We worked at the Astrodome from 2 to 11 tonight, and we're getting up at 7 tomorrow morning for the Red Cross training. I've no time to write a proper post because I'm beat, but here's a brief something (a lagniappe!) about the day:

The Red Cross is now marking volunteers with colored wristbands too, so the stigmatization thing is over;

We didn't have nametags and neither do any of the clients (the Red Cross term for the evacuees), which frustrated the hell out of me more than once. Seems they've run out of them so tomorrow we're going to bring our own;

I spent some of the day supervising (which in non-profit means doing most of it yourself!) the sanitization of hundreds of cots. I became the "cot lady" and was called upon to find working cots for clients and rid the floor of broken ones. There are two kinds of cots: basic curved leg models that remind me of those we used in the Girl Scouts, and another with scissor legs and extra parts which sit higher but break easier, leaving dozens of them scattered around the outskirts of the dome, their legs bent and twisted;

Some Red Cross volunteers have vests marked "Red Cross" on them. They are the ones we ask questions of, but many of them are unsupervised too and not so sure of what to do either. More than once we received contradictory directions from two vested volunteers. They were exhausted, spent, as many had been at the park for 20+ hours with minimal sleep, and on this schedule since last Wednesday;

We were sent to the dome under 'General Task,' a joy to both of us because it meant we ended up doing all sorts of things, not just one. The cots were earlier in the day -- a survey of the state of cots on the floor; the preparation and sanitation of used cots for clients who were going to move down to the floor from the 4th tier; the placement of said cots in the empty spots around the floor and always the actual minister to clients who needed help;

The whole "Reliant Park" is swarming with evacuees, volunteers, law enforcement officers, and families searching for their loved ones in the three shelters there. It is unbelievable and it is being run exclusively by the Red Cross and the city of Houston. It is organized chaos, but the good will of everyone involved makes the entire enterprise not just tolerable but actually joyful. There is finally a FEMA office on the 4th floor of the dome. The room is marked with hand-painted signs: "FEMA Now Serving." We commented that they were now serving a fresh pile of crap;

Celebrities and "ministers" (the term is very loose) don't seem to have to go through the orientation or even have wristbands. Steve Gutenberg (remember him?) sanitized a couple of cots with us then took a picture and left, just as the "Scientology Volunteer Ministers" in their yellow shirts with Christian-like crosses on the back stood around and manned the water station, apparently frightened to actually talk  -- to minister -- to the people living at the dome. They never left that station. One of these "ministers" was on the plane with me. He wore green fatigue pants and army boots along with that silly yellow shirt. I guess there aren't too many scientologists on the floor of the dome, but then there can always be a couple of evacuees open to the suggestion, right?;

Harry Connick, Jr. and Branford Marsalis came by tonight and played for the crowd. Half way through their set I found myself carrying an 8 year old to the medical triage station, her grandfather unable to carrry her all the way. She was shaking and shivering, struck with fever and shock, and I held her until they could find her mother and take her to the emergency room. By the last song, "When the Saints Come Marching In," I was seated at the shot station getting my tetanus booster, something I hadn't done since 1994;

We washed our hands and washed our hands again, sprinkled them with anti-bacterial rub and wore rubber gloves most of the day. Dysentery is spreading throughout the dome, as is a rash that one nurse postulated was scabies. Those with diarrhea and vomiting are being quarantined at the Reliant Arena, one of three large structures being used for the care of Katrina victims;

Lights shine down on the evacuees making the dome feel like the floor of a Vegas casino where there is no night, there is no day, there is only the same light hour after hour. It was only our brief glimpses outside the entries that let us know time was passing. The lights were to be dimmed around 11:30 or so, giving the clients some opportunity to rest, however difficult that is when you are sharing your room with 15,000 other people;

By night's end we were helping Winston, a diabetic who is blind and immobile and who had lost touch with his brother Ernest who was also medically needy. We think Ernest was sent to a local hospital but we don't know because still there is no tracking system, no way to make sure families stay together. It is the most tragic thing at the park: families in search of each other, a brother missing here, a mother missing there. We escorted an evacuee family (two parents, five kids) around the dome to sneak them in so they could search for their relatives. I talked to a man who had come for his 18 year old daughter, but when he found her she refused to leave. She was having too much fun living with her friends at the dome, and though her father had money and an apartment in Houston (temporary, of course), she wouldn't go with him. He lamented that she was 18 so he couldn't force her and we talked about how much you think you know when you're her age, though in fact you know nothing;

Evacuees were also volunteers. Two medical professionals were in our orientation session and two children, a brother and sister around 8 and 14, helped me sanitize cots for about four hours. They were the most reliable volunteers working with me -- they didn't leave spontaneously (many did), they didn't do what they wanted to do (we had problems of redundancy as some decided to do what we'd already done all over again, since they didn't ask anyone first). They clung to my hips throughout the afternoon;

Every person I talked to had a friend or relative in Chicago. One man was born in Chicago but raised in New Orleans. Our cities are connected by water and held together by relations. I feel a kinship with every one of them.

There is more, of course. But now it is 1 in the morning and I must go to bed. What will tomorrow bring?