As the Atlantic birthed and the Gulf of Mexico nurtured Hurricane Katrina, I was embarking on a new chapter of life. With my elementary school years coming to a close, I braced for the growing pains of adolescence — a turbulent time even under normal circumstances.
Within a week of the new school year, this new chapter took an unexpected turn that would shape the rest of my life.
My parents and I headed west to Houston, as was our custom when a storm approached. We were no strangers to evacuations; we treated them more like surprise vacations.
As we watched Katrina grow to her colossal true potential and saunter her way straight toward the city, we began to have frank conversations, bracing for the worst. My parents asked me, would I be OK if we lost our house? I answered yes.
The truth is, I was OK with the idea of losing my house and possessions. What I didn’t know at the time was how deeply it would affect me to lose the place I called home. What I lost was my sense of belonging — a community that cared for me, adults who believed in me and recognized me for who I was.
For many years, I lost my way.
The nature of these issues is hard to trace. How many surveys speak to this feeling? How many realize the damage that has been done beneath the surface? We decided to remain in Houston in the wake of the storm’s destruction. I was fortunate in that my material needs were met in this new place.
But still, my spirit suffered.
Living in the Wake: The Enduring Legacy of Hurricane Katrina is a series of essays that examine what the failures of the past can teach leaders about creating the kinds of inclusive, forward-thinking policies New Orleans needs to transform communities that have endured decades of neglect. Read all the essays.
As a young adult I returned to New Orleans, the city I once called home. As I made my way from neighborhood to neighborhood, trying to make visual sense of these last 20 years, a question loomed large in my mind, swirling like a storm: What could have been? If things had gone differently? If promises were kept? If the Gulf waters were cooler?
I guess we’ll never know.
Even so, the city lives on. So as I grow in this place, I, like so many others, make new connections, forge new community, and practice new traditions. While taking these photos, I thought of how much Katrina has shaped my life and the person I am today. Would I be as in tune with the environment had I not witnessed such tremendous ecological disaster? Would I have as fierce a solidarity with the dispossessed had I not once been an environmental refugee myself?
From the storm blossomed my great moral obligation to our world and my hometown. I feel a sense of responsibility to this place and its people. Now, as much as ever, New Orleans remains under constant existential threat — be it political, economic, or environmental. I can’t speak to what the future holds for this place, but I can say that today, the spirit of the city is still alive.
Sage Michael is one of the driving voices in the grassroots movement to rehabilitate Lincoln Beach, a once vibrant spot for people of color in New Orleans East. It was officially shut down following desegregation in the 1970s, but has become a cherished destination once again in the past few years. The site recently received government funding for a large-scale renovation. Locals enjoy a slow afternoon at Lincoln Beach.Kelvin, a resident of the Holy Cross neighborhood in the Lower Ninth Ward, watches
ships meander up and down the Mississippi River. The levee remains a place of respite
and reflection for many New Orleanians.
Local artist Z. Roussel is one of the faces of the new generation of Black Masking Indians — a long-standing cultural tradition in New Orleans that continues to be preserved while still evolving within the city.
Burnell Cotlon runs Burnell’s Lower 9th Ward Market, which he opened in the wake of Katrina. It remains one of the only local businesses in the neighborhood after the hurricane and one of the only food markets in what many consider a food desert.
The Uptown Swingers Social Aid and Pleasure Club is shown on the march in the Tremé neighborhood. From late August until late June of the following year, second lines snake their way through the city every Sunday.The Uptown Swingers Social Aid and Pleasure Club is shown on the march in the Tremé neighborhood. From late August until late June of the following year, second lines snake their way through the city every Sunday. The younger generation readily takes up the mantle, determined to keep the sacred cultural tradition of the second lines alive along Orleans Avenue. Neighborhood children run toward the music of the second line along Claiborne Avenue in the Tremé neighborhood.Jeanette Bell bought a lot in New Orleans’ Central City neighborhood as part of a program to rehab vacant properties after Katrina. She transformed the lot into a thriving urban farm and garden.Established in the fall of 2024, the L9 Microforest sits in what was previously an empty lot in the Lower Ninth Ward. Through the efforts of the Lower 9th Ward Center for Sustainable Engagement & Development and the help of local volunteers, a wide array of native species were planted in accordance with the Miyawaki method — an effective way of establishing fast-growing, self-sustaining and biodiverse habitats in urban environments.The city’s telephone area code is 504. Like the fleur-de-lis, it holds great importance to many New Orleanians.In the Tremé neighborhood, rehabilitated homes are increasingly converted into short-term rentals, displacing the neighborhood’s residents.Recent efforts to expand industrialization in the Lower Ninth Ward’s Holy Cross residential neighborhood have local property owners on guard. Many are concerned the industrial projects will introduce air and noise pollution, disrupt pedestrian and transportation routes and, ultimately, lead to decreases in both property values and overall population.The sun sets over the Mississippi River, just beyond the spires of St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter.
