 percent of Americans are convinced global warming is happening</a>. Even in my old broadcasting backyard of central and southwest Virginia, a traditionally conservative area, that percentage is in the 60s.</p>
<p id="nA4Pq1">The public’s questions and concerns about climate change are likely to grow. We have had two major landfalling hurricanes in the US within weeks of each other. It’s inevitable that meteorologists will be asked about the role climate change played. The same goes for extreme heat, heavy precipitation, and coastal flooding, all of which are on the rise due to climate change. </p>
<p id="sRJ0Wl">Broadcast meteorologists are some of the most qualified people in the media to discuss the subject and are the liaison between the public and the research-based scientific community. Increasingly they are stepping up, and we hope to see it continue.</p>
<p id="Rjym15"><em>Sean Sublette is a meteorologist with Climate Central’s Climate Matters program, working with broadcast meteorologists across the country to communicate the science of climate change to the public. He previously worked as a broadcast meteorologist for 19 years in the Roanoke-Lynchburg, Virginia</em><em>,</em><em> television market.</em></p>
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https://www.vox.com/2017/9/19/16316240/earth-day-hurricane-irma-harvey-tv-weather-forecastSean Sublette2017-12-15T08:30:02-05:002017-12-15T08:30:02-05:00The California fires were at my door. I had 20 minutes to pack. Here’s what I took.
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<figcaption>The Thomas Fire approaches homes in Montecito, California, on December 12, 2017. | David McNew/Getty Images</figcaption>
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<p>The elementary school thought experiment became my reality.</p> <p id="icvrDt">When I was a child, one of my teachers gave us a writing assignment called “The Box.” We were supposed to write down five things, and only five, that we would take with us from a burning house. I don’t remember what I wrote down, but I do recall it was hard. Pets and family were exempt, and I just couldn’t think of five material objects that warranted a place on such a precious list. What could be important enough? </p>
<p id="BrEkZQ">Late on the night of Monday, December 4, as fires raged near us in Southern California, I found myself asking the same question. </p>
<p id="dYJ9of">I was at my parents’ house in Ventura, a picturesque beach town. The power had gone out<strong> </strong>around 9:30 pm, due to the fire, and I retreated to my bedroom to read by candlelight. An hour later, I heard concerned voices coming from the first floor. I went downstairs to find my parents huddled over a map with a neighbor. </p>
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<p id="s8CAw9">They were tracking the path of a fire that had started earlier that evening near Thomas Aquinas College in Santa Paula, over 25 miles away from us, called the Thomas Fire. It was moving faster than expected due to the powerful Santa Ana winds. We looked worriedly at one another. Our neighbor went back across the street, promising to stay awake and monitor the situation. </p>
<p id="pdu4LN">Not 20 minutes later, he was banging on the door of the house next to ours. The ominous glow over the hills behind our homes was growing. </p>
<p id="DXYgH4">It was time to pack.</p>
<h3 id="kuI7fk">The box becomes the backpack</h3>
<p id="42xFwy">As I pulled my travel backpack out of my closet, my mind flashed back to that writing assignment. I made a mental list of sentimental items to take, like the precious letters from friends I’ve saved over the course of my life. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. I knew that I couldn’t afford to lose time to a panic attack. My pulse slowed. I opened my eyes and got to work.</p>
<p id="e6oNGC">I made a beeline for my dozens of journals, which I’ve kept fastidiously ever since I was a child, and packed all of them. Next were several scrapbooks of letters, cards, and notes that I’ve collected from friends and family over my lifetime. I added a few pieces of art made by my friends. I put on as much jewelry as my fingers and wrists could hold, none of it particularly valuable but all of it precious. Almost every piece belonged to one of my late grandmothers. </p>
<p id="ZVWNmG">In went my toothbrush, my daily anti-anxiety medication, and charging cords. A change of clothes, stick of deodorant, underwear, and socks.</p>
<p id="lLdbJk">My backpack not even half-full, I stopped and looked at my shelves and opened drawers. I didn’t want to take anything else. I grabbed my tattered copy of <em>Letters to a Young Poet </em>by Rainer Maria Rilke, the book that saved my life when I was first struggling with depression, but that was it for books.<em> </em>I didn’t care about clothes. Tchotchkes and keepsakes faded into insignificance. Everything was replaceable.</p>
