strange bedfellows
Nov. 27th, 2005 10:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chelidonI enjoyed reading this, thought some of you might, too.
-------
THE NATION
A Gospel and Granola Bond
Two radically different sets of volunteers arrived in post-Katrina
Mississippi to feed the hungry, and their lives were changed forever.
By Elizabeth Mehren
Times Staff Writer
November 23, 2005
WAVELAND, Miss. ˜ Days after Hurricane Katrina hit, they began cooking
together in a grocery store parking lot: evangelical Christians from
Texas and Rainbow Family flower children from all over.
Soon they were serving 1,000 free meals a day at their cafe housed in
a domed tent. Side by side, members of this improbable alliance worked
nonstop, helping the people of what was once a scenic beach town.
Gradually, barriers melted. The evangelicals overlooked the hippies'
unusual attire, outlandish humor and persistent habit of hugging total
strangers. The hippies nodded politely when the church people cited
Scripture. The bonds formed at Waveland Village have surprised both
groups.
"We are Methodists, Episcopalians and Baptists, along with various and
sundry other Christian groups," said Fay Jones, an organizer of the
Bastrop (Texas) Ministerial Alliance. "Did we ever think we would have
such a wonderful relationship with hippies? No."
Brad Stone, an emergency medical technician from the Rainbow Family,
called the Christian-hippie coalition his new community. He explained:
"It has been unbelievable. We are all so close. I am actually dreading
leaving."
But about three months after they got here, the Rainbow Family
volunteers and the Texas church delegation are preparing to head home.
They will serve a grand banquet on Thanksgiving Day ˜ turkey with all
the trimmings, which at the Waveland Village Cafe includes steamed
seaweed. Over the holiday weekends they will hold a parade.
Then the church folks will hop in their pickup trucks and the hippies
will climb into their psychedelic school buses. Both groups say they
have been forever changed by the experience.
"They are as amazed as we are," said Pete Jones, who with his wife
organized the ministerial group. "We have all learned so much."
The Christians from about a dozen churches near Austin arrived first,
four days after the hurricane hit Aug. 29, when the roads to Waveland
were barely passable. Pete Jones, 67, said they were drawn by God to
the asphalt in front of a demolished supermarket.
When the volunteers began cooking, famished storm victims emerged out
of nowhere. Some were naked, having lost every stitch of clothing to
Katrina. All were so hungry that the Texans began running out of food.
They decided to pray.
"We thought we'd better be specific, so we prayed for hot dogs,
because they could be cut up to feed a lot of people," Fay Jones said.
"About the time we said 'Amen,' a guy drives up with a truck filled
with 2,600 hot dogs. That was the beginning of the miracles around
here."
The next wondrous event occurred when the Rainbow Family appeared. The
ministerial group was exhausted from nonstop cooking for a crowd that
multiplied with every meal. Hippies with dreadlocks and body piercings
poured out of a bus painted like a Crayola box.
"We set up two 10-by-10 pop-up tents and started cooking," said
25-year-old Clovis Siemon, an organic farmer and filmmaker from
Wisconsin. "We were trying to find someplace to fit in, somewhere to
be useful."
Aaron Funk, an Arthur Murray dance instructor from Berkeley, also was
among the first Rainbow Family volunteers here. Funk, 33, said his
group was well prepared for the effort after decades of Rainbow Family
gatherings on mountaintops and in national forests.
With tens of thousands of "brothers and sisters" scattered around the
world, the Rainbow Family calls itself the largest "non-organization"
of "nonmembers" on the planet. There are no rules, no dues and no
officers ˜ just a website (strictly unofficial, the group emphasizes)
that promotes the belief that "peace and love are a great thing, and
there isn't enough of that in this world."
Funk said the Katrina disaster response marked the Rainbow Family's
first major volunteer effort. The call for help went out on cellphones
and the Internet.
"We figured it was a social obligation," he said. "We already had the
working knowledge of feeding large numbers of people. We got here, and
the sense of desperation and urgency was off the charts. There was no
time to talk about it. It was just service, time to do what we came
here to do."
But Funk did find time for something other than cooking. He became the
village dance coach, leading conga lines and salsa sessions from a
makeshift stage framed by plastic palm trees and shimmery streamers.
Over the months, volunteers for both groups rotated in and out, about
40 at any one time for the Rainbow Family and 50 for the ministerial
alliance.
As the village mushroomed, the health tent Stone launched became a
full-scale clinic, featuring massage and herbal remedies along with a
well-stocked pharmacy. Nearby, the evangelicals set up a "store" to
provide free supplies and clothing for storm victims. Everything was
donated ˜ another miracle, the Texas volunteers say.
