When I Uber, many out-of-towners ask if I’m a native New Orleanian. When I say yes, the next question almost always follows: “Were you here for Katrina?” My answer is yes. But I rarely share the story—because every time I try, I relive it. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
This is the last time I’m going to relive it with others. I have some work to do in therapy. But I don’t think I can do it again not for the consumption of others. So I remember the moment we realized we couldn’t evacuate because we couldn’t leave my grandmother. She was bedridden, and the ambulance would only take her—and all of us—to the Superdome. So to the Superdome we went on Sunday, August 28, 2005.
There were two lines: one for the sick and elderly with their caregivers, and another for everyone else. My mom and grandmother were in one line. My brother, just 16, and I—29, my birthday only two weeks earlier—stood in the other, much longer one. I remember meeting a couple stranded from their vacation, distraught and scared. Truthfully, we were too. Even as natives, nothing about this felt familiar.
Inside the Superdome, we weren’t here to cheer on our beloved Saints—we were here to survive Hurricane Katrina. My mother has the gift of gab; she’s never met a stranger. By connecting with people and sheer determination, she got us moved into the same section with her and my grandmother. That section had small mercies: a charging station and cleaner bathrooms. Between the four of us, we had five phones we kept charged in rotation, clinging to that fragile connection to the outside world.
That night, when I fell asleep, I had no idea my life would change forever. I woke to my mother pointing upward—the roof of the Superdome was peeling away. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe it.
When the storm passed, my mom tried to return home, but the National Guard blocked us. Then came the flooding. The power went out. Toilets failed. Time stood still. FEMA evacuated the sick and elderly first. My grandmother and mother were taken out, and though my mom didn’t want to leave us behind, I told her we’d be okay.
My brother and I stayed. Our wristbands, marking us from the “sick and elderly” section, granted us access to spaces others couldn’t enter. That thin strip of plastic meant the difference between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” It was the difference between our experience and the heart-wrenching pictures from the Superdome we saw once we got out.
Eventually, we were moved to the Smoothie King Center, helping a young National Guardswoman from Virginia set up cots in exchange for the promise of one ourselves. But there weren’t enough. Families were separating. Desperation grew. One family we met, eight people with a quadriplegic daughter, decided to walk across the Mississippi River Bridge. My brother turned to me and said, “Let’s leave.”
So we left.
The water was up to my waist. We walked through things I still can’t describe, me urging my brother to keep moving. Somewhere, there’s a photo of us—just the two of us—walking alone in that water. I’ve only seen it a few times. For years, I didn’t want to find it. Now I do. Because that photo is proof: I walked those waters. I crossed that bridge. Survival makes you do things you never imagined.
We made it to my grandmother’s house on the West Bank. To our surprise, it wasn’t flooded—just damaged gutters and a scattered garden. Our neighbor PeeWee welcomed us in, and the first thing we did was shower. But survival wasn’t over.
That night, PeeWee knocked on the door asking for cash. I gave him the only $20 I had. He came back with a Glock for me and an AK-47 for himself. We took shifts: he guarded at night, I guarded in the morning. That became our routine. We hid water. We rationed food. We placed touch lights around the house to guide us at night. The silence outside was pierced by gunfire. We held onto each other.
Days passed. We played checkers, tossed a football, rode bikes to check on family property. Neighbors armed themselves, protecting the block from outsiders. Others resorted to theft—even stealing a rental car from Hertz at Oakwood Mall. It was survival, raw and unfiltered.
After a week, my uncle Melvin called. I hadn’t seen him in years. His girlfriend’s brother came to get us, driving us to Lafayette. From there, Melvin brought us to Houston, where twelve of us crammed into a two-bedroom apartment. Eventually, we moved north to New Jersey so my brother could finish high school. Life there was isolating. I had no close friends, and even finding work meant long walks and bus rides. Later, I returned south to Houston—working at Blockbuster, then Starbucks—saving money, trying to rebuild.
But my heart was still in New Orleans.
When I finally returned to visit, my grandmother was fading, dementia slowly stealing her memory. I feared she wouldn’t recognize me. But when I walked into her room and said, “Hey, MawMaw. You remember me?,” she paused, then smiled: “Yes, Niecy, I know who you are.” I sat beside her and we watched TV together. Out of the blue, she turned to me and said, “Niecy, I’m tired. I want to go home.” All I could whisper in response was, “Go home, MawMaw. Go home.” Then I silently cried.
That moment is etched in my soul. Not long after, she passed—July 1, 2006. Her funeral was July 8th. Two days later, on July 10th, I started at Starbucks. I thrived, but I knew where I belonged. I told my mom: “Half of New Orleans is better than all of Houston.”
So I came home.
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Twenty Years Later
Katrina wasn’t just a storm—it was a breaking point and a rebirth. It reshaped my family, my city, and me. I carry the weight of walking those waters and crossing that bridge. I carry the memory of strangers’ kindness, community pulling together in spite of our circumstances, the silence pierced by gunfire, and the resilience that keeps us standing.
Yes, I was here for Katrina. And yes, twenty years later, I am still here—still New Orleans strong.