The past nineteen years of my life have been spent on the
Point Pleasant shores and among the shops on Arnold Avenue, places that now
reap destruction and despair. I had stayed on campus for fall break this year
trying to get some work done when the hurricane hit. With the trains down,
buses out, and cars off the road it was impossible for me to find a way home to
help my parents, my neighbors, and my Point Pleasant family. The Here for Home
effort at TCNJ allowed me to make it back to my home less than a week after the
hurricane and begin the efforts for an evidently long rebuilding process. We
arrived in the borough of Point Pleasant at an automobile shop where relief
efforts were being organized for residents to gather necessary supplies. The
amount of contributions from around the country was utterly amazing. The
generosity and sympathy emanated through the seemingly endless packages of
food, clothing, appliances, etc. that were sent. After only about two hours
there, the relief center had to begin turning away donations because of lack of
space and storage.
There were at least one hundred volunteers from the town and adjacent areas looking for any way to help and contribute to the efforts; there were even points where people were left with nothing to do because there were so many volunteers. Our team spent about four hours helping to carry and organize the donations and help residents in need get the supplies necessary. Once they no longer needed volunteers, we headed to the beach to see what kind of wreckage lay ahead. Although my sister had sent me photos of what our home and neighborhood looked like, I was certainly not prepared to face the reality of it all. There were boats that had floated onto the railroad tracks and into homes, sand up to five blocks off the ocean, and pieces of the boardwalk in my neighbor’s houses and backyards. It looked like the beach had spit on the town and on houses. The water level was evident by the remnants left on the doors and siding of the homes.
As we approached where the beach and boardwalk initially stood, the destruction became more and more real. Outside every home were piles of mattresses, family belongings, furniture, and memories destroyed. The boardwalk no longer existed and lay lifelessly in the streets. Never had the sound of bulldozers and cranes been so reassuring and hopeful for our town. Although much had been taken from the area, the residents remained as optimistic, strong, and resilient as ever.
There were at least one hundred volunteers from the town and adjacent areas looking for any way to help and contribute to the efforts; there were even points where people were left with nothing to do because there were so many volunteers. Our team spent about four hours helping to carry and organize the donations and help residents in need get the supplies necessary. Once they no longer needed volunteers, we headed to the beach to see what kind of wreckage lay ahead. Although my sister had sent me photos of what our home and neighborhood looked like, I was certainly not prepared to face the reality of it all. There were boats that had floated onto the railroad tracks and into homes, sand up to five blocks off the ocean, and pieces of the boardwalk in my neighbor’s houses and backyards. It looked like the beach had spit on the town and on houses. The water level was evident by the remnants left on the doors and siding of the homes.
As we approached where the beach and boardwalk initially stood, the destruction became more and more real. Outside every home were piles of mattresses, family belongings, furniture, and memories destroyed. The boardwalk no longer existed and lay lifelessly in the streets. Never had the sound of bulldozers and cranes been so reassuring and hopeful for our town. Although much had been taken from the area, the residents remained as optimistic, strong, and resilient as ever.
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Kerrie Hannen
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