Each day, to keep up the giddy buzz inside the geodesic dome cafe, a
Rainbow Family volunteer known as Sister Soup had the whole tent sing
"Happy Birthday" to some nonexistent person.
Impromptu concerts occurred most evenings, sometimes when someone just
felt like singing. Movie nights focused on comedies, or escapist fare
like "Star Wars."
On "Freaky Fridays," Rainbow Family volunteers raided the clothing
donation bins and donned the weirdest outfits they could create. That
meant burly men in billowing dresses and women in maybe six skirts at
once.
"You feel relaxed here," said Betty Celino, who lost almost everything
when Katrina swept five feet of water through her house. "Everybody is
nice and friendly. Strangers hug you and ask you how your day is and
if you need anything."
Celino, 38, looked down at a plate filled with pulled pork, coleslaw,
potatoes and something decidedly green. "Plus," Celino said
cheerfully, "you get seaweed."
The seaweed made its way to Waveland via Ramona Rubin of the Rainbow
Family. When she left Santa Cruz, a woman at the farmers' market there
handed her a suitcase to take to Mississippi, filled with lustrous
green kelp. Rubin, 28, is now known as Sister Seaweed.
"Very nutritious, helps you to detoxify," she said, spooning a hearty
helping onto a diner's plate. She looked up and admitted: "I'm
absolutely amazed that people are eating this. There is just this real
openness."
With a graduate degree in public health, Rubin also has gathered
epidemiological data on hurricane victims, and presented her
preliminary findings to a council that included a U.S. Army officer.
"Pretty amazing," she said. "Me and a colonel."
Standing next to her in the lunch service line, Siemon reminded her of
another unlikely encounter at Waveland Village.
"The first week we were here," he said, "we had a guy from the
Pentagon sitting in a circle with us, chanting 'Om.' It was pretty
cool."
Still, the organizers of Waveland Village say it is time to move on.
Traditional stores and restaurants are reopening here, and though the
landscape remains decimated, a shaky new normality is taking hold.
"Our purpose is not to detract from the local economy," Pete Jones said.
Siemon said he would be returning to his organic farm with far more
than he brought to Waveland.
"What have I gained from this? Everything," he said. "I've gained the
experience of working with other humans in a wall-less, prejudice-less
environment where the sole purpose is to help other humanity.
"That's something not many people get to do."
-------
THE NATION
A Gospel and Granola Bond
Two radically different sets of volunteers arrived in post-Katrina
Mississippi to feed the hungry, and their lives were changed forever.
By Elizabeth Mehren
Times Staff Writer
November 23, 2005
WAVELAND, Miss. ˜ Days after Hurricane Katrina hit, they began cooking
together in a grocery store parking lot: evangelical Christians from
Texas and Rainbow Family flower children from all over.
Soon they were serving 1,000 free meals a day at their cafe housed in
a domed tent. Side by side, members of this improbable alliance worked
nonstop, helping the people of what was once a scenic beach town.
Gradually, barriers melted. The evangelicals overlooked the hippies'
unusual attire, outlandish humor and persistent habit of hugging total
strangers. The hippies nodded politely when the church people cited
Scripture. The bonds formed at Waveland Village have surprised both
groups.
"We are Methodists, Episcopalians and Baptists, along with various and
sundry other Christian groups," said Fay Jones, an organizer of the
Bastrop (Texas) Ministerial Alliance. "Did we ever think we would have
such a wonderful relationship with hippies? No."
Brad Stone, an emergency medical technician from the Rainbow Family,
called the Christian-hippie coalition his new community. He explained:
"It has been unbelievable. We are all so close. I am actually dreading
leaving."
But about three months after they got here, the Rainbow Family
volunteers and the Texas church delegation are preparing to head home.
They will serve a grand banquet on Thanksgiving Day ˜ turkey with all
the trimmings, which at the Waveland Village Cafe includes steamed
seaweed. Over the holiday weekends they will hold a parade.
Then the church folks will hop in their pickup trucks and the hippies
will climb into their psychedelic school buses. Both groups say they
have been forever changed by the experience.
"They are as amazed as we are," said Pete Jones, who with his wife
organized the ministerial group. "We have all learned so much."
The Christians from about a dozen churches near Austin arrived first,
four days after the hurricane hit Aug. 29, when the roads to Waveland
were barely passable. Pete Jones, 67, said they were drawn by God to
the asphalt in front of a demolished supermarket.
When the volunteers began cooking, famished storm victims emerged out
of nowhere. Some were naked, having lost every stitch of clothing to
Katrina. All were so hungry that the Texans began running out of food.
They decided to pray.
"We thought we'd better be specific, so we prayed for hot dogs,
because they could be cut up to feed a lot of people," Fay Jones said.
