With the flood of 2019 finally receding, most Corvallisites have spent time reflecting on how the high waters have impacted or inconvenienced their lives – but none so much as the unhoused or unsheltered community. While many of us complained of long commutes resulting from road closures, or the temporarily inaccessible golf course, unhoused campers were waking up in ankle-high waters, the bulk of their clothes and belongings soaked, and the flood forcing them from their familiar riverbanks into the public eye. What became a riverside attraction to housed residents was experienced as a tragedy to some of our unhoused neighbors. The social dynamics I saw as a result of the flooding has heightened my awareness of how privilege defines the narratives of our lives and the places we call home.
Crystal Lake Sports Field, which turned into a lake last week, is a short brisk walk from where I live. Each day of the flood, curiosity draws me to to the water’s new edge, where stranger-neighbors are tossing logs to their dogs and unveiling the sight to their children as a source of wonder (and hopefully of warning). Everyone’s happy; there’s a lightness in the air with no concerns uttered for the chemical company sitting some yards away. We exchange pleasantries and small talk – one couple kindly offers to take a photo of me and my partner by the water. One evening, at dusk, I am drawn to the shoreline where there is chatter of how the water levels compare to the flood of ‘96. I hear the muttering of a man on a bicycle approaching from behind and meet him soon after in the Crystal Lake Masonic Cemetery. I am there to check on a certain pioneer girl’s grave who drowned in the Great Flood of 1862, when the entire town of Orleans – Corvallis’ then neighbor – was swept away, as was she and her siblings, who resided on an island in between the two cities. I stood along the bank near her grave, watching the man approach. Scolding thoughts for being alone barged in, but I buried my distrust and headed in his direction.
We talked. He told me how he woke up in an inch of water that morning near the Sports Field where he usually sleeps. After days of sleeplessness, he was hoping to catch some shut eye in the cemetery. “The dead won’t hurt you; it’s the living you have to worry about,” he mused. He was lucky enough to get his shoes and socks to a dryer, thanks to some savings. Most of his acquaintances, he said, weren’t so lucky, with their tents and clothes still soaked. He called the flood a nightmare. To his eyes, these events were traumatic and uprooting. By some cosmic alignment, he pulled out a walking stick and said, “I want to show you something.” He had engraved the word “Orleans” onto it along with some unfinished outlines of playing cards. I pointed to the pioneer girl, explaining why I was there, and entertained superstitious thoughts that she somehow brought us together, pulling strings from beyond the grave.
Sometimes we get into the habit of overlooking our privilege, but I hope the flood of ‘19 reminded us of something. As climate change takes its toll, extreme weather events like floods will become more frequent, and these events always disproportionately impact the most vulnerable in our community and around the world. So how will our community prepare and respond? Will the local police continue issuing citations to the unhoused after rescuing them, such as they did with Diana Roberts on April 11? Slapping a fine onto someone who just experienced a traumatic event seems far from a trauma-informed response. Will shelters need to scrape up volunteers in order to reopen their doors, such as the Cold Weather Shelter (thankfully) did last week, or will more plans be written into policy for when future disasters strike? How will we ensure that our unhoused neighbors are not just physically safe, but socially and psychologically safe – that they are given humane attention and forethought?
By Stevie Beisswanger
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