Click here if you are unable to view this gallery on a mobile device.
Editor’s note: Chelsea Faith Dolan was one of 36 people who died in the Oakland Ghost Ship warehouse fire exactly two years ago, on Dec. 2, 2016. Chelsea, also known by her stage name Cherushii, grew up in the Bay Area and became a San Francisco electronic musician and producer, known for her kindness, colorful personality and boundless talent. Today, her mother, Colleen Dolan, an education therapist from San Rafael, recounts the night of the fire, the wait to learn whether her daughter had perished and the days and years that followed.
***
I burned my thumb this afternoon. The oven mitt I used to remove a cookie sheet from the oven must have grown thin in one spot, and the heat immediately seared my flesh. The pain was so severe that I dropped the pan on the oven door and rushed to the faucet to run cold water over my blistering thumb. In a flash, I saw 36 young people trapped on the second floor of a burning warehouse in Oakland, screaming in desperation, “Help us!”
My hope is that those beautiful young people passed out from the smoke before experiencing the scorching flames. I wince at the piercing pain blistering up on my thumb and find it hard to believe they felt nothing. The thumb on my daughter’s left hand was charred black. Her cheek and forehead were blistered and peeled. I am undone by the thought of my daughter’s excruciating last moments.
Ghost Ship didn’t just take 36 young lives; it tortured and terrorized 36 human beings. The Ghost Ship fire still burns.
Memories of that night are ever-present in my mind. The smell of thick, acrid smoke, the intense light of angry flames searching for escape from high windows and the shivering cold night air all vie for my attention amidst mundane, daily chores. Waking up is a chore. Smiling is a chore. Breathing is a chore.
Every thought is primed for danger. The fire seems to smolder just over my shoulder, waiting to flare up again. Every cell of my body was altered that night.
***
At 11:30 p.m. Dec. 2, 2016, my phone rang and then stopped. A few seconds later, a text note sounded. At home in San Rafael, I dragged myself up from a sound sleep. The call was from Chelsea’s boyfriend, David. He had left a breathless message about a fire where Chelsea was playing music that night. She hadn’t emerged yet. I called David back and asked him to text me the address. If my daughter was going to the hospital, I was going with her.
A pillar of black smoke rose above Oakland. I followed it to the Fruitvale neighborhood where cops lined the intersections, waving cars away. I lowered my window and yelled that my daughter was in the fire. A young cop told me where to park my car, and then I ran toward the smoke.
Fire trucks and ambulances surrounded a huge, white warehouse. Flames jumped out of the windows, upstairs and down. Smoke rose, thick and putrid, straight up and then mushroomed out above us. Young people wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags huddled on the walkway surrounding a Wendy’s hamburger joint across the street from the fire.
I started to walk toward the warehouse but was pushed back by a female police officer. None of the firefighters appeared to be doing anything! They were propping up ladders, but not climbing them, or aiming fire hoses — nor going in. When I asked why no one was rescuing the people trapped inside, the officer told me the fire chief had declared the building unsafe, and firefighters were not permitted to enter. Unsafe?!
***
My phone rang, and it was my younger daughter, Sabrina. “Do you want me to come be with you?” Oh my God, yes! She and her boyfriend, Joe, were there in half an hour. Sabrina stood next to me all night. She told me that urgent messages were going out in phone calls, texts and social media, looking for Chelsea and others.
Meanwhile, there was a rumor in the parking lot that one of the musicians, Johnny Igaz, was seen driving away with a car full of people. He was Chelsea’s friend and label-mate. Maybe she got a ride with him!
I was elated, terrified and manic with hope. I also had a vision beginning to form in my imagination. It was like a dream. I pictured Chelsea being brought out to the ambulance on a stretcher, burnt and unconscious. I would tell her not to worry, that I would take care of her.
I saw my living room outfitted with a hospital bed. After months of burn-unit hospitalization, Chelsea would be home with me, unable to move. She would be suffering, her smoked brain unable to think or create, her internal organs ruined. I would take care of her for the rest of her life. This would be our future.
***
As Sabrina and I stood watching the warehouse burn for several hours, the wind changed. The smoke began to drift into the parking lot. It smelled of burnt tires.
I wrapped my woolen scarf around my face. The fire department chaplain brought Sabrina a wet towel, instructing her to put it over her mouth and nose. Our eyes were watering from fear and toxic fumes. The chaplain pointed out a cherry-picker truck hovering above the warehouse, and explained that firefighters couldn’t go inside, but the fire was being fought from above.
All night it kept re-igniting. The smoke continued rising, though gradually becoming lighter and lighter gray. At 3 a.m., the woman police officer came over to me and gently told me to steel myself for bad news. Still, no victims had been taken to the hospital. Was this a good sign or bad?
At 4:30 a.m., the ambulance and two fire trucks drove away, and there, right in front of the only exit, was Chelsea’s car. Sabrina and I looked at each other. Sabrina quietly said, “That’s Chelsea car.”
It was her way of saying Chelsea was dead. Her little blue Honda made me cry. She didn’t make it out. The rumor about Johnny was untrue.
***
As the sky lightened, most of the official vehicles suddenly revved their engines at once and drove away. Men and women in uniforms disappeared. When I looked around, most of the people in the parking lot were gone, too.
We climbed into Joe’s car and headed over to the newly named “Family Center.” It was a large exercise room in the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, but the equipment had been shoved to the walls, and rows of tables, folding chairs and an ever-moving bevy of Red Cross volunteers filled the space.
We were told to check a window separating the large room from the front lobby on which names of the missing had been written with an erasable marker pen. Chelsea was listed on that window by her stage name, Cherushii. I added her full name next to it: Chelsea Faith Dolan.
