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Although normal operations have ceased, our schools continue to be resource hubs of the community.
Ryan Mitchell is a teacher in Henderson County Public Schools, south of Asheville. These are some of his reflections as Hurricane Helene came through his community.
Friday, Sept. 27, 7:00 a.m.
Water rushing in the creek behind my house. The rain is pelting the roof. Trees cracking and falling.
Every sound creates a wave of anxiety for what might happen in the hours to come.
Friday, Sept. 27, 10:00 a.m.
A loud thud. The sound is unmistakable. A tree has fallen — again. The sheer force of the storm has been overwhelming to even the mightiest tree. The anticipation of the location and the amount of trees that have been uprooted mounts as we wait out Hurricane Helene.
Friday, Sept. 27, 11:30 a.m.
The storm is beginning to let up. The rain is less fierce, and the wind is no longer howling. Helene is moving along its path, but the real storm is only starting its course.
Friday, Sept. 27, Noon
The loss of power, zero cell service, and no communication with the outside world has created a sense of isolation. The silence of the world around us is louder than any music that has ever come out of our Alexa.
The fear of the unknown is taking over. Not knowing how friends and loved ones are doing is an aching pain that won’t go away.
I have to know if our friends are okay. I venture out into our neighborhood, and I’m immediately met by devastation. Fallen trees have destroyed neighbors’ homes. Flooding has made its way into houses.
I walk. The rain hits me in the face and gives me a sense of purpose. Knowing I need to make my way up the street to our friends’ house gives me the fuel needed to push past the anguish of seeing my neighborhood crushed by Helene. The relief of finding our friends safe and their house in one piece was as if I had exhaled a breath I had been holding in for several days.
In the hours that followed the passing of the storm, people begin to emerge from their homes. Despite the rain and heartache, as a neighborhood we begin to formulate a plan of who to help first, and I realize we might be isolated from the world, but we are hardly alone.
Saturday, Sept. 28, 10:30 a.m.
Chainsaws, Blackhawk helicopters, and generators become the song of hope. A melody of community.
Hearing this song over and over again as if Spotify is locked on repeat brings a sense of peace as we work together as a team, moving from house-to-house, helping one another clear damage.
We work as one, the community at large.
The community is taking care of each other, cooking community meals on grills from any neighbor willing to contribute. People helping people.
This is impact. I watch inspiring action after inspiring action as if ripples on the water. I’m watching the best of us occurring repeatedly, and it is all the tune of kindness and love.
Sunday, Sept. 29, 11:30 a.m.
“School closed until further notice.”
Finding this out leaves me in utter shock and seems completely logical all at the same time. We know that we won’t be returning to our school buildings like normal in the current state of our surroundings, but “until further notice” is so permanent it feels different.
It’s another domino in the game of reality that it is officially going to be days, weeks, months before normalcy returns.
Although normal operations have ceased, our schools continue to be resource hubs of the community. Our schools are set to become distribution sites for supplies and emergency shelters to ensure the needs of our community are being met. Our schools are more than just buildings restricted by walls, they are a center of the community.
The devastation and damage is unlike anything that we have ever seen in our lifetime and yet our community schools stand. Not untouched by the damage, but as a beacon of hope for a community. A place of refuge for those who need it. Even in natural disasters, some things never change.
Monday, Sept. 30, 8:30 a.m.
Our children might be out of school, but they are still learning. They’re learning about community, kindness, and perseverance first hand. They are watching their neighbors and friends who even after suffering damage to their own homes don’t hesitate to help their peers. Children are learning to adapt and navigate a world that is different than the one they knew last Thursday. They are seeing what empathy really means as they look upon the devastation left behind at the homes of classmates. These durable skills that are outlined in the Portrait of a Graduate are transcending the webpage in which they live and are on full display by the citizens of Western North Carolina. Here in the West, people are writing verses to a song to be sung for generations, and our children are in the front row of the audience.
Monday, Sept. 30, 5:00 p.m.
Even as I sit here writing this, I still don’t know the full extent of the damage Helene inflicted on Western North Carolina. We’re cut off — no power, limited cell service.
But what I do know is this: the powerful sense of togetherness, the strength of collective effort, and the resilience of our community will be replayed like a song, over and over, in the months and years ahead as we rebuild.
As I sit here in the silence, the melody of our community echoes in my mind. It’s my new favorite song. It’s the one I’ll never forget.
Writer’s note: Despite the lack of Wi-Fi or cell service, I checked my email on Monday. Checking out of routine more than anything else. I had one email. Just one that I was able to receive and read. It was the email asking me to write this.
Editor’s note: Ryan Mitchell is serving as a special correspondent for EdNC during the Hurricane Helene recovery.