<p id="Z4PoyC">I’d moved cross-country from Washington, DC, back to California only a few weeks earlier — with two full suitcases and a backpack. I was struck that I could still have so much stuff. An inordinate amount of stuff. None of it mattered anymore. I grabbed my backpack and left.</p>
<h3 id="xtC4zj">Build a kit</h3>
<p id="Snhnyb">There is no shortage of advice about what to take with you in an evacuation, ranging from the practical (prescription medication, a change of clothes) to the sentimental (keepsakes like photo albums). The Department of Homeland Security recommends keeping an <a href="https://www.ready.gov/build-a-kit">emergency supply kit</a> on hand at all times, one that includes water and non-perishable food, first aid materials, flashlights, and copies of documents like Social Security cards or birth certificates. Due to California’s predilection for earthquakes and wildfires, my parents have always kept these documents in a fireproof box in our house. That box was the first thing to go into the cars.</p>
<p id="Wz5gai">Next were supplies for our two cats and two dogs, which we’ve kept lined up along with their carrying crates ever since my mother’s recent “disaster preparedness” phase. After watching coverage of the catastrophic hurricane season this year and thinking about the <a href="http://www.latimes.com/science/sciencenow/la-sci-sn-climate-change-natural-disasters-20170907-htmlstory.html">growing effects of climate change</a>, she insisted that everything the animals would need be organized in one place. The cats howled and clawed at our bare arms as we corralled them into crates. The dogs were wild-eyed, and made panicked sounds as we clipped them into their portable bed in our Subaru.</p>
<p id="TQdvMF">Finally, we threw our first aid kits into the car and moved on to valuables and sentimental items. Framed photos. Rare maps. Several bags filled with what must have been fifty of my father’s journals (like me, he writes daily) and his collection of fountain pens. A box of letters written by my great-grandmother. </p>
<p id="DxDZB2">I interviewed several others who had to pack up during the Thomas Fire not knowing if or when they’d see their homes again. All of our houses, out of sheer luck, survived. At the time of writing, the Thomas Fire has claimed <a href="https://twitter.com/VCscanner/status/940362401727123456">nearly 800 structures</a>, at least <a href="http://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-ln-fires-20171207-story.html">427 of which</a> were in Ventura. It’s the largest wildfire in the county’s history and currently the fourth largest in California history.</p>
<h3 id="wVGqPA">“I should have taken more. … I just didn’t know what else to do.”</h3>
<p id="NaWORq">My next-door neighbor Rosemary Vigorita was fast asleep when we saw the fire creep dangerously close to the road just above our house in the hills. It looked to be less than half a mile away. Rosemary collected passports, her wallet, and her computer. She put on her grandmother’s diamond earrings, which she was still wearing when I interviewed her three days later, and scooped up two framed photos of her parents as she dashed out of the house. She had a few minutes to go back and throw clothes and a book into her bag.</p>
<p id="IrgTg1">Then Rosemary ran across the street to pull our elderly neighbor out of her house. She lives with a caregiver and was still asleep as flames licked the ridge less than half a mile from our street. </p>
<h3 id="Z40T9i">“Those walls held my stuff, but they also somehow held my experiences.”</h3>
<p id="QjVgVf">Sarah Shirley is from Santa Clarita, California, and grew up camping in Ventura with her family. Now a renter in downtown Ventura, her apartment is just five blocks from <a href="http://abc7.com/thomas-fire-destroys-downtown-ventura-apartment-complex/2741430/">a downtown apartment complex that the fire destroyed</a>. A friend drove her home on the night of the fire to pack, so she had time to think about what to take with her.</p>
<p id="wRs6nj">The first thing she packed, following recommendations, was identification documents. Then she took her gohonzon, which is a Japanese term for an “object of devotion” in Nichiren Buddhism. Sarah’s gohonzon is a mandala on a scroll, inscribed with writings by the Buddhist monk Nichiren Daishonin in the 13th century. A practicing Buddhist, Sarah chants to her gohonzon<em> </em>every morning.</p>
<p id="CUsRhi">Like everyone else, Sarah packed the basics last: functional, comfortable clothes and the electronics she needed to work from home and stay in touch with family and friends. She didn’t get emotional until her friend told her it was time to go. “Those walls held my stuff, but they also somehow held my experiences,” she said, “and I had to figure out how to take those with me.”</p>
