BRATTLEBORO — In 2011, Tropical Storm Irene hit and brought the state of Vermont to its knees. Recovery was difficult and felt endless.
In the immediate aftermath, we had one another, and we had the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA).
The National Guard arrived with manpower and FEMA rode into town with their capes of governmental red tape billowing in the flood mud dust and got right down to the business of business.
Our quiet, brookside neighborhood was hit hard. When my husband and I applied for a FEMA grant, we began a paperwork process that, to date, has been rivaled only by our mortgage process. We gave, willingly, any information agents needed to make a determination.
Transparency was our only currency. Our flood insurance policy was meticulously scrutinized by multiple representatives. We spent hours on the phone, collecting and providing receipts. We allowed access to our home and property to FEMA's disaster teams, who were tasked with determining the type of assistance we qualified for.
In the end, we were granted just over $700 in federal monies for immediate disaster needs not covered by our flood insurance policy.
We were grateful. We started the long road to recovery.
As Vermonters do, we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and moved forward. Eyes straight ahead, a public Dumpster to our right and a 15-foot pile of flood mud to our left. We got to work.
And we recovered the way families do and people do, slowly and looking back every once in a while, commenting on how far we'd come.
Then, one day, aside from the two tree stumps that sit like the constant reminder of what was lost, we looked around and said, “It's almost as if she never happened.”
And for the first time in years, we stopped looking toward the brook during every rainfall, and we actually stopped having anxiety dreams, seeing our little yellow house afloat in water, the back porch light still on.
We'd found a new normal. Irene was a part of our story, but it was no longer the story. Our little neighborhood moved forward with more expensive flood insurance policies and a huge dose of perspective.
* * *
And then, on Nov. 24, we received a large envelope in the mail from FEMA demanding the return of every penny of disaster relief money.
The letter was vague yet incredibly intimidating. An audit. You must repay. Garnish your wages.
There was no explanation of how FEMA determined that we were ineligible to receive the 2011 grant money. There was nothing except a series of demands on very official paper.
Convinced it had to be a mistake or a scam, we called.
As my husband sat on the phone, I watched his face change from determination to defeat. I motioned to have him hand me the phone.
The robotic voice on the other end of the line had done this thousands of times before. He was not moved by my questions or the rising emotion in my voice.
I asked all of the questions one asks when you are backed into a corner by someone taller and with more muscle.
I rehashed our entire application process, and I asked for information about their audit process. I asked how it was legal to ask to have grant money returned when the FEMA website clearly states that disaster assistance does not have to be repaid.
I requested copies of the audit findings. (I am not authorized to have them.) I asked for the full copy of our file. (I must submit a notarized personal letter in order to have access and, by the way, it wouldn't matter - we were going to have to pay it, no matter what.)
Then, it became clear.
This wasn't about facts or even a legitimate audit process. This was happening because they could. Because someone somewhere is balancing a budget and thought disaster survivors might foot the bill.
By now, we'd surely recovered enough, and memories? Well … they fade. It was worth a shot.
And I couldn't help but feel incredible rage.
* * *
Apparently, even though receipt of FEMA aid is contingent upon you having flood insurance, the fact that flood insurance covered anything means that the agency now wants its money back.
As an American, I watch the arms of the federal government move in complex ways. As did everyone else, I watched FEMA ride in and offer help. I felt gratitude. I felt pride.
Now, years later, I started reading the stories about FEMA going after other grant recipients: survivors of Katrina, survivors of Sandy. Story after story after story of families forced to repay grants.
I felt disgust.
In 2014, my four children sit around a small table in a little house that has decreased in value since Irene changed our town. One car sits in the driveway and two parents with “some” college education work hard. Sometimes the bank account sits in positive before the next paycheck comes.
We talk about integrity, honesty, and the value of independence, and we also talk about being able to take help when you need it. That's just as important. Because sometimes, you can't do it alone. That's OK.
We tell our kids that part of being human is helping others and that being human also means trusting that the assistance people offer is sincere. Trust is important.
Is complete loss of faith worth the price tag of $700? FEMA seems to think so.
I think this is where that rage is coming from: that soft place in the human heart that once said, “I need help.” And the people from FEMA put a hand on our shoulder and said, “We'll help you.” We believed them.
I think we all want to believe our government is the fair shoulder you can lean on when you absolutely can't do it alone.
I'm so angry that I can't believe that anymore.