Other parents were reading the window, too, looking for their children. Some people left. Their children’s names were not posted. I reeled with envy.
After sitting numbly for awhile, my phone started ringing. I told Sabrina I couldn’t talk to anyone and handed her my phone. She spent most of the next few days responding to people who had heard about the fire on the news, or seen Sabrina’s Facebook post asking anyone who knew about Chelsea’s whereabouts to contact her. Sabrina called relatives to let them know Chelsea had been in the fire and we hadn’t heard from her.
The next day, Sunday, a list was put up on a far wall of the Family Center with the names of people who had been found safe overnight. I crossed the room, and saw Chelsea’s name … crossed out, and then re-entered. My blood started pumping again. She was alive! Then some woman came over and crossed out her name a second time, saying the phone-caller had secondhand information.
Families, friends and spouses of the dead waited together in stunned silence. Soon, the disjointed bureaucracy of the various city and county government agencies became obvious. Over and over, we were asked to print out the same painful information on an endless series of forms.
The mayor, fire chief and county officials didn’t seem to be talking to each other. Family members were given conflicting information about the fire and different instructions on how we should proceed. Angry tension from family and friends came out in shouts and ugly accusations.
***
It was almost a relief when the coroner began calling us, one by one, into private rooms to confirm identifying marks that would describe our loved ones. Did they have tattoos? Piercings? Broken bones? Implants? Chelsea had none.
Sabrina and I had our cheeks swabbed for DNA samples. Sabrina obtained dental records from Chelsea’s childhood dentist. Joe collected a hairbrush and toothbrush for DNA samples from Chelsea’s apartment. We hoped we could leave this glaring confusion of the Family Center behind, but our turn did not come that day or the next.
Finally, late afternoon Tuesday, the coroner called Sabrina, Joe and me into the quiet room. In the end, it was Chelsea’s outlandish wardrobe that confirmed her death. When Chelsea died, she had fallen to the first floor. The upstairs carpet fell with her and several other victims, protecting them from the worst of the flames. Her clothes were intact.
Sabrina described Chelsea’s usual outfits: A colorful skirt or dress, hot pink, or harlequin tights, big boots, a favorite blue imitation leather coat and an iridescent, plastic, cross-body purse. Chelsea’s hair was blond, pink and turquoise. At that, the coroner said, “We are 98 percent sure we have Chelsea.” Her colorful appearance was legendary.
The coroner agreed to send Chelsea’s body to a funeral parlor near my home.
***
So, here’s what shocked me: Chelsea looked beautiful in death.
Lying in a plain cardboard cremation box on a white cotton sheet, Chelsea wore the flamboyant clothes we’d chosen from her closet. Most of her skin was dark and taut, and her hair was soot-brown. Her eyes were closed in peace.
Her mouth was open, exposing her teeth, but that was to be expected since the fire would have dehydrated her lips and the moist skin around her mouth. The flaked skin of her hands, which rested by her sides, was golden. Her arms were orange and marbled with dark veins, like some Michelangelo statue.
I spent the evening talking with Chelsea and kissed her goodbye many times. Sabrina, Joe and Chelsea’s dad, Dan, took turns spending private time with her.
The next day, we accompanied her to the crematorium in Napa. As she was about to enter the fire, I kissed her goodbye one last time, and told her not to be afraid, that I would always be with her. We would all love her and always be with her.
Then Dan pressed the button and a rolling board took her into the flames. The heavy metal door shut, and she was gone.
***
That was two years ago. The Ghost Ship fire and the ensuing legal machinations have depleted my strength. Like any grieving person, we Ghost Ship parents, family members, loved ones and friends are all shaking our heads at this horrific, unnecessary loss of life.
It doesn’t matter if the people who died were young, although they were. Or if they were an exceptionally talented group of artists and musicians, although they were. It doesn’t matter that each of these young people was known as a kind and spirited human being, although each of them was. What matters now is that no tragedy of this nature is allowed to happen again … to anyone.
This fire should not have happened. The owners and the people who worked for government agencies who touched this building in their official capacities must be called upon to explain.
The master tenant, Derrick Almena, and the event coordinator, Max Harris, should have clearly marked exits and made sure they weren’t blocked by furniture or heavy obstacles. They should have made sure residents of this old warehouse built a safe living and party space.
Firefighters who worked half a block away and came to dance at the parties, who saw the labyrinth of art supplies, propane tanks and other flammable paraphernalia, should have volunteered to help the residents make their home safe.
Police officers, who answered the many complaints by neighbors about the Ghost Ship residents’ garbage and loud parties, should have made sure the people on site were safe.
The owners should have installed safe electrical wiring, fire extinguishers, sprinklers and other safety measures for the people they knew were using their warehouse as an artists’ studio, let alone a living space.
The social workers for Child Protective Services who visited the warehouse were responsible for reporting the hazards.
Ghost Ship was a firetrap. All these people, in their official capacities, failed to do their jobs.
***
Feigning respect for the privacy of homeless people, or even truly understanding the need for alternative housing, does not preclude safety. Another Ghost Ship could happen anywhere.
When even the 4-year-old child of one of the victims asks, “What happened to the smoke detectors?” you must wonder about the intelligence and intention of the adults in the room. If the owners of Ghost Ship or government agencies think they are doing the homeless and near-homeless a favor by turning their heads away from their responsibilities, they are dead wrong.
I burned my thumb this afternoon, and it got me thinking: My extraordinary daughter and the others who died in Ghost Ship were the collateral damage of apathy and incompetence. I am not just in pain, I’m angry.
