Relief for One Dying Woman
I spent a month volunteering in Northwest Puerto Rico after Hurricane María. I was based out of Rincón. This story is pieced from journal entries beginning on this date three years ago:
Isabel Maldonado lived on a dirt road near the beach at the Balneario. She lived in a shack with a rusted roof barely bigger than a toolshed. She was born there and she would die there. Today, thirty-three days after María, she was getting a generator.
I had been pulled off a tree-clearing job in the hills to set up a “borrowed” FEMA generator for Mike, our team lead. It was odd since Mike had set up dozens before, but it was hot and chainsawing usually didn’t afford much shade or water, so I agreed to a ride from Beatriz, our social worker to meet him at the beach.
Gas was gold so once we’d arrived, Beatriz shut off the fluid-starved engine, replacing the sound of treble-heavy bachata with that of crashing waves. I asked her which was the house. She pointed at a shack directly ahead of the minivan, “esa.”
Dirt settled off the minivan as I took in the landscape. Among a cluster of shacks was Isabel’s. Her health, after meager access to food, water, or medicine, had deteriorated in the days since María. Her story was sad, but common: elderly people with otherwise manageable conditions having had their health strained beyond recovery by massive failures of the island’s infrastructure. She was on hospice now, and was not expected to live much longer. She was one of thousands, but not one of sixty-four¹. Her son Manolo was inside, recently arrived from New York to help her however he could.
I stepped out of the car. Still hot, nothing new. A young woman in maroon scrubs stood fanning herself on the front porch. Her name was Yasmín and we chatted for a bit; we’re both Cuban, so that was a start. She’d emigrated to study nursing at the university in Mayagüez but had been working non-stop for the local hospital since the storm forced the school’s indefinite closure. She looked more disheveled than exhausted; jaded from a young lifetime of failed government infrastructure.
We ran out of words and then stood in that mutual silence that only a hot afternoon can offer.
Mike pulled up in his beat-up 4Runner. He hopped out and rushed to open the trunk; Mike was always in a rush. In the trunk was a 2200-W Honda generator. Together, we lifted it to the front porch where I then sliced open the box and spilled its contents. The generator was brand new, almost certainly a FEMA “acquisition”. Mike nodded towards Yasmín and asked, “Did you tell her that this is not theirs to keep?” I nodded that I had. “Can you tell her that she needs to return it to us at RBC when she’s done?” I again nodded that I had, realizing now why I’d been pulled from my chainsaw in the mountains. Mike looked down, paused, and turned to me, “C-can you tell her again? This is really important for us.” Mike was like that; his eccentricity almost overshadowed his good heart.
I turned to Yasmín, now suddenly more official, “Señora, usen el generador hasta que necesiten, pero por favor devuelvanlo al RBC cuando…” I paused to find the right words, “… la hora pasa.” She nodded patiently; that nod you give when gringos repeat simple instructions for the umpteenth time.
“Did you tell her about la fema?” Mike asked. I nodded that I had, even though I hadn’t. She didn’t need to know where it had come from, she’d bring it back regardless. Mike was nervous because he had negotiated these generators from a FEMA storage center under the stipulation that they be returned ready for use once authority to distribute was given, whenever that might be. Handshake agreements such as this one were not uncommon in Puerto Rico after María. No one on the island expected congress to do anything of consequence, so officially, supplies were safe in a warehouse somewhere while unofficially, a handful were already in the field. This sort of willful ignorance on the part of some government employees saved many lives in late 2017.
I filled the generator with oil and gas while Mike ran a thick chain around its body, using a large padlock to secure it to the front porch. He noticed the fluid line in the near-empty tank, “you used too much gas.” I had barely used a quart, but I understood his nerves; cash was tight and he still had more deliveries to make.
Five years ago, Mike Fontana was a struggling chef in Philadelphia with a vicious alcohol and cocaine abuse problem. Today, he heads one of the largest relief organizations in Northwest Puerto Rico. His team of a dozen or so volunteers distributed food, water, medicine, cut trees, tarped roofs, cleared beaches, and on one occasion cleaned a zoo. Their office was a converted brewery. Their payment was the beach at the Balneario. There are few things like cleansing your sweaty, sawdust-covered body in the Atlantic after a day of cleanup. There’s nothing though, like the sunset accompanying such a dip: either it fueling reflection on that day’s work or it illuminating your Gasolina™ pouch while you unwind with other volunteers. When I die, I’ll remember my time in Puerto Rico as one of the best decisions of my life.
