Ryan Mitchell is a teacher in Henderson County Public Schools, south of Asheville. These are some of his reflections as his community recovers from Hurricane Helene.
Wednesday, Oct. 2, 8:00 a.m.
Four days post Helene…
Nothing prepares you for seeing a place that you know so well to look so unfamiliar.
We still have no power and very limited cell phone service. It is a very odd feeling, knowing that the outside world knows more about what is occurring in other parts of my county than I do, but that is the situation we are in.
Wednesday, Oct. 2, 9:30 a.m.
Our neighborhood is to the point where we need professionals to help us finish our clean up efforts. My family and I need to get out. We want to serve the community as a whole. We just can’t sit on the sidelines knowing that people need help.
As we drive, we realize more of the weight of the damage Helene inflicted on our community. The more we see, the more it hurts.
Wednesday, Oct. 2, 10:00 a.m.
Rugby Middle School is one of several schools serving the community as a distribution site for essential supplies like water, food, household products, baby items, and more. A steady stream of cars flow in and out as people pick up what they need to support themselves, their families, or even their entire neighborhoods. This is occurring .7 miles from my home.
I know that this is where I need to be.
The principal, John McDaris, leads this effort with logistical precision, but this operation is fueled by more than that. John’s passion to serve his community is clear in the tempo and rhythm in which this site is moving.
It is the harmony of passion and purpose.
The vast majority of volunteers are educators from the school, showing up because they know their community needs them. That phrase could be said any Tuesday of the school year. It just looks different in appearance today. I work side by side with my fellow Henderson County Public Schools staff to provide water and other supplies.
Connecting with these colleagues and friends from our county for the first time since the storm, it is difficult to not become overcome with emotion — comparable only to seeing a family member you haven’t spoken with in years.
I see students! My students!
Ones that spent an entire year in a classroom with me. Being able to hear their voices and see them safe is another weight lifted off all of our shoulders.
The moment I was able to recognize my students, wise words from Eugenia Floyd, the 2021 North Carolina Teacher of the Year flooded to the front of my mind, “We work for kids.” Yes Eugenia, we do. In this situation, this is evident more now than ever. The work is only beginning.
“We work for kids.”
— Eugenia Floyd, 2021 Burroughs Wellcome North Carolina Teacher of the Year
When you mention to people that you’re a teacher, they think of you and your classroom. Teachers’ classrooms are never really the four walls in which they deliver lessons. Our classrooms are always our community and, in this case, a parking lot. Every interaction, every space within a community becomes an opportunity for learning and teaching.
The sheriffs at this distribution site are from Dare County, located on the coast of North Carolina. That is the county where I grew up and my parents and brother still live. As we chat, I find out that they know my parents and brother. It is a connection that makes the world seem brighter in a time of uncertainty. It reminds me that all of North Carolina sees us, hears us. They hear the song that we are playing as loud as we can, and even from the opposite end of the state, they want to join in the chorus. They are helping the west.
Wednesday, Oct. 2, 1:30 p.m.
If you ever question how much teachers mean to their students, you should have seen my 9-year old-daughter’s face when we got an email from her teacher. The news that her teacher was safe brought her both happiness and relief.
We often recognize how much teachers care for their students, but what we sometimes overlook is that students care deeply about their teachers, too. My daughter’s reaction was a reminder that kids aren’t just passive recipients of care — they worry about their teachers and school staff just as much. That shared concern, that burden of love goes both ways, creating a powerful bond within the school community.
Wednesday, Oct. 2, 4:00 p.m.
My 9-year-old daughter and I find our way back to Rugby Middle School to support relief efforts in the best way we can.
She and other kids are enthusiastically greeting people with smiles that radiate hope to every person they come in contact with.
The contrast between the joy I feel watching my daughter and her friends serve the community and the sadness I carry for the people who keep coming by for supplies is striking.
The impact of these experiences extends far beyond any one person. The children volunteering, the individuals picking up supplies, and all the other volunteers feel it. These memories will shape us. They will change us — everyone of us.
As we walk to the car to head home, I hear the song of hope playing in my head again, and today it was sung by the most beautiful voices of all — the voices of children.
Thursday, Oct. 3, 11:00 a.m.
Back at Rugby. The other educators and I can’t sit on the sidelines. This is what educators do each and every day and right now. This is how we are showing up for the people of Henderson County.
Heaviness. The stories from people picking up supplies are ones you wish you would never have to hear, much less hearing them back-to-back-to-back. People are suffering.
I see a high schooler who attended the elementary school where I once taught. Both of her parents are educators in our county. Their house was obliterated by the storm. Despite this, she chose to be here. Helene may have taken her house, but the community is still her home.
I realize that I am in the front row of her concert as she adds her own notes to the melody of our community.
Thursday, Oct. 3, 8:00 p.m.
Another night in the darkness. My family and I are outside with our neighbors formulating our plans for the next day when it happens…
Light.
We have power.
Screams of joy ring out through the entire neighborhood. It was complete euphoria as if our favorite sports franchises had won a championship. My 6-year-old daughter immediately runs inside to blast music on our Alexa.
Thursday, Oct. 3, 11:00 p.m.
Sitting here on the couch with power, WiFi, and decent cell service, I should feel grateful. Don’t get me wrong, I do, but I also find myself feeling immense grief.
Helene is an emotional rollercoaster that even Carowinds or Dollywood couldn’t create.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not even a glass half full type of person. I am more of a glass overflowing type. However, at this moment I’m struck with the sadness and heaviness of the current reality. The guilt of having power, having running water, and still having a home to come back to at the end of the day while others don’t is overwhelming.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks: the people of the west aren’t just writing a song, we are writing an album. An album that we are going to spend years producing. One that will have tracks of sadness and ones of triumph. Each note, each song is a powerful anthem of humanity.
