For Minot

“The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past.” – Faulkner

Every media outlet in the world seems obligated to do a year-end roundup of important things that happened or important books or movies or albums that came out that year… I usually like year-end lists; on the artsy lists I learn about things I missed, and I’m reminded of things I loved. On the news lists, I think, “That can’t be six months ago, it seems like just yesterday,” or “That was only six months ago? It seems like ages.” Sometimes both.

But this year, those lists were incomplete. This year, those lists were wrong.

My hometown, Minot, North Dakota, was hit by a flood at the end of June unlike any other in its history – unlike any flood that most communities will ever see.

The dread started at Easter, when I visited my parents’ house and already the river that runs through their yard was rising. But real danger seemed far-off. I’d seen the river high a few years earlier. It rose, it crested, it fell.

The dread continued in May, when my parents came to Minneapolis for my graduation. We spent time together, we ate at my favorite restaurants, we visited the Science Museum, I heard a great sermon and donned a robe and someone important put a hood around my neck that I had to return an hour later. In between, my Mom used my computer to check the river levels  multiple times a day on the Internet, and told me they had a friend checking the house every three hours to make sure their septic system didn’t back up.

And then in June, friends and family who live in Minot started posting on Facebook about mandatory evacuations – first a false alarm.

And then not a false alarm.

I started watching the local news channel’s live stream for hours every day. I prayed. I kept checking Facebook. I felt like I should be in Minot, but I couldn’t be, and anyway what could I do to help, really? My gifts mostly have to do with words, not engineering or disaster preparedness or how to lift sandbags for 16 hours without collapsing.

My parents evacuated.

And the river rose. And crested.

I watched the local news feed as they flew over the town and surrounding area. I tried to locate landmarks. I found myself hypnotized by Facebook photo albums, focusing on street signs, timestamps, descriptions, trying to remember the way the river winds through town.

I saw pictures from the street where my childhood church is. The river was down the block. Then a few feet closer. Then in the parking lot.

After a few days, I stopped watching the news feed all day. I was finishing my final seminary class and just starting my current job, and I told myself that I had to focus on those things.

I was struck with waves of guilt – it was wrong for me to turn off the local news feed when so many hundreds of people I loved couldn’t just turn off what was happening in their lives. I ping-ponged emotionally between feeling helpless and feeling like I had to focus on my own responsibilities and feeling like I had an obligation to watch without turning away because after all, they couldn’t turn away.

But another hard part was feeling like this was all happening to so many people I cared about, seeing how my Facebook wall was covered with updates and laments and little glimmers of hope and everything in between in the weeks following the flood…

…and it seemed like no one around me was paying attention or even knew it was happening.

There was some national news coverage, for a day or two, but not much – a few aerial photos, and then nothing. They prayed for Minot for many weeks at worship services I attended, and I was grateful for that. When I told someone at my new job where I was from and what was happening there, he shrugged. Hadn’t heard about it. Offered a mumbled “that’s too bad,” as he walked away to focus on other things.

I went back to visit on Labor Day weekend.

I’ve always had a weird connection to houses that I see in my day-to-day life. I’ll feel a special affinity for a garden gnome, or a little Victorian cupola, or the way a porch looks so inviting. In my own neighborhood now, I have the Mayberry House, the House That Looks Like California, the 1955 Driveway, the Hippies With a Pile of Plastic Pink Flamingos, and many, many shoddy, slapped-on-looking additions that warm my heart.

I didn’t realize how many of those connections I still had in Minot until I drove around near 4^th Avenue Northwest. And I saw the little blue duplex with the round porthole windows. The long, low ranch house with the ferns that looks so 60’s. The dark brown house with turquoise trim, so unashamed of its ugliness.

Hollow. Dark. Port-a-potties on every corner like periods at the end of tragic sentences.

House after house after house after house after house. Block upon block. Haunted and empty and wrecked and the tears were rising with a tightness in my throat. The thing that came to mind, and I mean in no way to minimize anyone’s suffering, was rape. A violent taking and a violation of trust. A devastation that can’t be undone. And blood and sweat and tears everywhere, poured all over the only place that I’ve ever lived long enough to really call home.

