The resilience of humanity

Half of my story started in the mountains of North Carolina, when my grandparents fell in love at first sight at a fiddlers’ convention. They moved to Hominy Valley, in the shadow of Mt. Pisgah, and raised 6 kids, working to be good stewards of their land and their gifts. Two of my uncles lived on the same road and for a city kid like me, my grandparents' tiny house was an absolute paradise. Even though my mom moved away in the 60s, she has always called this place “up home.” It is a beautiful and special community. A beautiful place, yes, but even more so because of the people there. Growing up, I spent most of my summers here. The crack of the screen door meant someone, family or otherwise, was visiting, and over time, their stories have become my stories.

My grandparents were just regular people, but their example has been extraordinary. Their farm fed the family and also provided income in the summer. My grandfather, an uncle and many cousins also worked at “the mill” in Canton (sadly closed last year). Working at the mill helped support the family and the mill store let you pay for school shoes over time.

Neighbors and family were constantly stopping by to visit. At the height of the growing season, out of towners stopped to buy tomatoes and corn. Many of these folks were repeat customers, and we looked forward to seeing them from one year to the next. While there’s a stereotype that people in the region are skeptical of strangers, I saw my family express genuine kindness for anyone who came down the road, including my dad, a first generation American with a southwest Philly accent.

I listened to my family talk about so and so who was going through a rough time. I never knew anyone to ask for help, but help was always gently provided. In these communities, people are connected by mutual experience and if one is in need, the others step up. This level of empathy is common in places where people feel misunderstood or perhaps forgotten. This is not unique to rural areas - we see this in urban neighborhoods as well. I think it has something to do with shared perspective, regardless of ethnicity, country of origin or language. Because of this commonality, the communities show up in life's peaks and valleys – every celebration, every illness, every need. I am not at all surprised to see the videos of people clearing trees and taking supplies to strangers. They are not waiting for help to come, although it is coming. They are doing what they can now and they are pooling resources to endure.

Last week, my husband and I drove to North Carolina to take supplies to my cousin's church. Before we left, I messaged other family to see what I could bring up. "We have everything we need," they all told me. That message hurt my heart. I knew they had no running water, cell service was spotty, and at that time, there was no power. And yet no one asked for anything. What I grew up seeing over and over again is that in the midst of sorrow, there is also gratitude. These two things can coexist.

We loaded up our rented minivan with supplies and clothes donated from members of our own community in Atlanta who were eager to help. As we crossed into North Carolina, we saw fields off the interstate that had flooded, the visible water line high in the trees. The Swannanoa exit’s road was covered in dried mud, and we looked left to see most of the bridge closed. We had been warned that a house had been in the middle of the highway, unmoored from who knows where. At every intersection there were handwritten signs offering food, water, and supplies.

Arriving at my cousin’s hilltop church, we were greeted by volunteers who shared their stories. One person told us he works for the IV manufacturer near Marion and that he is worried about the national implications. One woman told us about her husband’s four-day journey to get home to Asheville from Tennessee. My cousin’s wife, a nurse, told us about working at the hospital the weekend of the storm. We were invited to join on a visit to someone who lived nearby.

When we arrived to the small hilltop community with water and other supplies, we saw that the bridge that linked these families to the world was gone. Someone had constructed something strong enough to walk over. We walked up the dirt road, framed on each side with stacks of fallen trees, some of the stumps at least six feet wide. Instead of birdsong, it was the never ending sound of chainsaws. Two weeks after the storm, there was no power or cell service and these families weren’t expecting running water for at least a couple of months. Daily, they go to the creek to fill buckets for water. One neighbor had assumed the role of communications director, going up and down the mountain hundreds of times to share information and resources. The weary looks on everyone’s faces said they were exhausted, overwhelmed, possibly desperate. And yet they talked to us for almost an hour, eager to tell us how their community had pulled together. I thought of my mom’s “up home” – this is how I would expect those neighbors to respond, too.

This particular spirit is not unique to WNC or eastern Tennessee. I’ve experienced it in Alabama, Pennsylvania, Missouri, anywhere there’s a sense of isolation and perhaps a feeling of not being valued.

I have faith in the people and organizations I know in WNC. They have been intentional about forging relationships based on trust in every county in the region and I know they will lean on the local experts to deploy assistance in ways that are community-led. The speed with which funds have been made available has been astounding. I trust them to use their influence to bring outside resources to WNC as well, and to help draw attention from policy makers. Due to the huge geographic footprint of WNC and the vast socio-economic divides in the region, these trust-based community relationships will be critical as funds are distributed. Each county has unique needs for recovery. They will need immediate resources and long-term investments.

Adding to the challenges is the fact that we see different levels of impact across the region. In my aunt’s neighborhood in southwestern NC, she and her neighbors have all their utilities working, a good number of restaurants are open, and roads are relatively clear. In other communities, it will be many months before they can say the same. Last week as I drove along Smokey Park Highway in Buncombe County, many businesses were closed due to lack of water. This recovery will require multi-pronged strategies as people wrestle with the financial implications of lack of income and an escalated housing shortage. There is also the toll of trauma and stress to consider.

When we were at my cousin’s church, two men from an NGO came to take inventory of supplies. They were compiling a Google doc so resources could be better deployed within the area. I thought that was a good idea until my cousin reminded the men that they had no internet and power and cell service were spotty. How would people get online to use the spreadsheet? I appreciated these men’s hearts but the people most affected must be centered in the recovery stategies.

Asheville is the place most people think of when talking about Western North Carolina so for those less familiar with the region, we need to zoom out. When talking about Western North Carolina, we are typically referring to 18 – 25 counties and the Qualla area of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. More than a million people are spread across an area of approximately 11,750 square miles. It is difficult to fully appreciate the diversity of people and geography and indeed, the isolation. Therefore, there is no single prescription for recovery. But it needs to start at the community level.

Decades ago, one of my uncles joined the Army and was deployed to Ethiopia. He saw famine and also a familiar determination from the locals to support each other and combine resources. He asked how he could help. And so my uncle wrote my grandparents about what he was experiencing. In turn, my grandfather sent to a village far away saved seeds from his best crops. My uncle and the locals planted vegetables and combined their farming knowledge, working to support their community. For many years, members from my uncle’s Army unit kept in touch with the Ethiopian villagers. Love extends farther than we know sometimes, and it goes person to person.

I often ask people what’s behind their commitment to community work. While the details vary, many have common threads in their origin stories – someone in their community supported them, or modeled leadership for change, and that commitment to others has stuck. In these last few weeks, I’ve recognized my own drivers. While my work is behind the scenes, I am driven by the examples of prioritizing humanity that were set forth by my family.

What was modeled for me each day by my family and their communities weaves its way into how I express care for others. I’ve realized that our work is also a love letter to Western North Carolina, the most beautiful place on earth, now and forever. And while the mountains and all the shades of green are breathtaking, it’s the people who keep us going back. Please don’t forget them.

~ LL