Lindsey Graham

But once Barton and the Red Cross were on the ground, they immediately partnered with a local central relief committee, aiming to support rather than replace local leadership.

And drawing on prior experience, the organization implemented a two-phase plan.

For the first two weeks, they would focus on emergency relief, providing food, clothing, and household goods to families based on need.

The second phase was rehabilitation, which meant assessing what needed to be done to reestablish homes and livelihoods.

To assist in these efforts, a wealthy local resident donated a four-story warehouse to serve as Red Cross headquarters, where staff tracked donations, corresponded with donors, managed supply distribution, ran an orphanage, and operated a kitchen to feed the hungry.

Because Barton was a trusted national figure, her presence in Galveston not only generated publicity, but also reassured donors across the country that their gifts would be used appropriately.

She issued press statements confirming the devastation had not been exaggerated and urged Americans to donate what they could.

She also actively leveraged her networks, issuing appeals, wiring other relief organizations, and communicating with President William McKinley himself to secure much-needed supplies and funds.

Soon, household goods, disinfectants, clothing, and money poured in from individuals and businesses from across America and around the world.

Barton made a special plea for cash donations so that relief workers could buy supplies from local merchants to help the city's suffering economy.

She also formed a Red Cross auxiliary for women, who undertook the daunting task of sorting and distributing supplies.

Women canvassed their wards to document losses, then allocated clothing, food, and other materials to those in need.

But soon, troubling reports of discrimination began to surface, deepening the wounds the storm had already opened.

Imagine it's mid-September 1900 in Galveston, Texas.

You and your two young boys have been lined up at your neighborhood relief station for two hours, waiting in the heat to pick out some new clothes.

At last, you step to the front of the line, where a white woman sits behind a makeshift table made of warped planks laid across two barrels.

She taps a wooden crate with the tip of her pencil.

Here, look through these.

The smell of old sweat and damp wool hits you as you peer inside and find a jumbled pile of clothes.

You pick up a shirt with a stained collar.