Hurricane Helene: Chaos, Darkness and Interconnection

by Mikaela and Red/Nyx/Nikael.

[Red’s contribution in italics below]

People, especially from outside the South, immediately think of Asheville when they think of Western North Carolina, but it is much broader and more complex than that, a patchwork of small towns and communities across the homelands of the Cherokee, Catawba and others, a place that indigenous people have stewarded for time immemorial. It’s a place of homesteads and ancestral traditions, juxtaposed with towering second homes, Airbnb’s and tourism. Now, it’s the setting of the most deadly storm since Katrina – Hurricane Helene.

I grew up spending a lot of time in these mountains, my grandparents lived two counties over, near the Yadkin river. My mother lived up here before I was ever born, and Boone was the first place I headed when I moved out from my parent’s house at 17. I’ve been living in these mountains again for several years now. I definitely want to recognize that there are many stories of connection and belonging deeper than mine. 

Red was born and raised here in the Blue Ridge area of Southern Appalachia, and is deeply connected to these mountains, which he likes to remind people are some of the oldest mountains in the world.

This place, in my perspective, is the embodiment of chaos, darkness, and interconnectedness. I want to challenge folks to explore their associations with especially those first two terms, and if they are viewed as negative traits or not. I use these terms to illustrate that this place, my home, is vitally alive.

For me the ancientness of the Appalachian mountains is extraordinary too. It’s widely speculated that the Appalachians were once as towering as the Himalayas, but time has eroded them into the weathered rippling ridges that we know today.  I love to share with people that the river closest to me, the so-called New River, is actually believed to be one of the oldest rivers in the world, having formed before these ancient mountains even first rose. Where I live is not too far from the river’s headwaters, the water here usually tumbles clear and musical over rocks and swirls deep and green in spots, as it meanders and forks, home to rare and endemic species, including the only giant salamander in this hemisphere (the rare and elusive Hellbender).

We had gotten so much rain before Helene even approached, the rivers and creeks were already swollen muddy brown and rushing at the edges of saturated ground. By the time Helene arrived, carrying an unprecedented amount of water, the wind was whipping fiercely on the small ridge where I live. I watched trees bend and toss branches, at angles I didn’t know trees could hold (and some didn’t). At short intervals that felt increasingly frequent my phone would buzz and wail with alerts, mostly warning of flash flooding happening all around.

Right after the storm, it was hard to process the scale of what happened. To be honest, it still is. One common thread I’ve heard is people who thought they alone got the worst of it, until they went further down the road, ventured out, talked to more people, started hearing the news of how widespread and horrifying the devastation was. We all know people who lost everything.

I live in the most northwestern corner of North Carolina, an area including Watagua, Ashe and Avery counties, which is sometimes referred to as the “High Country” because of the elevation here. This area is most often recognized for Boone, where Appalachian State University is located, originally a modest teachers college, now an ever expanding institution that overwhelms the land and place it stretches across. The region of western North Carolina is much larger, consisting of over 25 counties stretching the whole western length of the state.

Many people think Ashe County and Asheville are the same place, but despite the similarity of name and even though they are both within western North Carolina, they are separated by over 100 miles. That’s one thing I’ve noticed since the beginning of Helene –  folks not familiar with our area are not comprehending the scale and depth of this devastation. It’s important to understand this as there are so many impacted locations, no one place is the same as the other and the geographic impact of this storm was vast.

Though things are bad here, somehow it is incredibly worse towards Asheville. An example: our public water systems here have been functionally restored (of course people are still navigating issues with individual wells), but as of the time I’m writing this, almost 7 weeks post- Helene, Asheville and surrounding areas are still without clean, functioning water. 

Hurricane Helene has impacted, in some way or another, every single person I know in this area. I had friends I hadn’t heard from for over a week after the storm and feared they may have died. In the holler where I live, our entire road was absolutely destroyed; transformed into a river. Everyone lost power and water. Some folks had trees fall on their homes.

Like others, I had no power, water or internet for the first few days. Because of being up a hill, I was protected from the worst of the flooding, while neighbors 1/2 mile away had the river surge through their homes, the church, our post office which is now permanently closed, the building and those around it condemned. 

A  lot of folks I know lost absolutely everything due to the hurricane. Personally, I got lucky. No one I knew ended up dying because of the storm, my housing and possessions were not washed away. I lost work and the hurricane ended up changing or ending relationships in my life in very acute ways. So, for everyone I know in this region, loss is something we are all holding right now.

The loss is hard to find words for. The first time I left my house after the storm, I was so afraid of the leaning trees and roads washed out, or deeply eroded at the edges. The bridge I needed to cross to get to the main road had been washed over by the rampaging water, left buried in mud, but by the time I got to it, someone had shoveled the mud off and over to one side so there was a narrow passable lane on one side. I stopped to talk to my neighbor to ask her what she might need., “A new house?” she answered.