I flipped the choke and pulled the starter cord and the generator purred to life. It was remarkably quiet, not nearly close to drowning out the sound of the surf. I ran an extension cord from the AC out port into the house where I met Manolito. He wore a Mets cap and a tired smile. He shakes my hand, “I’m so grateful for you helping my family; my whole life I always wanted to do something like what your people are doing. Thank you.” I nod, “of course, any time,” and ask him where I should run the line. He leads me to Isabel’s room.
The room is dark, shuttered to keep out the hot afternoon sun. Combined with the passing sea breeze, it is surprisingly cool. Isabel’s hardships are many, but at least her room is a comfortable one.
She is asleep on a bed in the corner. There is a large crucifix over her bed and an icon of the Virgin Mary. In her sleeping hands is a rosary, the scented beads just noticeable enough to remind me of home. It was late October, probably cold and rainy in Portland, befitting of the heartbreak and nightmare job I had left there. It is the binary opposite in Rincón.
Yasmín plugs a power strip in and the room comes back to life. A battered A/C unit croaks on while a single 40-W lightbulb tries to light up the room. On the nightstand, an ancient transistor radio starts chattering prayers, reminding me of the Radio Paz that my own grandmother religiously tuned to.
Manolito sits by the bed. He takes his mother’s hand. “Mira que tú eres tan linda, mami. Mira que todo el mundo te quiere.” She sleeps quietly as the A/C hums along. The soft light illuminates her gentle breathing which is nearly synced with the nearby waves. I suddenly find myself immensely grateful to be in this place at this moment.
Manolito says to us, “Thank you for taking the time. I know you don’t have much to give, so thank you for what you’ve done.”
Mike replies, “Please, it was nothing.”
“No,” Manolito stops him, “No, it is everything.”
I add, “I wish we could’ve brought more.” On the walls around me are the reminders of a life lived. There is a photo of Isabel on her wedding day, proud and beautiful. Another shows what must be Manolito’s college graduation, the abundance of velvet and hair makes me suspect late seventies. Others are less obvious, a sunny day fishing or a run-down baseball diamond. These memories cause my brain to run off to a dark place, not just to the failures of our current administration, but to the shame that it brings us as Americans. How is any of this acceptable? Why was this woman even in a situation like this? In a country purported to be this powerful, how is a government charged with helping its citizens incapable of getting past even step one? It’s too easy to just blame FEMA as inept and move on, but they were there. They were ready. There is a 48-hour window both before (if possible) and after a major disaster where FEMA gets full autonomy to direct their resources to most efficiently aid in recovery. After that window, it requires literally an act of congress to continue funding operations. After María, that never happened. Today marks 33 days since the storm and the airstrip at Aguadilla is lined with DHS Blackhawks getting suntans rather than moving the pallets of food and water filling every major stadium and conference hall. There is no direction to distribute. Volunteers and former marines are taking ancient 4x4’s over collapsed mountain roads to get medicine to isolated communities while the humvees designed to fight Soviet tanks stick to the safer coastal roads. There is no direction to mobilize. The bridge at Utuado is still out and the only supplies in or out are by way of a ziplined shopping cart² while the mobile pontoon bridges designed to cross the Elbe or Euphrates are gassed and ready at the base near Ponce. There is no direction to act.
It’s too easy to just blame FEMA as inept and move on, but we have a civic responsibility to look deeper and hold the proper parties accountable. If assets were in place before and after the storm, why wasn’t anyone allowed to do their job? In 2017, Puerto Rico found herself in an abysmal confluence of forces: years of fiscal and infrastructure neglect met an administration in DC characterized by protectionist policy and opportunism. Due to the prior debt, tenuous maintenance, and of course María’s devastation, the bill for rebuilding the island’s infrastructure was astronomical. For lawmakers in DC, there were no votes to be won or lost and there were no dollars to be made. So, the island languished in a state more reminiscent of Gilded Age Imperialism than one of the 21st century.
“Mira,” Manolito says, breaking my thought, “you wish that you could do more but look at everything you’ve done. Y tú también, Yasmín, mire a todo que ha hecho para la gente de esta isla. This woman was going to die alone, in darkness and in the heat, and you have changed that. You have come here with nothing but love, and that, that to me is everything.”
I nod to him, but I can’t shake the thought: this woman should never have died in the first place.
Manolito looks back at his sleeping mother, “te quiero, mami. Te quiero tanto,” he says stroking her hand as the tears form, “eres la madre más cariñosa del mundo.”
Mike, Yasmín, and I leave them with eachother.
