Devastation. Disaster. Desperation. Anguish. Enormous, incomprehensible, mind-boggling loss – of life, of possessions, of jobs, of security and of stability. Unfathomable wreckage. Rubble. Debris. Decay. Homes flattened. History washed away in a tide of human misery. Crying, hungry babies without even a clean diaper. Starving children. Gnawing hunger. Dehydration. Fatigue. Emotional fragility. Trauma. Depression. Grief. Families separated, lost, adrift. Sorrow. Surviving to live among the dead. The ignominy of bloating, rotting, stinking corpses. A seemingly endless ribbons of refugees snaking through a lost city toward uncertainty, away from nothing remaining to be reclaimed.

Heroism. Harrowing tales of survival. Rooftop rescues. Courage. Character. Grit. Valor. Human nature at its best.

And at its worst.

Danger. Predators. Frightened wild creatures, from nature and society. Anxiety. Chaos. Panic. Pandemonium. Bedlam. Looting, rioting and lawlessness. Fires and fights, fury and futility. Powerlessness. Homelessness, helplessness and hopelessness. Violence. RapesMobs. Assaults. Tears. Fear. Vulnerability. Surrender. Isolation. Darkness. Anger boiled over. New Orleans’ unofficial motto – “Laissez les bons temps rouler” (“let the good times roll”) – a cruel reminder of the city that was.

Shock, the medical kind, and awe at nature’s power.

The raw nerve of America’s racial unrest exposed and beamed around the globe. Escalating tension. Us against them, me against you, everyone for themselves. Skepticism. Distrust. Seething hostility erupting into rampant, irrepressible rage. Disturbing images from the Deep South that seem out of time, as if resurrected from an era gone by, of angry black people in the streets, ripping open the not-yet-healed wounds of a civil rights battle not yet won. A nagging suspicion ignored only through smug arrogance: Because the victims were mostly poor and mostly black, were they, therefore, mostly unimportant?

Contempt for the victims. Questions. Why didn’t they evacuate? Answers. Crushing, persistent poverty – deeply rooted, generational, enduring – throughout the Deep South. Without cars, money for airplane or bus tickets, or credit cards for motels, many in the path of Hurricane Katrina simply had no means through which to flee.

Unbearable, scorching heat made more oppressive by the Delta’s breath-stealing humidity and foul standing water. Squalor. Sewage in the streets. Fetid, putrid stench. Rotting food. Disease. Infection. A shelter turned into a human cesspool. Decay. Mosquitoes, red ants and disease-carrying insects. Deadly snakes. Aggressive, menacing alligators. Toxic spills. Ruptured gas lines. Environmental catastrophe. Utter ruination. Third World images from the richest, most developed country in the world. Dignity lost.

Untold tragedies to be revealed by the receding waters. Urgent yet paralyzing needs. Bungled relief efforts. Finger-pointing. Politics. Blame. Global warming and a tepid response. Unheeded warnings and lost opportunities and accusations of an inadequate, untimely response. Plaintive pleas, chanted for the TV cameras: “Help, help, help.”

And this, too: “Where is FEMA?”

Empty shelves. Shortages – food, gas, aid workers, patience and, ironically, water, the force that caused such enormous difficulty in the Big Easy, in Gulfport, in Biloxi and elsewhere along the Gulf Coast. America’s tsunami. Heartbreak, pain and despair worn on weary, worry-creased faces. But here and there, hope. Faith. Joy in being alive. Friendships forged among strangers, and the generosity of strangers. Blamelessness. Gratefulness. Patience. Resolve. Perhaps even renewal.

For two weeks, horrific, gut-wrenching and mind-numbing imagery seared into America’s soul.

I wept.

But tears don’t take care of business.

Sixty bucks, set aside for Friday night out, is an easy sacrifice. A small thing, really. But what if everyone in Iowa did the same? It’s a response worthy of us. Give to the Red Cross or to any of the scores of non-profit groups poised to help Americans trapped in the Delta due to a geographic accident of birth.

This is what patriotism feels like.