His name was Frank and a hurricane stole his home.
We sat by the pier as he told us the story of how he and his family had evacuated days before the tides came in, how he was now staying with relatives on the outskirts of Louisana. He told us how he watched on television, as did the rest of the nation, as Mother Nature ravaged through New Orleans, turning over houses like pancakes on a grill. He told us how he had returned to his home—or at least what was left of it—and found a water damaged structure creeping with pungent bacteria and crumbled wallpaper. He was neither somber nor exuberant. He simply told us his story...then happily bought us Chinese food.
That caught me off guard, too.
In Spring 2006, I went to Louisiana to help out with the Hurricane Katrina relief effort. Instead of distributing health supplies and the like, much of our efforts centered around “house gutting.” House gutting—which is as grueling as it sounds—is the process of removing all items from homes that had been damaged by the Hurricane and its subsequent flooding. This included furniture, personal items, and the walls themselves. Putrid stench? Garbage bin. Moldy wall? Sledgehammered. Rotted clothes? Thrown. For the sake of resident health, a lot of things had to go. We gutted a good number of houses there; among them was Frank’s.
Three days into the mission, our team leader informed us that Frank wished to meet.
“Remember the house we cleaned up the other day? By the bridge?”
Between the hectic scenes, I couldn’t.
“The owner wants to hang out with us in downtown New Orleans.”
That’s nice.
“Yeah, he’s treating us for dinner.”
Cool. Wait, what? A former New Orleans resident—his house nearly destroyed, his money obviously tapped—is treating random college kids to dinner?
That confused me.
I remember the day my team first met him. He walked into our school headquarters, faded jeans and red hat, a smile that carried much-needed light into the grim auditorium. It was after gutting hours so the sweat had drenched our t-shirts with moisture and an unfamiliar odor that was making me uncomfortable. But Frank smiled while he spoke to us. He didn’t seem to mind about the facilities and the smells.
“Long day?” he asked, smiling.
“You could say that.”
“Well, hopefully you guys aren’t too tired. It’s gonna be a fun night.”
And it was. We toured the New Orleans I had, until then, only dreamed of visiting—a pleasant, beautiful environment with lights lush and sounds and the gracious Southern treatment. Our four previous days had been spent constantly working on its torn outskirts, gutting homes and showering, so the trip came as a much-needed vacation to us. Frank was an extra gracious host. He brought us to a hot spots he used to frequent, recommended dishes at dinner, and drinks for dessert. He told us more about himself, how he worked as a carpenter, how he had come back from a relative’s home to check up on what used to be his house. He had heard organizations were helping out residents and that was when he caught wind of our team, the ones responsible for gutting his place. And that’s when he turned to us and told us:
“You know what? I’m so grateful for what you’re doing for me and my family.” He smiled, struggling to fight back tears.
At the pow-wow that night (we had late-night bonfires at HQ), I asked a fellow team member about Frank. It confused me that he was thanking us. I mean, we didn’t rebuild his house—we tore it apart piece-by-piece. We dismantled decades of memories, sentiment embedded in once gleaming walls of French trimming and glossy paint. We discarded boxes of photographs, proof of lives that had seen good times—better times—with the ease one possesses when discarding a dirty tissue. It all seemed so disheartening to me, gutting houses of the value that made them significant in the first place. How could he be so optimistic in the face of demise, of people coming into your home and throwing out baby pictures, love letters, and air conditioners? My partner shrugged and replied:
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s just grateful.”
And it hit me. That was it. What I had been overlooking the entire time. Frank wasn’t acting nor was he feigning compassion. He was sincerely grateful for us helping him out. I realized that he stopped looking at the negatives long ago, at what he had lost and instead focused on what he still had: his wife and son. Family. Memories of the city, places to eat, food to enjoy. Good times and good drinks. The opportunity to treat complete strangers like me and my team for Chinese food. Teeth with which to smile and to bear it all. Sure, the hurricane had taken his house but it didn’t topple his humanity. His generosity. His dignity. His mortgage on life.
I’ve realized that in a society centered around money, it’s exceptionally easy to forget about other people. To value paper currency over human lives, to place emphasis on the material at the expense of the meaningful. Likewise, it’s easy to attach your self-esteem to a bank account and to suffer emotionally when the balance dips red, when your friends brag about their luxuries. We’re all guilty of these vices. I know I am.
But it’s not fair to yourself—or anyone—to invest so much into the fleeting points of life. There are other types of capital as well, ones the economists cannot measure and ones the commercials on television will never tell you about. Like capital of relationships. Of happiness. The value of a loved one. The thrill of a birthday present. The relief that comes with a breeze on your summer skin. Prayer, bed talk, surprise texts, awkward moments—how can you replace those things with credit? You can’t. And why would you?
