We were told to spare nothing. The contents of her home were to be shoved into garbage bags and left in the front yard for removal. The walls were to be knocked down. We were not to enter the house without a mask because of the mold. I was a freshman and a volunteer in Biloxi, Mississippi, and this was a side of Katrina which CNN had not shed any light upon. These were the families whose entire lives had been soaked under five feet of water and now our job was to toss their memories away like old rags. It was an unbelievable day, one that made me question if I was really in America. We formed an assembly line from the inside of the house to the yard and items were passed from one person to another. Christmas ornaments. Sunday dresses. Books. A statue of the Virgin Mary. I noticed a BMW parked in the driveway, its pristine leather interior beginning to rot. Volunteers were climbing on top of it to reach the roof. I looked at that car for a long time. It was such a beautiful shade of dark blue, the name synonymous with success for so many; yet now that car wasn’t worth any more than the shingles we were throwing to the ground. When we left, the house was nothing but a wooden skeleton and for a very long time after that trip I didn’t complain about cold showers or having to wake up early for class. To this day, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I always remember that things can be a lot worse.