<h3 id="TEP4SG">What can you take?</h3>
<p id="pQ236g">As I write this, over half of my city is still without clean drinking water. Entire neighborhoods have burned to the ground, and many families I know have lost everything. Some whose homes have been destroyed didn’t have the time to pack like we did, and are now doing their best to recover and rebuild. </p>
<p id="dPssqR">Though each of us packed different items, we all experienced a universal moment of clarity in the midst of disaster: You can’t take the most important things with you. The loss of prized possessions, like our irreplaceable photos and files and writings, would have certainly been devastating. But we are alive. </p>
<p id="qgcoWl"><em>Sarah Doyel is a freelance writer, activist, and health justice advocate making the connection between wellness and social change. </em><em>She blogs </em><em>as </em><em>t</em><em>he Feminist Vegan. Support the verified GoFundMe campaigns for the victims of the Southern California fires </em><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/cause/southern-ca-fire-relief/"><em>here</em></a><em>. Donate to the Thomas Fire Fund </em><a href="http://vcunitedway.org/"><em>here</em></a><em>.</em></p>
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<p id="kA8IRX"><a href="http://www.vox.com/first-person"><strong>First Person</strong></a> is Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our <a href="http://www.vox.com/2015/6/12/8767221/vox-first-person-explained"><strong>submission guidelines</strong></a>, and pitch us at <a href="mailto:firstperson@vox.com"><strong>firstperson@vox.com</strong></a>.</p>
https://www.vox.com/first-person/2017/12/15/16777754/california-thomas-fire-wildfireSarah Doyel2017-09-11T09:23:55-04:002017-09-11T09:23:55-04:00They were opioid addicts on their way to recovery. Then the hurricane hit.
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<figcaption>Flooding in Richwood, Texas after Huricane Harvey on September 7, 2017. | Justin Sullivan/Getty Images</figcaption>
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<p>What it’s like when you miss a methadone dose due to natural disaster.</p> <p id="93EBPs">“It's awful. I haven't dosed in 5 days.” </p>
<p id="xSbMGq">The message popped up on my Facebook feed on August 29, a day after Hurricane Harvey first hit Texas. A woman named Clair, a methadone patient who lives near Houston, could not make it through the flood waters to get the dose she needed. She was going through withdrawal.</p>
<p id="rUREi0">This was just one of several such stories populating my newsfeed. I’m a recovering heroin addict and former methadone patient who lives in Seattle, far from the paths of Hurricane Harvey or Hurricane Irma. But through a private Facebook group for methadone patients and allies, I’ve witnessed a crisis develop: the inability of people in addiction recovery to access methadone due to the storm.</p>
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<p id="r1iYBA">“It happened so fast and took a turn for the worst so fast we didn't have time to prepare,” Clair wrote. “Keep us in your prayers.” A day later: “Today is day 6. I’m very sick.” She stopped responding to replies after that.</p>
<p id="uHOrzs">The desperation of Clair’s comment reminded me of my own experience trying to obtain methadone doses in the middle of a natural disaster. It was the Fall of 2013 when Boulder was hit with record floods that destroyed 1,500 homes and took the lives of eight people. On the day of the flood, I was stranded at home with no way to access a methadone clinic. I was five months pregnant. Missing my dose wasn’t just about being in pain — it was about my unborn baby, who might not have survived the physical toll of withdrawal. </p>
<p id="DNA8PM">Not having access to methadone was my worst fear. It’s a fear that consumed both body and mind, fueled by memories of nights without heroin, and rumors shared in the clinic waiting rooms that methadone withdrawals are even worse. </p>
<p id="YouHsf">Methadone is a long-acting prescription opioid primarily used as a replacement therapy for opioid addiction. Patients are prescribed controlled doses of the drug to help them recover from heroin or painkiller addiction. There are an estimated 360,000 methadone patients in the United States and approximately 1.4 million worldwide, according to the addictive diseases laboratory at Rockefeller University. </p>
<p id="lYeVFY">I enrolled in a methadone program in 2013, when I became pregnant while battling heroin addiction. Methadone was a safe way for me to ensure I wouldn’t go into withdrawal, which might have ended my pregnancy. </p>
