Why I miss hurricanes



By Sunny Fry

In discussing his book, City of Heroes; The Great Charleston Earthquake of 1886, Charles Cote points out that after the great cataclysm, no one in Charleston waited for "someone" to come help.  They knew there was no "someone," and that they would have to help themselves.  The back of the book says:

"Following the disaster, a miracle happened.  With no financial assistance from either the federal or state government, the leaders and citizens of Charleston and Summerville carried out the most humane, rapid, and financially responsible recovery from a massive disaster in all of American history up to that time.  Because of the extraordinary efforts of ordinary people, the resurrection of one of the world's most beautiful cities began even before the ground stopped shaking."

Having weathered every hurricane to pass these shores since 1970, I know a tiny bit about what he's talking about.  It's not necessarily the hurricane I love, though the magnitude and power of that force of nature is thrilling.  It's what happens afterwards.  It's the neighborhood of people who might, on occasion, acknowledge each other with a wave as the drive off to work, and who now emerge from their homes and immediately start checking on each other, to make sure no one is hurt.  It's the natural cooperative divisions which emerge, where this group goes to round up ice, and that group starts chopping up the tree blocking the road, or the one lying in someone's yard.  It's impromptu cookouts, where grills are fired up and people are fed thawed meat which would otherwise go bad anyway.  It's the volunteers climbing a roof to spread plastic, to protect against water damage until real repairs can be made.

In the aftermath of a hurricane, nobody asks where your people are from, or whether you're a Clemson or Carolina fan, or whether you're a Ford or Chevy guy – or whether you pull R or D at the ballot box.  Your value lies first in how you contribute and participate to the cumulative good of all.  There's implicit understanding that at least at that moment, the best chance to maximize good for yourself is to contribute to the overall good of everyone.  It's community.

The nice thing is, it lasts.  In years to come, you might hate the Obama sticker on your neighbor's Chevy pickup, but he's still going to be the guy who nearly slid off the roof while the two of you were trying to affix plastic.  Or you might grind your teeth when your neighbor says how much she admires Sarah Palin, but she's still the woman who without hesitation handed over enough of her stash of Maxwell House coffee packets so that you could have hot coffee in the morning.

It's a competitive and adversarial world we live in, and mostly that's a great good thing.  Ideas are best if they're rigorously challenged and fine tuned, and competition elicits the best humans have to offer, mostly to the benefit of everyone.  The answer to the question of, "can't we all just get along," is simply and calmly, mostly no, we can't.  And mostly, that's okay.

But sometimes, when we start looking at our neighbors as though their primary value lies in how closely their views conform with our own

– when we've stopped being able to even hear what they're saying, because the neon R or D in our minds shuts out everything else

– when the fact that their grass has gone uncut longer than you think proper doesn't trigger a question as to whether they might need some help, and becomes just another example of how lazy Democrats are

–  or when their choice not to purchase your daughter's Girl Scout cookies doesn't make you wonder whether they're having struggles you might help with, but becomes just another instance of how greedy Republicans are –

That's when I miss hurricanes.

Having weathered every hurricane to pass these shores since 1970, I know a tiny bit about what he's talking about.  It's not necessarily the hurricane I love, though the magnitude and power of that force of nature is thrilling.  It's what happens afterwards.  It's the neighborhood of people who might, on occasion, acknowledge each other with a wave as the drive off to work, and who now emerge from their homes and immediately start checking on each other, to make sure no one is hurt.  It's the natural cooperative divisions which emerge, where this group goes to round up ice, and that group starts chopping up the tree blocking the road, or the one lying in someone's yard.  It's impromptu cookouts, where grills are fired up and people are fed thawed meat which would otherwise go bad anyway.  It's the volunteers climbing a roof to spread plastic, to protect against water damage until real repairs can be made.

In the aftermath of a hurricane, nobody asks where your people are from, or whether you're a Clemson or Carolina fan, or whether you're a Ford or Chevy guy – or whether you pull R or D at the ballot box.  Your value lies first in how you contribute and participate to the cumulative good of all.  There's implicit understanding that at least at that moment, the best chance to maximize good for yourself is to contribute to the overall good of everyone.  It's community.

The nice thing is, it lasts.  In years to come, you might hate the Obama sticker on your neighbor's Chevy pickup, but he's still going to be the guy who nearly slid off the roof while the two of you were trying to affix plastic.  Or you might grind your teeth when your neighbor says how much she admires Sarah Palin, but she's still the woman who without hesitation handed over enough of her stash of Maxwell House coffee packets so that you could have hot coffee in the morning.

It's a competitive and adversarial world we live in, and mostly that's a great good thing.  Ideas are best if they're rigorously challenged and fine tuned, and competition elicits the best humans have to offer, mostly to the benefit of everyone.  The answer to the question of, "can't we all just get along," is simply and calmly, mostly no, we can't.  And mostly, that's okay.

But sometimes, when we start looking at our neighbors as though their primary value lies in how closely their views conform with our own

– when we've stopped being able to even hear what they're saying, because the neon R or D in our minds shuts out everything else

– when the fact that their grass has gone uncut longer than you think proper doesn't trigger a question as to whether they might need some help, and becomes just another example of how lazy Democrats are

–  or when their choice not to purchase your daughter's Girl Scout cookies doesn't make you wonder whether they're having struggles you might help with, but becomes just another instance of how greedy Republicans are –

That's when I miss hurricanes.