When I wake at 5:00 a.m. on a summer desert morning, it’s to catch the only cool moments before the day begins. In a few hours, the temperature will rise past 100 degrees, and by mid-day, the dashboard thermometer in my car will read 117 degrees. I keep my children’s car seats covered with old towels and grocery bags to prevent the buckles from heating up like branding irons.
Along the roadsides, the leaves on the orange trees droop and even the cacti look thirsty. At the Santa Rita Park, dozens of people are stretched out on top of blankets in the grass, taking refuge beneath the few leaning shade trees. Every summer there are seasonal warnings on the news: Remember to stay hydrated. Never leave your pets or children in an enclosed vehicle. Seek out a cool, indoor space during the hottest part of the day.
Once, during a heat wave, I volunteered in an emergency cooling center. It was in the basement of a nearly-abandoned building, down a narrow staircase of teetering bricks. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could make out the presence of other human beings sitting against the cement wall or reclining on cots. Mostly people were quiet, listening to each other breathe, napping, occasionally making small-talk, filling water cups from a jug of filtered water by the door. They spent hours there until the sun went down, then they reemerged above ground. But even at night the temperature stayed at 100 degrees.
[For more on this story by Debbie Weingarten, go to https://talkpoverty.org/2018/0...cooling-human-right/]
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