<p id="3kbYYe">Methadone regulations in the United States are extremely strict. New patients must take their daily dose at a dedicated clinic, racking up single “take-home” doses over months and years of satisfactory urinalysis results that signify they aren’t taking other drugs. Even though methadone does not have euphoric effects, it is more regulated than other prescription drugs like oxycodone. </p>
<p id="TLg8Ng">When a natural disaster hits, these strict standards often become impossible to maintain amid the chaos. With so many people in acute danger, methadone quickly becomes deprioritized. Though state authorities sometimes allow for shelters and hospitals to dispense doses, or for clinics to allow patients to take the drug home, protocols vary from location to location. The stigma that drives the strict regulations still exists during a disaster. </p>
<p id="vRQFUI">And methadone is just one drug. Countless other pharmaceuticals are necessary for people to stay healthy during natural disasters. Storms, floods, and wildfires create unforeseen complications that can prevent people from accessing needed medication. These stories are too often overlooked.</p>
<p id="VCotkX">As natural disasters continue to batter our nation, stories like Clair’s will become even more common. </p>
<h3 id="qOE79U">The flood that almost made me miss my dose</h3>
<p id="uuWWQH">When the creek water surged from its banks and spilled onto the streets of Boulder, Colorado, I was five months pregnant, and taking 40 mgs daily of methadone. By Friday, September 13, 2013, Gov. John Hickenlooper had already declared Boulder County under a state of emergency. My university was closed. Shops were dark and empty. All of my schoolmates were inside keeping dry, but I couldn't miss my dose. So I trudged through town while the rain quickened.</p>
<p id="gYTsJE">What people never mention about floods is the silence. We're used to imagining floods as noisy events, the way we see on television, where every shriek and surge is amplified. But what I remember as I walked to the clinic was the total quiet. </p>
<p id="o31IHD">The clinic was just a few blocks from my bus stop. "Hey, are you going to be open tomorrow?" I asked the receptionist.</p>
<p id="9TWwzQ">"We've never closed for rain,” she answered.</p>
<p id="K835xs">I wasn’t convinced. What would I do if she was wrong? Methadone can take up to two days to leave your system, but once the withdrawals begin, they are extremely harsh. People commonly describe opiate withdrawal as feeling like an intense flu that you know you can instantly cure with a dose. That’s technically accurate, but it fails to capture the full scope of the experience. Withdrawal feels like being deprived of something you need in order to survive. I asked the receptionist to see my case manager, who could potentially authorize "take-home" doses to last the weekend. He was willing to see me, but did not authorize the take-homes, certain the clinic would not close. </p>
<p id="HE0HMb">That evening, the phrase "100-year flood" made its first appearance on my Facebook feed. The next morning, I was greeted by a text alert from my clinic's emergency communication service. As I suspected, it was closed. I was told to go instead to a clinic in Denver, which would be open till 3 pm.</p>
<p id="vWGrE2">I swore and shook my husband awake. We checked the bus routes and learned they weren't running. I spent hours that day back and forth on the phone with my counselor, and the State Methadone Authority. I was near tears, begging them to find a way for me to dose as rain pounded on our windows. After hours with no results, my husband began scrolling through his phone, trying to locate contact information for a heroin dealer who might be able to serve me. We'd been sober for four months, but the prospect of losing our baby if I went into withdrawal was unbearable.</p>
<p id="1Rwa86">My counselor called back. "I got through to FEMA," she said, "they're going to helicopter you to the Denver clinic. I'll call you back soon with the details."</p>
<p id="pgntmd">I stared out our small basement window, shocked. How was a FEMA helicopter easier to obtain than a methadone dose? And while this was the solution to our biggest problem, it was one that came with other issues. Our landlord, who lived in the main portion of the house, had made it clear to me that she held little sympathy for addicts. She didn't know about my prescription, and it was going to be really hard to explain the helicopter in her front yard.</p>
<p id="pJABBK">When my counselor called back, the phone lines were beginning to fail. She told me the Lafayette hospital had agreed to dose me and give me take-homes for the rest of the weekend. She helped me arrange a cab ride, paid for by emergency funds, and I was able to dose at the hospital. My nightmare was over for the time being.</p>