* * *
Two days later, I’m with the rest of the volunteers back in the plaza which, hours before, had its electricity restored for the first time since the storm. Not only was it the first night the plaza had had power in over a month, it so happened that it was on an Artwalk night. On Thursday nights in Rincón, local artists, musicians, and cooks used to descend upon the city center and set up booths, cook up feasts, make drum circles, and in general celebrate anything and nothing at the same time. There was never a shortage of good spirits. Tonight on a cool, clear night in late October, and with only a few hours of notice, the community put together the first Artwalk since María. Güepa.
Naomi, the Rincón Beer Company’s owner, heard that the power was back and came down immediately. Her brewery was right on the plaza and nothing short of a category five hurricane was going to stop her from opening up for the first Artwalk.
For us, the volunteers, we had tarped five roofs that day in the Perla area — an RBC record — so tonight there was to be an added layer of beers and cheers. We spent the early evening beside the arch on the 115 reading “Rincón me encanta”, toasting eachother and reveling in our collective construction prowess. To Mike, DeShawn, Jeremy, Scott, Dee, Doc, Star, Jason, Alan, and Jody, wherever you are, we came from a gamut of circumstances and hardships, but in a very simple way, we saw the world the same. People need help regardless of governments and politics; they just need help. We worked together exceptionally well, and dozens of people in NW Puerto Rico are the better for it³. Thank you for your tireless generosity⁴.
I admit an indulgence: after returning to the now-electrified bar from the last tarping job that afternoon, I spent about a half-hour in the walk-in freezer. After weeks in the tropical heat, it was a cold my darkened body had long forgotten, a welcomed reunion with an old friend. I waited there until my bones ached and my beer was nearly frozen before returning to the party.
Maybe it was all of the dark nights, but the plaza that night seemed to be bathed in light. The majority of the town still had no power, so not only was Artwalk the thing to do, but residents also brought what they had: lights, fans, electric guitars, anything to celebrate that man-made creation that everyone forgets until they don’t. There were hundreds of warm incandescent bulbs strewn over the plaza. Santa Rosa’s stained glass windows were dark no longer. Even the karaoke machine next to the RBC wasn’t immediately annoying anyone.
Sipping my Medalla, I saw Manolito walk up, generator in hand. I tune out the festivities as best as I can to reflect on his pain. After leaving it inside the bar, he sees me and walks over, eyes reddened but happy. I shake his hand, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He takes off his Mets cap to wipe his brow, “don’t be sorry tonight. Tonight let’s be glad.”
I smile, “Medalla?”
“Yes sir.” and he opens an especially ice-cold beer.
At around then, a convoy of four AEE aerial utility trucks entered the plaza. They were on their way north towards Aguada after hooking us up to the power grid in Mayagüez. They crept slowly through the pedestrian-swollen road surrounding the plaza, the lead truck flying a giant Puerto Rican flag from its crane arm.
It’s hard to describe what happened next. A few whistles and car honks began to steadily grow, as if one-by-one the entire plaza began to notice the trucks. And one-by-one every person in that plaza let them know — cheers, whistles, shouts, güepas, until that plaza was a sea of waving flags and dancing bodies. The power company had received its share of earned criticism after the storm but right here right now these men, these front-line workers, were heroes. And just about the entire town of Rincón celebrated them as such. Seeing that many people that happy and that relieved is a sight I will not soon forget.
“So what’s next for you?” I ask Manolito, “back to the Bronx?”
He nods, waving to the departing trucks, “eventually. I think I may stick around a little and help out some of mami’s friends. See what I can do.” He seems to be basking in this immense display of gratitude. “boy I wish my neighbors could see this now. Ojalá…”
Isabel Mariángel Maldonado was an American citizen. For thousands like her, Americans whose deaths were not granted the basic human respect of being tallied, this too is their story. Isabel never regained consciousness. She passed comfortably, surrounded by her memories and her only son, and to the sound of waves crashing at the Balneario.
— — —
¹ This article references journal entries from when the official death toll in Puerto Rico from Hurricane María was maintained at 64 deaths, ignoring later deaths from strained infrastructure directly associated with the storm’s damage. Since its writing, the official death toll has been revised to 2,975 deaths, ranking María as one of the deadliest natural disasters in United States history.
² The collapsed bridge at Utuado, which cut off nearly 50 people from food and water:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BbHdZAHlTUX/,
https://cdn.dvidshub.net/media/thumbs/photos/1710/3873003/1000w_q95.jpg
³ More on RBC María Relief (p.14):
https://issuu.com/elcoqui823/docs/el_coqui_december_2017_low
⁴ More on RBC María Relief (p.19):
https://issuu.com/montysmi/docs/rsa-issue2_3ebf61c1fef43b