My mom and I visited a family friend, and walked with her through the husk of her home, where I had spent countless teenage hours hanging out with friends.

She showed us where their FEMA trailer would go and worried about whether their dog would do okay in such a small space.

She showed us a statue of the Virgin Mary that had mysteriously washed up in their home.

She told us about the red tape. There is a lot of red tape.

In October, I went back to Minot again to preach at the church where I grew up, Christ Lutheran. The church no longer had carpet or pews or heat or plumbing. It was their first time worshipping in that space since June, and I was humbled that this community who had been through so much would even bother to listen to me, someone who’d watched it all from the comfort of a couch 500 miles away.

And then I went back again for Christmas. There were more FEMA trailers around town, many more. A whole village of them not far from my parents’ house, which had thankfully been (mostly) spared, although their outbuildings and property were hit hard. There was heat in the church, although the future for that building remains uncertain as I write this.

And then the year-end lists came from all the magazines and websites and news shows.

And no one said a word about Minot.

I’m not saying I expected the flood that came through my hometown to be number 1, or even number 2 or 3. A lot of devastating things happened all over the world, and some of them affected many more people than the flood in Minot did. I am troubled by the attitude I’ve sometimes seen in smaller towns that is suspicious or derisive of anyone or anything from a city of over 200,000, that thinks people in big cities are all uncaring jerks who don’t care about the “real” America. That’s not true, and I don’t think that that’s what happened with the year-end lists.

I guess I don’t know what happened.

I’m not saying that what happened in Minot was the most important thing that happened in the world in 2011. But it was the most important thing that happened in my world. And it was the most important thing that happened in the world of hundreds of people I know and care about.

And damn it, it may not be number 1, but it sure as hell belongs on the list somewhere.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

If a river rages through a town and destroys thousands of homes and breaks thousands of hearts and leaves behind millions of dollars’ worth of damage and millions of tears and the national news media ignores it, does it matter?

Ask the families who celebrated Christmas in a FEMA trailer.

Ask my mom, who has to help figure out what to do with a devastated church community in between figuring out ways to remove toxic crud from hundreds of feet of vinyl fencing.

Ask the block after block after block after block of empty houses that still sit dark and hollow, six months later.

Haunted. Empty. Wrecked.

They will tell you the answer you need.

Comments

[A Facebook User]

We also go to Christ Lutheran Church and were so happy and honored to have church on Christmas Eve there, it meant more to me than words could ever express. We live right by Lincoln School and our house is completely destroyed and we were not able to get a lot of our stuff out we now are living in a small FEMMA trailer, and yes that is were we spent our Christmas. I am so happy you are writing about this, I don't think people realize all that we have lost and all we get from FEMA is $30,000, there is no way we can ever start over with that, it probably would help us build our garage we had. We feel like the flood also took our lives and the city and government just aren't helping. Thank you for caring!! :) <3 Kelby, Cyndy, and Kyson Smith

[Jacquelin]

Thanks for taking the time to read and for sharing your story... it is heartbreaking that so many people are going through this, not only losing everything but having to deal day after day with the struggle just to get a little piece of normalcy back and not have the resources to do it. I will keep you and your family in my prayers!

[Vicki Reile]

we also go to Christ Luthern and we were also there on Christmas Eve. We Live right on the river banks on @nd Ave SW. You writing is profound! That is how I feel That the flood was a rape. I having a hard time trusting the city leaders and the Corps of Engineers and anyone else that was " suppose to protect "us citizens".We also know Kelby and Cindy Smith as we are the same age and have known each other for a long time. Both of us are close to retirement.... but it is hard to think of the future now. At least my sons,my husband, my pets and my friends are safe. Thanks be to God!

[A Facebook User]

As members of the Christ Lutheran Family, and victims of the flood, my mother and I want to thank you for putting into words exactly how we feel. God Bless...

[Christen Murphy]

I actually saw your post because someone shared it on facebook.

I'm from Minot, but I live in Nashville now. The way you describe watching everything happen from miles away is so accurate. I think a lot of people from the area that don't live there anymore shared that feeling.

I haven't had a chance to go back, but in a way, I'm glad because I think I'd be heartbroken.