<p id="WTPw0p">When I stepped back into the clinic on Monday, open again as promised, the lobby was abuzz with stories from listless, sweat-slicked patients who were waiting to dose for the first time in days. My pregnancy had led the hospital to agree to dose me, but many other people were left stranded. Not everyone was as lucky as me.</p>
<h3 id="3Nc47K">Methadone patients in Harvey</h3>
<p id="Lfw4yM">Colorado’s "100-year flood," now known as the Front Range flood, lasted eight days. The single Boulder County methadone clinic was closed for two. Compared to the devastation caused by Hurricane Harvey in the state of Texas, or the havoc that Irma will almost certainly unleash on Florida, it was a minor event. </p>
<p id="yJiW93">As the weather settles over Houston, the storm’s toll is still being assessed. At least 17 people are dead, and more than 30,000 in the Houston area have been evacuated from their homes. For those enrolled in methadone maintenance treatment, evacuation also means leaving their home clinics, sometimes without any doses.</p>
<p id="91ZN6d">I reached out to several people from my methadone patient Facebook group who got hit by Harvey to get a sense for how they are coping. Clair, the methadone patient who went a week without dosing, told me on Facebook messenger that her Houston clinic remained open during most of the hurricane and its aftermath. Still, flooding prevented her from reaching it. She was only able to dose when a friend gave her a take-home. She says the withdrawals were like nothing she ever imagined. </p>
<p id="svZqAR">“Don’t get me wrong,” she explained, “I’ve detoxed many, many times before. But this time was different. My family, my town, my state was going through a disaster like we’ve never seen before. And knowing an ambulance couldn’t get to me because water was up to our red lights was the most bone crunching sense of panic I’ve ever felt.”</p>
<p id="VASTtH"> “If I could have made it into Houston, I would have relapsed in a heartbeat,” she added.</p>
<p id="3XQ3Qe">Tyler, a methadone patient in Corpus Christi, told me on Facebook messenger that his clinic provided him with just three take-home doses, enough to get him through the weekend. When Monday came around, roadway flooding prevented him from accessing his clinic. He tried calling his program to get help, but the lines were down. He describes those two days without medicine as hell.</p>
<p id="XSpNdP">"I woke up next to my 2-year-old daughter and immediately had to go to the bathroom," he reports, "I was in there for about 45 minutes. I came out and was sweating ... I could barely move.” " </p>
<p id="EOuv3R">He tried his best to help with their 2-week-old son, but the jitters, lethargy, and gastrointestinal problems that mark opiate withdrawals prevented him from holding the baby longer than five minutes. By Wednesday, the roads were clear enough that he could get to the clinic. There he learned it had been open but without power since Monday. No more take-homes were being dispensed. What about other patients in the areas that are still affected by flooding?</p>
<h3 id="ZEfVqr">Substance abuse services need to prioritize methadone patients during natural disasters</h3>
<p id="cSE7Dv">When I think about my own experience in the Boulder floods, I remember clinic workers who just weren’t prepared to care for patients during a natural disaster. I began to wonder how national organizations dedicated to treating substance abuse think about this issue.</p>
<p id="fq5IbZ">Nicole Smith, who oversees certifications and wavers to dispense methadone at the national Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, or SAMHSA, told me over the phone that all methadone programs are required to have emergency contact services in place to reach patients, like the text message I received during the Colorado flood. If they had been successful in locating Clair, Smith said, she may have been able to have a dose delivered to her by boat, or to dose daily at a local shelter. </p>
<p id="MtEO9C">Still, Smith admits that while all Texas and Louisiana hospitals are authorized to dose verified methadone patients during Harvey, it is ultimately up to the hospital's discretion. When asked to provide statistics about how many patients received methadone in hospitals during the disaster, neither Smith nor the two other SAMHSA colleagues on the phone could do so.</p>
<p id="jC29OX">Joycelyn Woods, the executive director for the National Alliance for Medication Assisted Recovery, a methadone advocacy group, offers a different opinion. </p>
<p id="NvWMA6">"When you go to a regular doctor of medicine, they don't view [addiction] as a medical issue," she tells me over the phone from New York. </p>
