I had hoped for an organizational epiphany, for the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to finally change not just minor practices but profound attitudes and policies. But then I’m a habitual optimist, not because I think “everything will be all right,” but because I know that patience and persistence can accomplish almost anything.
Last month when Colt Hagmaier, the Assistant Administrator of FEMA’s Recovery Directorate, sat before a packed house in the Indigo Theatre in Las Vegas, NM, I felt the sincerity of his apology. His eyes and face said even more than his words as he apologized for the ongoing trauma and neglect suffered by the thousands of victims of the Hermits Peak-Calf Canyon Fire. He came all the way from Washington to face a crowd of fire victims, some angry, all suffering some level of pain and anguish, to claim responsibility for FEMA’s part in causing that pain and frustration.
The trauma started with the 2022 U.S. Forest Service botched prescribed burns that caused New Mexico’s largest wildland fire and continuing with FEMA’s bumbled handling of disbursem*nt of the nearly $4 billion authorized by the legislature and approved by the President to compensate victims of that fire and subsequent flooding.
As of May 13, 2024, the Hermits Peak-Calf Canyon Claims Office reports it has disbursed $577.8 million, approximately 14% of the total available for reparation. If you’ve tracked this process at all, you already know that one of the biggest deficiencies involves those most profoundly affected: those who lost their homes. They have been at the bottom of the FEMA’s priority list. I’m one of them.
It’s true, I don’t see my hoped-for epiphany, at least not yet, but there is forward progress. In my observation, one of the greatest obstacles to processing claims for people most in need has been FEMA’s persistent refusal to work with those represented by attorneys. I lost everything except rescuing my animals, a duffle full of clothes, a briefcase with my computer, two bags of important papers, and the contents of sheds that somehow escaped the flames. Guess what? I got an attorney, and I was not alone.
There are many attorneys representing victims of the HPCC Fire and subsequent floods. In a quick poll of only two of those firms, I know of at least 2,500 clients represented by those firms alone. Yet, time and again, I have been pressured by FEMA representatives to sign a waiver of counsel. Frankly, it reminded me of a used car salesman offering a “great deal,” but not allowing me to look under the hood.
That appears to have changed. On April 17, 2024 five days before the second anniversary of my home’s conversion into an oversized barbeque pit, a FEMA claims team met with me and two representatives of my legal counsel. I had limited expectations and was pleasantly surprised for perhaps the first time in my interactions with FEMA. It was productive, but I am very glad I had legal experts in my corner.
We’re still in negotiations. My attorney has reviewed the offer with a fine-toothed comb and found items—large items—that I wouldn’t have known to review. Still, it’s forward progress. I am waiting to see if this is a one-time event or if it indicates a major change of policy in the administration of the HPCC Fire victim claims, but I am hopeful. We shall see.
While I appreciate Colt Hagmaier’s apology and have hopes because of FEMA’s new willingness to include attorneys in negotiations, I am an optimistic realist. It is not yet time to stop pressuring FEMA to address the administrative fiasco they’ve created in overseeing payment of claims. We have a long way to go. If put in terms of dollars, we have about $3.42 billion to go.
The thing is, it’s not just about dollars. We need the money to rebuild our lives, our communities. Wealth here has always been defined differently than that seen in mainstream culture that sees “success” only as the amount of money in the bank.
When the Hermits Peak-Calf Canyon Fire ravaged San Miguel, Mora and a piece of Taos Counties, it burned more than trees, homes, and other structures. It ripped through a precious way of life, wealthy in so many ways besides money in the bank.
In many cases, families were displaced from lands and homes stewarded by their families for generations. That fire ripped through a way of life, a culture that long practiced traditions of sustainability.
How can I say this in a way that someone from the concrete jungles of the city can understand? How do I make it clear the importance for people here to go home, to begin rebuilding not just houses but restoring the land passed down from ancestors? Home-- something more than a house where you get your mail. Home—something more than an opulent structure striving to be better than that owned by the Joneses.
Home.
I was in Rociada yesterday. I go regularly. The house is gone, but home is still there. There are burned trees that I need to cut, water diversions I need to build, fences that need repair—
oh yes, and a house to rebuild.
I sat in a ratty old barn chair, one that survived the fire. It was a favorite spot, one I frequently sat in after feeding Charlie (yes, I had a Charlie Horse), the magnificent but elderly Quarter Horse who died of a broken heart last year. He was in a wonderful horse refuge, but he didn’t have me, and it wasn’t home.
The hummingbird moths aren’t back yet. I missed seeing the magic as they hover over wildflowers, extending a proboscis and an incredibly long tongue, one that seems to make them even more efficient than the hummingbirds themselves in extracting nectar. That memory, that site brings wealth to my life more precious than dollars, but I need the FEMA dollars. They are my path back to the hummingbird moths.
Nosotros la Gente is produced in a partnership between Source New Mexico and the Las Vegas Optic.