That first time out, I went to the grocery store where I accidentally overheard the story of someone’s death, swept out of their house, while their spouse somehow stood ground and survived. Last week, I heard of someone whose parents died in the storm, but they’ve never been recovered, and I guess that’s one of the stages we are at now, people holding services for and acknowledging people who were lost but may never be found.  

I am dealing with damages that are minor compared to what everyone is navigating. I didn’t realize that the rain had swept into my house between the roof and walls, until the mold started to grow days later. I am among the folks navigating FEMA applications and insurance claims.

When I first heard that people were out “hunting FEMA”, I thought that had to be a bizarre rumor, but when they pulled all the inspectors back, slowly realized it was true. I know people who have gotten at least some support from FEMA and others denied who are desperate need and have heard all kinds of stories in between.It’s been hard to make sense of things, the rumors and misinformation make it so much harder to sift through and know what is or isn’t true. 

From the beginning I have heard from people outside of the region that the storm wasn’t covered well outside of here. It’s hard for me to assess that, but a friend in Washington state (who I hadn’t talked to since this summer) texted me last week, the night of the election, to ask if NC was going to “bring it home”, but she also asked how are you? When I wrote “still reeling from Helene” she responded with a one word question, “Helene?”

I am used to people not getting the story of this region, it is a frustrating pattern that plays out time and again in national media.

The myth of Appalachian Resilience has been something I’ve seen pushed by a lot of media as we recover from the storm. Pushing the narrative that Appalachian folk are just inherently tougher or more resilient is extremely harmful to those seriously impacted by the hurricane. It undermines the devastation we have endured and paints a false picture that we do not need help, while allowing corporate media to use us as a stereotype for why folks just need to “pull themselves up by their bootstraps”. At the very core of it, the myth of Appalachian Resilience is dehumanizing. We are human beings and we deserve the same access to aid as everyone else.

Getting aid to the people who need it most is an ongoing challenge. One silver lining is how immediately in the aftermath the majority of people started helping each other. I heard someone describe it as the “most human thing I’ve ever experienced.”

But there are a lot of complicated dynamics with recovery work including who is helped and how it is organized and coordinated. A friend told me of another friend’s dad coming from Tennessee to volunteer nearby and he ended up joining a right-wing militia.

The reality is that the folks who need the most help are not receiving it from the state. So many folks tucked far back in remote hollers have not been receiving government aid. Most of the time they haven’t even heard of what that aid is or how to apply for it, assuming they would even find them “eligible”. Folks in situations like this have typically only been receiving aid from local individuals, mutual aid groups, and neighbors taking initiative.

After I had my immediate needs taken care of, I joined the effort to help, adding my name and phone number to a “have water and power, will share” list. When someone I know sent me an address and an invitation to volunteer at a distribution center, I thought “perfect, I’ll go help where it’s needed.”

When I went to the address, I realized my acquaintance had referred me to volunteer with the evangelical organization Samaritan’s Purse, headquartered here, and led by Franklin Graham.

I’m unfortunately familiar with this organization and the “statement of faith” that they require you sign in order to volunteer. This statement demands you agree, among other things, that marriage is only between a genetic male and a genetic female.  As a queer woman, there is no way I am signing anything homophobic and repressive like that. So, instead of volunteering that day, I veered my car into an adjacent parking lot and sobbed for over an hour. I cried for the loss, the grief of the storm and the grief at having to live within a system that constantly asks and demands you to erode yourself too.

I feel such a deep sorrow for the way Christian hegemony has and continues to create a legacy of domination and abuse of power that shapes and frames our current lives, policies and perspectives.

I did find a wonderful place to support folks. The State Line Resource Station  is a volunteer effort started by the owner of an indoor skate park, on the top of a hill right at the NC/TN line. They have cultivated an inclusive and caring approach and have been meeting people’s needs. They don’t plan to stop while folks are still needing them and most recently have launched a grant program that distributes money directly for repairs and other urgent needs “available to all humans in the disaster area, regardless of race, gender, nationality, orientation, or any other demographic.”

I have witnessed, in my own community, people coming together to organize and help one another in storm recovery from all different cultures, backgrounds, and political standings. At first glance, it’s incredibly inspiring and heartwarming to see folks bridging the gaps and coming together for a common cause. 

But I am also faced with holding the duality that, for many of these folks, the organizing and mutual aid efforts are fleeting, with the sole objective to “return to normal”. 

I agree, this push to return to normal seems to be a fixation of some, especially in this region dominated by tourism, people were eager to make things look and seem ok. It felt superficial, and for me it echoed the push I have felt since the start of the pandemic to return to an artificial normal that does not exist. A strange reality is that if you only go to certain places, it might seem like a lot of things are “back.” Part of that is the geography of these mountains that enables people to forget about what is out of sight and out of mind.