<p id="zcVbeg">It is <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4199439/">historically common</a> for methadone clinics to be ill-prepared to dose patients during disasters. During Hurricane Katrina, shelters were not authorized to dispense methadone, so displaced patients going through withdrawal found themselves quarantined by inexperienced care workers. New York City was unprepared for the longevity of Hurricane Sandy’s aftermath, and many patients suffered unpredicted clinic closures and other dosing disruptions. Besides the discomfort of withdrawal, these types of inadequacies during traumatic disasters leave patients vulnerable to relapse. Tyler, for example, admits that the only reason he didn't get high was because he couldn't reach a dealer.</p>
<p id="ep3W85">Numerous studies confirm that opiate addiction is a physical disorder that results from a combination of environmental and genetic factors, not the outcome of moral weakness. The deprioritization of methadone patients during crisis situations is a result of long-standing stigma. Now that Tyler has been able to dose, he is heading out to a neighboring town that is still flooded to help with relief work. But he could never have done that while he was in withdrawal. Denying these patients their medication needlessly disables a population that could otherwise contribute to the relief efforts.</p>
<p id="GIUPXE">It will likely be months before we know how well the teamwork between SAMHSA and the Texas and Louisiana State Opioid Treatment Authorities worked during Hurricane Harvey. Now, as Hurricane Irma heads toward Florida, we can only hope that area patients are able to get their doses.</p>
<p id="1OPTuM">For now, many of them remaining waiting, posting Facebook messages to see if anyone can help.</p>
<p id="6hBmvr"><em>Elizabeth Brico is a freelance writer living in the Pacific Northwest. Her blog, </em><a href="http://www.bettysbattleground.com/"><em>Betty's Battleground</em></a><em>, focuses on living and parenting with PTSD. She recently joined Healthy Place as a contributing writer for Trauma! A PTSD blog. When she isn't actively momming or blogging, she can usually be found reading, writing, or watching speculative fiction.</em></p>
<p id="7MGYcw"><em>If you are experiencing psychological distress during Hurricane Harvey or Hurricane Irma, or you need help accessing medication, please call the 24-hour Disaster Distress Helpline: 1-800-985-5990.</em></p>
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<p id="iKnX1Q"><a href="http://www.vox.com/first-person">First Person</a> is Vox's home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our <a href="http://www.vox.com/2015/6/12/8767221/vox-first-person-explained">submission guidelines</a>, and pitch us at firstperson@vox.com.</p>
https://www.vox.com/first-person/2017/9/8/16273590/hurricane-harvey-irma-methadone-heroin-addictionElizabeth Brico2017-08-31T10:20:01-04:002017-08-31T10:20:01-04:00After Katrina, I fled to Houston. Now I'm reliving the nightmare.
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<figcaption>Houston, Texas floods from Hurricane Harvey on August 28, 2017. | Joe Raedle/Getty Images</figcaption>
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<p>I didn't think another storm could be so bad. I was wrong.</p> <p id="GUhD15">After Hurricane Katrina hit, some <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/29/us/new-orleans-katrina-houston.html?mcubz=1">100,000 New Orleans residents</a> decided to stay in the Houston area to rebuild their lives. I was one of them, driving in bumper to bumper traffic heading to a new city, leaving my house behind me. </p>
<p id="WZNMni">Now, 12 years later, I’ve once again found myself packing up my car and running from a disaster worse than anything I’ve seen since Katrina.</p>
<p id="qg3EGc">I never thought I’d be in this situation once again. </p>
<p id="aYdH5E">It wasn’t just me. After I left New Orleans, I joined a Houston congregation made up of people who relocated to the city as a result of Katrina. Some hoped to make the city their temporary home until they were able to return. Others decided to stay in Houston for good. There was Shantania, who sells life insurance and said that Houston had more opportunities. Then there was Glen, who sold modern furniture and would go on to open a store in Montrose that is still there to this day. </p>
<p id="s7rqpp">And there is me. After Katrina, I moved to Houston and lived there for eight years instead of returning to rebuild my life in New Orleans. I eventually settled in Victoria, a city located two hours outside of Houston. </p>
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<p id="vxukHU">Last week, when I heard my colleagues talking about Hurricane Harvey, I did not think much of it beyond the typical flood warnings that come with any bout of heavy rain in Houston. It was not until I saw the news that I started to understand why they were so worried. By the time I decided to evacuate Victoria, I hoped it wouldn’t be like the last time where I would never return. At that point, I remained optimistic and hesitant to make comparisons between Harvey and Katrina. Soon it was impossible to not see the connections. </p>