"About the time we said 'Amen,' a guy drives up with a truck filled
with 2,600 hot dogs. That was the beginning of the miracles around
here."
The next wondrous event occurred when the Rainbow Family appeared. The
ministerial group was exhausted from nonstop cooking for a crowd that
multiplied with every meal. Hippies with dreadlocks and body piercings
poured out of a bus painted like a Crayola box.
"We set up two 10-by-10 pop-up tents and started cooking," said
25-year-old Clovis Siemon, an organic farmer and filmmaker from
Wisconsin. "We were trying to find someplace to fit in, somewhere to
be useful."
Aaron Funk, an Arthur Murray dance instructor from Berkeley, also was
among the first Rainbow Family volunteers here. Funk, 33, said his
group was well prepared for the effort after decades of Rainbow Family
gatherings on mountaintops and in national forests.
With tens of thousands of "brothers and sisters" scattered around the
world, the Rainbow Family calls itself the largest "non-organization"
of "nonmembers" on the planet. There are no rules, no dues and no
officers ˜ just a website (strictly unofficial, the group emphasizes)
that promotes the belief that "peace and love are a great thing, and
there isn't enough of that in this world."
Funk said the Katrina disaster response marked the Rainbow Family's
first major volunteer effort. The call for help went out on cellphones
and the Internet.
"We figured it was a social obligation," he said. "We already had the
working knowledge of feeding large numbers of people. We got here, and
the sense of desperation and urgency was off the charts. There was no
time to talk about it. It was just service, time to do what we came
here to do."
But Funk did find time for something other than cooking. He became the
village dance coach, leading conga lines and salsa sessions from a
makeshift stage framed by plastic palm trees and shimmery streamers.
Over the months, volunteers for both groups rotated in and out, about
40 at any one time for the Rainbow Family and 50 for the ministerial
alliance.
As the village mushroomed, the health tent Stone launched became a
full-scale clinic, featuring massage and herbal remedies along with a
well-stocked pharmacy. Nearby, the evangelicals set up a "store" to
provide free supplies and clothing for storm victims. Everything was
donated ˜ another miracle, the Texas volunteers say.
Each day, to keep up the giddy buzz inside the geodesic dome cafe, a
Rainbow Family volunteer known as Sister Soup had the whole tent sing
"Happy Birthday" to some nonexistent person.
Impromptu concerts occurred most evenings, sometimes when someone just
felt like singing. Movie nights focused on comedies, or escapist fare
like "Star Wars."
On "Freaky Fridays," Rainbow Family volunteers raided the clothing
donation bins and donned the weirdest outfits they could create. That
meant burly men in billowing dresses and women in maybe six skirts at
once.
"You feel relaxed here," said Betty Celino, who lost almost everything
when Katrina swept five feet of water through her house. "Everybody is
nice and friendly. Strangers hug you and ask you how your day is and
if you need anything."
Celino, 38, looked down at a plate filled with pulled pork, coleslaw,
potatoes and something decidedly green. "Plus," Celino said
cheerfully, "you get seaweed."
The seaweed made its way to Waveland via Ramona Rubin of the Rainbow
Family. When she left Santa Cruz, a woman at the farmers' market there
handed her a suitcase to take to Mississippi, filled with lustrous
green kelp. Rubin, 28, is now known as Sister Seaweed.
"Very nutritious, helps you to detoxify," she said, spooning a hearty
helping onto a diner's plate. She looked up and admitted: "I'm
absolutely amazed that people are eating this. There is just this real
openness."
With a graduate degree in public health, Rubin also has gathered
epidemiological data on hurricane victims, and presented her
preliminary findings to a council that included a U.S. Army officer.
"Pretty amazing," she said. "Me and a colonel."
Standing next to her in the lunch service line, Siemon reminded her of
another unlikely encounter at Waveland Village.
"The first week we were here," he said, "we had a guy from the
Pentagon sitting in a circle with us, chanting 'Om.' It was pretty
cool."
Still, the organizers of Waveland Village say it is time to move on.
Traditional stores and restaurants are reopening here, and though the
landscape remains decimated, a shaky new normality is taking hold.
"Our purpose is not to detract from the local economy," Pete Jones said.
Siemon said he would be returning to his organic farm with far more
than he brought to Waveland.
"What have I gained from this? Everything," he said. "I've gained the
experience of working with other humans in a wall-less, prejudice-less
environment where the sole purpose is to help other humanity.
"That's something not many people get to do."
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-28 09:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-28 01:55 pm (UTC)By the way, I don't think I've told you how much I appreciate the art work you have been sharing. It's brilliant, and thank you for the opportunity to see it!