In Harper's in September, Rebecca Solnit wrote that rare animal--a truly surprising essay. Published on the eve of Katrina's landfall, and excerpted on the web, Solnit made at least three really thought-provoking points:
First, that people who live through disasters often look back on them fondly. New Yorkers remember the blackouts that way. Solnit, who lives in the Bay Area, recalls "the gregariousness in the hours and days after the l989 Loma Prieta earthquake, which killed sixty-three pople and interrupted life for millions...the quake shook us out of our everyday grudges and create a rare sense of fellowship in an increasingly atomized region." From this and a few other examples she concludes, following William James, that because we share the experience of a disaster, "the solidarity may eclipse the suffering, and thus rather than adding to the isolation of individual misfortune such events may undo the loneliness of everyday life."
Second, that what transpires in the aftermath of a disaster rarely resembles a horror movie. Even after the l906 earthquake, witnesses recalled "no running around the streets, or shrieking, or anything like that," but rather people walking calmly about, talking, even joking. "Instead [of panicking], the people generally classified as victims generally do what can be done to save themselves and one another. In doing so, they discover not only the potential power of civil society but also the fragility of existing structures of authority. And perhaps this, too, is grounds for joy."
And third, most radically, that disasters can allow us to rediscover the community that our government and our way of life are conspiring to eradicate, in much the same way that the festival of carnival was a joyous respite from the heavy structures of church and tradition. Solnit sees our recent history of privatization as moving us away from each other. "...we are encouraged by our great media and advertising id to fear one another and regard public life as a danger and a nuisance, to live in secured spaces, and communicate by electronic means...but disaster makes it clear that our interdependence is not only an inescapable fact but a fact worth celebrating..."
I've never lived through a disaster comparable to Katrina, but I have seen numerous fires and floods and an earthquake in fifteen or so years in the somewhat melodramatic landscape of Southern California where we live, and it's absolutely true that people around here cherish their disasters. They mark their lives by them, and take pride in their willingness to help neighbors, and exhibit no signs of panic or desperation in the midst of the calamity, and a great eagerness to talk and share their experiences in the aftermath.
Once I thought it was simply that people liked the drama, but Solnit has got me thinking. Perhaps, in our heart of hearts, the disaster we fear the most is the one we know the best: Loneliness.