<h3 id="552v2g">The exodus from New Orleans</h3>
<p id="KqJC6m">It was August of 2005 and I remember watching Ray Nagin, the then-mayor of New Orleans, on television ordering an evacuation of New Orleans. I had just moved from Ohio to my mother’s duplex that month and was looking forward to living in the city of my birth. In just a few days, I had grown to love New Orleans because it seemed to love art and jazz as much as I did. I had spent plenty of time there as a kid with extended family. The last thing I wanted to do was leave it all behind.</p>
<p id="EnGwId">I remember the surprise and anxiety that came with being ordered to leave. Where would I go? What would happen to my house, where I had just spent the day before painting a bedroom and hallway? How long would it be before things cleared up and I could head back to the city?</p>
<p id="j7X2eT">Eventually, I settled on Houston, the city where I had grown up and where my mom and sisters still lived. I threw my bag in my car and headed west. Even though inbound lanes were reversed to increase the flow of traffic, the exodus was a crawl. The trunk of my car contained much of my life — files of important documents, clothing, shoes, a couple of boxes of books. </p>
<p id="AEYIwh">This was the first time I drove between New Orleans and Houston on my own, though I grew up traveling between the two cities often. One person called me an “I-10 baby” because spent so much of my youth getting shuttled between the two cities on this freeway. </p>
<p id="DdrqLp">Once in Houston, my family and I watched in shock at the scenes of flooding that started to pour in on the news. The images were horrific, but what I remember most was having no clear idea of what was actually happening to my family’s house or my neighborhood. I remember wondering why the reporters could not tell us which areas were affected or where the photos they kept showing were taken. </p>
<p id="ddxygE">Weeks later, I found a map online that noted which areas were flooded and our house was on a line separating a no-water area from a flooded area. It took nearly a month before someone could confirm that my mother’s first house where I was living was flooded and my remaining clothes, furniture, and books had been floating in water for weeks. </p>
<p id="qvJIof">It took many months before the full impact of what had happened became clear. Despite constant news of destruction, I held onto the idea that the city would soon dry and I would be able to return. It hadn’t sunk in that the life I had begun in New Orleans was effectively over. It wasn’t until October that I realized I wouldn’t be returning. </p>
<h3 id="Ri6TN2">Starting over in Houston</h3>
<p id="bvRDs8">I was lucky enough to have a safety net of family in Houston. Still, the process of rebuilding my life was full of unforeseen complications. </p>
<p id="wD1boM">The first step was seeing if anything could be salvaged. In December, I returned to see if anything escaped the flooding or the mold only to take one stuffed teddy bear. He was sealed in a plastic bag and was afloat on the bed through the whole ordeal. Everything else was put on the curb when they came to gut the house. </p>
<p id="2VFzC3">The next step was recovering what I lost. My mom had flood insurance on her house in New Orleans, which helped cover part of my losses. Once that money came through, combined with aid from FEMA, I was able to move out of my mom’s house in Houston and find a permanent place to live. </p>
<p id="6zwZOC">I’m lucky that I was able to replace a number of things I lost. Homeowners without flood insurance could only make insurance claims based on hurricane wind damage. But there are so many things that I could never replace: the photo albums, the art I created in college, the book I wrote as a 5th grader, and the notes I wrote in the margins of books. </p>
<p id="AUsQNq">I took a temporary position with a nonprofit arts organization in downtown Houston. Once that was over, I met Carl Lindahl and Pat Jasper, who were recruiting for the <a href="http://www.survivortosurvivorstories.com/surviving-katrina-and-rita-in-houston">Surviving Katrina and Rita in Houston Project</a>. They were looking to hire interviewers to help collect the stories of people who came to Houston as a result of hurricanes Katrina and Rita. </p>
<p id="OG8aUD">Through working with them I met so many others whose lives were turned upside down by the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I was captivated by the stories of what happened once the flood waters came. I heard about people rescuing each other. People being stranded on bridges for days. People helping strangers find dry land. </p>
