I write to you from my warm living room, flat screen on with nonsense on in the background for noise. If I glance to the right I can see my bedroom, 1 of the most inviting places I spend time. There's a dirty plate on the coffee table from the meal I just ate, courtesy of the regular paycheck that keeps my fridge full. There are no signs of debris here, no bandits hoping to relieve me of what little I've been able to accumulate.
Today I discussed your plight with my students. I was moved by some of their ability to recognize the health hazard in breathing the dust left behind by the debris; the unsettled feeling of living in a tent or hole; having parents without jobs, housing, viable possibilities. They were able to tell me that the collective conscience of Americans is to give of their things, hoping not to see the faces of those affected. My students felt like they'd missed the images--though I can't imagine how--of you being ravaged by the quake. By the end, watching videos & discussing what we'd seen, they were ready to come & dig you out, build you up, & assign all the orphans to me.
It's funny how "they" keep using the word rebuild when speaking of you. It suggests you'd ever had proper infrastructure. The same thing happened when your daughter, New Orleans, found itself deep under flood waters. I've lived there & know for certain that what existed there before was deplorable. The world has an opportunity now to do right by you both, & yet....
I'm not sure what else I can do personally. I refuse to send another dime to organizations with no public accountability. My little brother romanticizes about your rugged terrain & resilient spirit of your people. I romanticize about the day when you can raise your hand high & take credit for pulling yourself up by the proverbial bootstraps. I have faith that it'll happen. After all, we've gotten our 1st black president here...EVERYTHING is possible.
Ya Distant Relative
Watch me move.