Late last month, a hundred days after Hurricane Maria hammered Puerto Rico, Jessie Alejandro and her husband, David Cruz, drove the island’s interior mountains, scanning the landscape for signs of life.
It was a day like many before it: the duo had fueled up, loaded their sedan with donated supplies, and headed along the circuitous mountain roads toward isolated towns, still without power: Jayuya, Utuado, Maricao, Naranjito, San Sebastian, Barranquitas. On this day, Jessie spotted some casitas dotting the mountainside, but the road in that direction had been reduced to rubble. Were people trapped inside? Elderly, perhaps disabled? Children?
“If our car won’t get us there, our feet will!” So they walked up the hillside. They discovered rubble-strewn homes with no roofs. And families. For three months, children had been sleeping on damp mattresses exposed to rainfall. Because the families couldn’t produce land deeds or proper paperwork, FEMA denied their aid requests.
“This can’t be Puerto Rico!” my mom, Virginia Sanchez, cried in Philadelphia as she received Jessie’s SOS text and photos. Mom got on the phone and worked every angle she had — 10 tarps were donated within hours and an old colleague at the airport helped her ship them immediately.
Jessie had climbed the mountain Thursday night. By Saturday morning, that cluster of homes had tarp rooftops and money for new mattresses — a stopgap measure, for sure, but progress. Then, Jessie and David were off to Gurabo to deliver water filters that had also been part of the shipment.
In Gurabo, Jessie found a woman incapacitated by Alzheimer’s. The viejita ’s house had gone down the mountain in the storm, but generous neighbors — with a generator — welcomed her into their home.
When Jessie offered help, the woman’s request was simple: flowers and a book, please. Her spirit needed a boost. Jessie and her husband drove off. The tiendas they stopped at had adult diapers (what the woman actually needed) but hadn’t seen fresh flowers in ages. They tried calling a Walmart hours away — no flowers there, either.
Then Jessie saw it: amid rubble, broken streets, and destroyed vegetation, a garden was bursting with radiant gladiolas. Jessie ran to the door and asked if they’d let her pick a few stems. Turns out the household had no drinking water — and Jessie had a trunkful of that.
An exchange was made. By nightfall, the viejita , who had lost her home, had fiery gladiolas at her bedside.
Hurricane Maria is not over. There is still basic need all over the island. Half of Puerto Rico has no power — we’re talking for fridges and respirators. The website status.pr claims 96% of water has been restored — but mountain residents are begging for potable water and many taps run dry.
I think our federal government has forgotten, but then I realize: They can’t forget what they have not acknowledged. The President’s paper-towel-throwing display was a complete rejection of our humanity and crisis. The low death count that Trump touted — and attributed to his own leadership prowess — has been exposed as grossly undercounted.
With the government doing so little, the citizens remain committed. Jessie Alejandro is hardly alone. Across the island (and on the mainland), a network of cousins, colleagues, professionals, neighbors and kindhearted strangers has emerged. Using whatever tools on hand — Facebook, pickup trucks, carryon luggage — basic supplies arrive in a slow, steady stream: water filters, food, medical supplies and Three Kings toys. Neighborly deeds that, to me, are the essence of Boricua ingenuity.
If only the U.S. government would rise to the level of its people, the forgotten Americans. We have given what we can — an hour, 10 dollars, a week. Our tenacity, resourcefulness and focused action continue to make a difference.
To our representatives in Washington: We elected you; now learn from us. We need help to transform those tarps into strong roofs that will signal true rebuilding.
Soon after their time in the mountains, Jessie and David hit the road for Juana Diaz. They had heard of a senior citizen abandoned in squalor. Usually this time of year, Juana Diaz would be prepping their legendary Three Kings celebration. (My daughter had her first piragua at Juana Diaz’s magnificent municipal parade).
Instead, Jessie and David found a double-amputee who had lost everything in the storm. He was bare-skinned — his clothes had been destroyed by wind and rain. By that night, he was in a generator-powered shelter with a clean bed and new shirt on his back.
He’s refusing relocation to the fancier shelter a few towns over, though. There’s no way he’s leaving his neighbors behind.
Hudes won the Pulitzer Prize for her play “Water By the Spoonful.”