Helene, Part Three: The Bachelorette Party
These weeks post-storm have been a blur. Time is warped, the framework stripped away by Helene’s winds, by the rivers that rose to unfathomable heights. Every day that first week felt like its own distinct chapter. The air was filled with a 24/7 cacophony of helicopters, chainsaws, and sirens. That first post-Helene afternoon, my partner and I found a safe path to downtown Asheville. We discovered patches of civilizations that had somehow remarkably retained power. We noticed others gathered outside the public library— the wifi router was miraculously still accessible. Our phones flooded with texts from outside family and friends, desperate to hear from us. I am grateful to have been able to communicate to folks that day. I had not fully grasped it at the time, but they thought we were all gone.
Being downtown that evening was a trip of its own. Most of the folks at the library were visitors, people staying in nearby hotels. I overheard desperate conversations to family members, pleas for outside folks to not try to come to the area. I felt bitter about people who were here on vacation. How could they even understand what had been lost? None of us knew the extent yet. In a most gut-wrenching moment, I saw a cluster of women in pink cowboys hats parading around— a bachelorette party. It felt like watching the circus crash a funeral. I tried to extend a gracious understanding to these people, but my heart’s reaction was to scream. This moment keeps coming back to me, an exemplification of the state of tourism in WNC— extractive, disrespectful, blind.
Making careful trips to the library for wifi became a daily ritual. All of our knowledge, every update and bit of news, was gleaned from social media. We began to hear from other friends in the area, started marking people “safe” in our minds. News came often and changed quickly. We learned that all major highways leading out of town were inaccessible. But then, I-26 south was open. People began doing supply runs to the nearest unaffected towns. Due to a lack of power, few gas stations were open and there was a gas shortage in WNC. Visitors were trying to get home, and gas lines were hours long. There was a rumor of a shooting at a gas station south of us. One day we arrived at the library and a woman rushed us. She thought we were trying to steal her car. Another day, a man was pacing around the downtown area when he suddenly burst out in violent screams. People were shaken, fundamentally, in the wake of the storm. Everyone’s access to resources were strained. There was a tension in the air. I hardly slept.
We decided to do our own supply run, and crowdsourced funds enough to fill our entire car up with essentials— water, 5 gallon buckets, formula, non-perishables. Family and friends sent donations from afar— that people cared and wanted to help was so deeply touching. It felt alien to be suddenly outside a disaster zone, wondering who around me was doing the same and, if not, if they knew what was happening in WNC. Standing in an aisle of Home Depot, a kind employee helped me locate the last of a box of first aid kits. I told him I was here from Asheville, picking up supplies to bring back to our community. He looked at me and said softly, “Bless your heart.” I walked away with tears in my eyes. These past few weeks, I’ve felt numb when alone in my head, exhausted from the mental tax of processing. The times that I’ve gathered with folks are when I feel it the most, a welling of emotion, a shiver of realization that we’re living through something significant, something that will determine our collective and individual trajectories for years to come.
This is a time of chaos and displacement and trying to rebuild the maps in our heads and hearts of an area I’ve personally spent over 20 years getting to know. It is suddenly so deeply scarred and changed, but my heart wants to see it all, wants to visit every piece of if that has ever held me. From Asheville to Ashe County, this land and its people have seen more of me than any other place I’ve ever lived. I’ve always felt in awe of its beauty, felt the desire to protect and engage and advocate for it. Living through Helene has deepened that sense, infused it with urgency.