<p id="j5JXmf">These stories did not make it to national media but are archived at the Library of Congress. And many of the stories of Katrina survivors, stranded on bridges, waiting for any refuge, sound a lot like the ones being told by the people still waiting to be rescued in Houston. </p>
<h3 id="JnZwAe">Hearing echoes of Katrina in coverage of Harvey </h3>
<p id="nSCMXf">When I left for Houston in 2005, I did not understand the nuances of the levees or the damage that could be a result of the hurricane. What I did understand was that the mayor’s request to evacuate was based on recommendations from people who understand how natural disasters can disrupt a city. Because of my experiences with Hurricane Katrina, I decided to leave upon recommendation by Victoria’s mayor. I doubted the weather projections about the week of heavy rain heading our way, but took every precaution that Katrina had taught me. </p>
<p id="tjqqpS">I put my cat and a bag of essentials in my car and headed to my sister’s house in Rosenberg, Texas, which is in Fort Bend County between Houston and Victoria. Behind her house sits a small reservoir the size of one football field. When I arrived on Friday, I cringed to see that it already had a few feet of water. I wondered if I would see it fill in the next few days. When I went to bed, I chided myself for imagining the possibility that I could wake up to find some of the reservoir on the bedroom floor. </p>
<p id="bUxI8z">In our part of Rosenberg, the rain came late and barely fell long enough to cause a scare. In the morning, I saw that the water rose a few feet after the worst of the storm hit. Unlike many others in the greater Houston area, we did not seem to be in danger of being flooded. </p>
<p id="PuaEJH">I spent most of Sunday watching local news coverage on television and YouTube of the flood in Houston. As I watched, I heard references to people on roofs, people getting into attics, people wandering around on overpasses, people not being allowed to have guns in the Convention Center, which was going to be used as a shelter. All of these moments sounded like echoes of the major news stories after Hurricane Katrina. </p>
<p id="F78aUc">The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina lurks in everyone’s minds as we watch Hurricane Harvey continue to wreak havoc in Houston. We don’t know the full damage Harvey has caused yet, but already the media narrative that has emerged seems to be focusing far less on the black and underprivileged populations that suffered the most at the hands of Katrina. </p>
<p id="T0PBYU">Much is still up in the air, but one thing is abundantly clear: Low-income communities of color often have fewer economic and social resources to quickly bounce back after natural disasters hit. While the flood disaster does not discriminate, some people will recover quicker than others. It was the case in Katrina, and it will be in Houston as well, from the some <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2017/08/29/where-harvey-is-hitting-hardest-four-out-of-five-homeowners-lack-flood-insurance/?utm_term=.b44d25bcc82d">80 percent</a> of the hardest hit Houstonians that don’t have flood insurance to the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/29/us/immigration-harvey-border-patrol.html?mcubz=0">fears</a> of undocumented Houstonians seeking shelter during the storm.</p>
<p id="hnyinp">It feels like living in the Gulf Coast is a fragile truce with mother nature that can break without provocation. For now, the Gulf Coast is home. But for people like me who are becoming very familiar with the danger hurricanes can pose, the threat will not be enough to pull me away again. Of course, my attitude might change if something like this ever happens again. </p>
<p id="Y11yjj">I tend to think of myself as someone who was involved in the effort to build a sense of community in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina through my work with the theater and the researchers at the University of Houston. After I return to Victoria and after the waters drain, I will be someone who will try to help others make sense of the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey in a similar way. </p>
<p id="7Biv2f">The story reporters and journalists inevitably tell about the natural disaster will often be miles away from the personal stories of those who live through them. </p>
<p id="gYjV1z"><em>Nicole Eugene is an Assistant Professor of Communication at the University of Houston</em><em> </em><em>Victoria. She is an interdisciplinary scholar, a disability advocate, and a scholar-artist.</em></p>
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https://www.vox.com/first-person/2017/8/31/16229956/katrina-survivor-new-orleans-harvey-houstonNicole Eugene