Reflections on a Devastating Flood
On July 4th, my parents’ home was flooded. By the time they managed to leave, the water had started to create waves inside. If they’d hesitated just a few moments longer, or if they hadn’t planned a clear route to higher ground, they might not have made it. Tragically, their neighbor, who lived only 30 feet away, wasn’t as fortunate.
In the aftermath of the flooding, we witnessed an outpouring of kindness. While organizations like Mercy Chefs and Samaritan’s Wallet made their way to help, two women—who only spoke Spanish—walked along the river, distributing fresh fruit to those in need. They, too, wanted to assist in whatever way possible. We found ripe watermelons and pineapples buried in the waist-high muck of mud, sediment, and even horse manure. Meanwhile, search and rescue teams worked hard, but so many families lost loved ones.
There wasn’t much left to salvage from my parents’ home, but the generosity and compassion shown were overwhelming.
However, dealing with FEMA’s disaster assistance program was a different story. I understand that FEMA isn’t an insurance policy, and it won’t cover all my parents’ losses. That part isn’t what I want to emphasize.
What I find frustrating is the bureaucracy of FEMA.
My parents didn’t have flood insurance, as their house is 30 feet above the river level, and the water had never reached that height before. Strangely, the FEMA application didn’t inquire about flood insurance, just homeowner insurance. Facing the possibility of severe penalties for inaccuracies, we decided to state that they had homeowner insurance. FEMA seemed to interpret this as them having flood coverage. It took weeks of letters and phone calls to clarify this essential detail.
There were also moments of false hope. The inspector who came to assess our situation mistakenly suggested that there were funds available for essential home repairs, like HVAC and air purifiers. I was taken aback and felt optimistic, but as it turned out, her information was incorrect. I think I have the correct answer now, at least.
The first letter I received from FEMA stated that my parents were approved for $1,200 to cover repairs. Given the extent of their losses, that seems almost laughable, especially when the same letter mentioned they were also getting $1,500 for immediate needs. I realized that this $1,200 was based solely on what the inspector saw, and it’s clear that it won’t cover everything.
Waiting for a phone call was not an option for us—we had so much to handle.
Then came the letters. I received four from FEMA, all muddied and requiring cumbersome authentication. Understandably, it was hard for my parents to comprehend them, so I took on that responsibility. I often wonder why they didn’t just tackle it themselves.
Eventually, a letter arrived denying their appeal. The language was dense, even as a lawyer, I struggled to decipher it. The kicker? They hadn’t even appealed yet. And as a state judge, I found that puzzling.
Another call, another long wait. Finally, someone picked up—let’s call her Pam. She instructed us to reach out to the state to file an appeal, so I did. However, the person at the state office said we needed to file through FEMA. After talking to Pam again, she admitted her earlier guidance was incorrect. Yes, we would be appealing to FEMA.
Navigating this process is incredibly challenging. I was told to list all the items lost in my parents’ home, but since their losses far exceeded the maximum recovery allowed, it felt like we were just grasping at straws.
It’s striking, really, how convoluted this bureaucracy can be.
It seems you only connect with FEMA in your most desperate times. Especially if you’ve just suffered a loss or don’t have a firm grasp of English or legal jargon, it’s nearly impossible for a sudden victim of such a tragedy to navigate FEMA on their own. Many people just throw in the towel out of sheer exhaustion. I’m determined not to be one of them.
This isn’t a new issue. Pam admitted that the letters are confusing and misleading, and they’ve been attempting to improve them for years—progress, it seems, is slow.