Watauga and Ashe county schools started back a month after Helene. Public schools in nearby Avery County just started back last week, six weeks after the storm. However, Appalachian State University hurried to reopen much earlier, starting in-person classes just 2.5 weeks after the storm. The town is much smaller when the university isn’t in session, the return to classes brought thousands of people back into an area struggling with recovery and where many people remain without long term places to live. 

Once the university started back, there was also a drop in volunteers at many of the local donation and distribution places.I talked to some students who were upset at the quick return, many of them wanting to continue helping either here, or in their own mountain communities nearby. 

As restaurants were urging people to visit, I had a meal at a local restaurant where I know most of the staff. The person serving me told me they were ok, until I asked if they were affected and their eyes filled with tears as they said they were still trying to find a new place to live, their rental home was condemned. 

Housing was a crisis here before Helene, it is exponentially worse now, and concerns about predatory home buyers capitalizing on this disaster have already begun to be validated.

I have learned that if you really want to know how people are you have to ask more than one question, almost everyone will say they’re ok at first – some people say this is a manifestation of  survivor’s guilt, the way we deflect our individual experiences. I was at the grocery store last week (or maybe the week before, it is still hard to keep track of time) and the cashier helping me was a woman, likely in her late 50s. After she said she was ok when I first asked, I followed up – “Did you have any impacts from the storm?” Her lip slightly quivered as she told me her house was gone, “all that’s left is my chimney.” Our eyes met over the groceries, both welling with the pain and reality of what everyone is still navigating while also trying to meet this societal pressure to hurry up and get back to normal.

This push to return to normal doesn’t address the underlying issue of poverty, lack of access to survival resources, and stable housing that millions of people were facing before the hurricane and will continue to face after aid has receded.

Around that same time, Appalachian State was already hosting a home football game, welcoming an out-of-state team and fans into the community. 

I have talked to people who have felt upset that the focus was to get things “back” instead of slowing down and allowing time for recovery. For a brief time, the storm slowed us down in the way that we move from one thing to the next. It’s hard not to feel like this return to “normalcy” is superficial and creates conditions for apathy towards those still in crisis.

I want to stress how deeply dangerous this apathy is to our ability as a species to survive a rapidly changing world. If we want to forge a way forward that is focused on liberation of both people and land, we must find within ourselves the capacity to empathize deeply with all peoples, both human and more than human kin.

I also want to point out that this motivation to help “return to normal” is a privileged stance to be able to take and the same folks helping for this reason are mostly doing so only because the disaster directly impacted them or someone they know, giving them a reason to care. 

Almost a month after the storm I went to a birthday potluck and saw my friend’s place for the first time. What before was gardens and soft grassy paths is now a carved river bed. One friend joked that it looked almost like they had ordered the rocks intentionally,  someone else said “but nobody asked for this”. We all laugh as we echoed and repeated those words – “nobody asked for this.” 

The conversation turns back to a more serious note as they consider how to repair the deep rock lined gully, new riverbed and island where their functional driveway used to be. We talk about the futility of trying to go back to its pre-Helene state, the likelihood of another storm like this, the need to recover in a way that is resilient, that accepts the truth that this is not an isolated experience.

It’s a sentiment I’ve heard more than once or twice. The truth of the lessons learned from a disaster this size in a region that’s never seen impact like this is reorienting, to say the least. Many folks are understanding that it’s not a matter of if this happens again, but when.

Hurricane Helene, among other disasters, is not an isolated event. It is not disconnected from our systems of oppression, but a product of them. As climate change continues in its current trajectory, marginalized groups will continue to be the ones experiencing the brunt of these disasters, while the wealthy elite and ruling class continue their path of evading culpability and further exploiting the lower classes in order to distance themselves from the consequences of their destruction.

As a person who works on climate issues as part of my work, it is so clear to me how Helene sits at the intersection of many issues, all connected to the imbalance of our current systems designed to serve the few at the expense of the many.

All fights for liberation are connected and recognizing this grants us the awareness and power to begin building strong movements that center the dismantling of all systems of oppression.

My hope for my community, and others, is that we find our part in the building and forging of a path forward that will disrupt the systems of power that created the conditions in which we find ourselves. There is no normal to return to and one thing this experience has solidified for me – whatever the future brings, the only way forward is together.

—

Red/Nyx/Nikael (he/they/xe) is a queer and trans southern Appalachian, born and raised, artist, writer, community organizer, and herbalist who strives to constantly challenge our current colonial systems and expand our capacity to imagine and create alternative worlds that are centered around connection to land, liberation for all peoples (human and more than human kin), and exploring the mystery and chaos of expression unbound by white supremacy.

Mikaela (she/her) is a published and award-winning poet, facilitator and environmental scientist who calls central Appalachia home. She was a featured artist in the Women of Appalachia 10th Anniversary Project and has worked as an environmental specialist, consultant, and researcher across the US South. Mikaela is currently prioritizing climate justice and the centering of indigenous values into her work and is always interested in collaboration.