You don’t need a swimming pool in your living room. If you fill your pockets with gratitude, you’ll be the richest person alive. It’s not that difficult—just learn to love the things you overlook.
Take a deep breath, exhale, and smile. Write a list of three things that make you happy. And keep going. Surprise someone with a gift. Tip more than twenty percent. Smile at your grocery store cashier. The magical power of gratitude? The more you give to others, the more you’ll find it coming your way.
And Frank made me realize this just with a simple thank you.
The day before we left, Frank treated us to another lunch: Cajun food by the pier. He told us once more that he was grateful for our help and that he would miss us when we’d leave. We dined, we spoke, we finished the meeting with a group hug and went on our separates ways.
On the long (I mean, long) car ride back to New Jersey, I remember reflecting on his words.
“Thanks again. I love you guys. I don’t know how to make it up to you but someday I will. Honestly, you guys saved me. Really.”
I like to think Frank was the one who helped me out.
“Long day?” he asked, smiling.
“You could say that.”
“Well, hopefully you guys aren’t too tired. It’s gonna be a fun night.”
And it was. We toured the New Orleans I had, until then, only dreamed of visiting—a pleasant, beautiful environment with lights lush and sounds and the gracious Southern treatment. Our four previous days had been spent constantly working on its torn outskirts, gutting homes and showering, so the trip came as a much-needed vacation to us. Frank was an extra gracious host. He brought us to a hot spots he used to frequent, recommended dishes at dinner, and drinks for dessert. He told us more about himself, how he worked as a carpenter, how he had come back from a relative’s home to check up on what used to be his house. He had heard organizations were helping out residents and that was when he caught wind of our team, the ones responsible for gutting his place. And that’s when he turned to us and told us:
“You know what? I’m so grateful for what you’re doing for me and my family.” He smiled, struggling to fight back tears.
At the pow-wow that night (we had late-night bonfires at HQ), I asked a fellow team member about Frank. It confused me that he was thanking us. I mean, we didn’t rebuild his house—we tore it apart piece-by-piece. We dismantled decades of memories, sentiment embedded in once gleaming walls of French trimming and glossy paint. We discarded boxes of photographs, proof of lives that had seen good times—better times—with the ease one possesses when discarding a dirty tissue. It all seemed so disheartening to me, gutting houses of the value that made them significant in the first place. How could he be so optimistic in the face of demise, of people coming into your home and throwing out baby pictures, love letters, and air conditioners? My partner shrugged and replied:
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s just grateful.”
And it hit me. That was it. What I had been overlooking the entire time. Frank wasn’t acting nor was he feigning compassion. He was sincerely grateful for us helping him out. I realized that he stopped looking at the negatives long ago, at what he had lost and instead focused on what he still had: his wife and son. Family. Memories of the city, places to eat, food to enjoy. Good times and good drinks. The opportunity to treat complete strangers like me and my team for Chinese food. Teeth with which to smile and to bear it all. Sure, the hurricane had taken his house but it didn’t topple his humanity. His generosity. His dignity. His mortgage on life.
I’ve realized that in a society centered around money, it’s exceptionally easy to forget about other people. To value paper currency over human lives, to place emphasis on the material at the expense of the meaningful. Likewise, it’s easy to attach your self-esteem to a bank account and to suffer emotionally when the balance dips red, when your friends brag about their luxuries. We’re all guilty of these vices. I know I am.
But it’s not fair to yourself—or anyone—to invest so much into the fleeting points of life. There are other types of capital as well, ones the economists cannot measure and ones the commercials on television will never tell you about. Like capital of relationships. Of happiness. The value of a loved one. The thrill of a birthday present. The relief that comes with a breeze on your summer skin. Prayer, bed talk, surprise texts, awkward moments—how can you replace those things with credit? You can’t. And why would you?
You don’t need a swimming pool in your living room. If you fill your pockets with gratitude, you’ll be the richest person alive. It’s not that difficult—just learn to love the things you overlook.
Take a deep breath, exhale, and smile. Write a list of three things that make you happy. And keep going. Surprise someone with a gift. Tip more than twenty percent. Smile at your grocery store cashier. The magical power of gratitude? The more you give to others, the more you’ll find it coming your way.
And Frank made me realize this just with a simple thank you.
The day before we left, Frank treated us to another lunch: Cajun food by the pier. He told us once more that he was grateful for our help and that he would miss us when we’d leave. We dined, we spoke, we finished the meeting with a group hug and went on our separates ways.
On the long (I mean, long) car ride back to New Jersey, I remember reflecting on his words.
“Thanks again. I love you guys. I don’t know how to make it up to you but someday I will. Honestly, you guys saved me. Really.”
I like to think Frank was the one who helped me out.
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