Carrying Katrina 20 Years Later: Climate, Memory, & the Pursuit of Humanity

Since Katrina, NWF has worked with communities to build protection from future storms by advocating for restoration of coastal wetlands and barrier islands. Our first intern in Louisiana after Katrina was Chris Dier, who now reflects on how his life forever changed after Katrina and what he’s learned about climate change and the power of community.

Since his days as an NWF intern, Chris has gone on to be recognized as a Louisianan of the Year, Louisiana Teacher of the Year, and has traveled the world on scholarships and fellowships, sharing his lessons learned from Katrina and using that experience to inspire his outstanding work with students. We’re glad to be able to help share his message at the 20^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

On a late June afternoon, some U.S. educators and I visited a secondary school in Zanzibar as part of a Fulbright. After the formalities, the staff ushered us into a room with Zanzibari students who were passionate about climate change. Students threw around a small ball to indicate whose turn it was to speak. As they discussed their goals to mitigate climate change, I gained a rare sense of optimism, especially considering the dilemmas facing Zanzibar mirror my own state, Louisiana. At one point, a young girl threw the ball at me. The question was simple but piercing:

“How does climate change impact your community?”

My mind immediately leapt from Zanzibar’s vulnerable coast to my own. Stark images of Hurricane Katrina flooded my mind: levees breaking, water rushing in, people scrambling to survive. It feels like an eternity when this happens, which is often, but I probably paused for no more than two seconds.

“For my community, I think of a specific storm…” I began with my Katrina experience as a starting point, while also expanding on the other concerns that face Louisiana and Zanzibar. It took me years to understand Katrina as a product of a changing climate. The students listened empathetically and respectfully. As I spoke, it dawned on me that Katrina’s twentieth anniversary was approaching, and here I was, using my story half the world away in the hope of positively moving a needle.

Deep and difficult memories

Katrina has shaped me in ways that are incomprehensible and continue to unravel. I vividly remember walking out of my high school on a hot Friday afternoon with my buddies. We just started our senior year; our best days were approaching. Soccer games and senior parties occupied our minds; I didn’t even know the name of the hurricane yet. Little did I know that not only would I never return to that school, but that hurricane would alter my entire life forever.

My family evacuated at the last minute due to an eerie feeling my father had. In the middle of the night, we hastily departed from our unostentatious home in Chalmette—a working-class suburb downriver from New Orleans. My mother threw St. Joseph beans on the ground for protection. Those last glimpses of normalcy as we departed are etched in my DNA and now exist only in my mind.

Our extended family nestled into the closest available hotel in Longview, Texas. This will do for a few nights, I thought as we set down our few bags. That night, I awoke to my Aunt Tina banging on our door—a knock that divides my life. My dad hastily opened it; I listened to their loud whispers.

“Hundreds of dead bodies are everywhere!” I remember her words vividly. My stomach dropped in indescribable ways; the scene felt far removed from any reality that I had known. Our cell phones had no service.

I rushed to the hotel’s computer room in the hopes of finding information. Silence. A few hours passed when a friend uploaded an aerial photo of a completely submerged Chalmette. Any hopes of our house being somehow spared immediately disappeared. The sea swallowed my home, school, church, entire community, and all that I had ever known.

Over the next few days, we heard stories from those who managed to contact the outside world. They ranged from heroic rescue stories to finding deceased loved ones. My brain struggled to comprehend the level of trauma; everything felt surreal. With no paychecks arriving, my family moved into a shelter. There, we slept on a basketball court among hundreds of despairing souls who also lost everything. We went from a modest household to being homeless overnight.

In the shelter, I heard babies scream and the muffled cries of mothers as the TV stations switched from news of people atop rooftops pleading for help to images of George W. Bush eating cake with John McCain. Every few minutes, a phone call would cause emotional disarray. These sounds became a ceaseless symphony as we listened and consoled. Although we were strangers from different zip codes, a strong sense of camaraderie quickly formed.

A few weeks later, we finally made our way back to our community. I’ll never forget the smell once we approached Jazzland, an amusement park that still sits abandoned. The stench grew unbearable as we approached: empty fridges, mold, leaking gas from cars, and the lingering smells of decomposing bodies.

Additionally, the levee breaks caused an estimated 540 oil spills, releasing almost as many gallons as the 1989 Exxon Valdez disaster. We only found out about the oil spills when we stepped foot in the sludge and smelled it. My family, like many others, was told we had no oil damage and received no compensation. We’d later find out that our insurance also didn’t cover any damage. We lost everything and received no assistance.

The carnage was indescribable: cars tossed like toys, houses flipped over or simply gone, thousands of downed trees, dead animals still rotting, small planes and boats atop roofs, and numerous homes with holes in the attics—indicative of those who axed their way out to escape death. Nothing went unscathed; everything was unrecognizable.

Attempts to salvage were fruitless. The floodwaters destroyed our family photo albums and home videos. I hardly have photos of my pre-Katrina life—almost as if I just materialized into this world at age 17. These Katrina images and the associated feelings are etched in my memory and continually resurface.

We stayed in FEMA trailers while my parents took out a second mortgage to rebuild our home. Unbeknownst to us, FEMA trailers were contaminated with formaldehyde—nearly “40 times customary exposure levels.” My mom still suffers from eye issues and respiratory problems. Again, none were held accountable, and compensation was nonexistent.

I had to quickly move on with little time to process. I realized I would no longer see my friends, my teachers, or almost anyone in my community. I often remember waking up in Texas and wanting nothing more than to return to my former life and those trivial teenage problems. My new concerns centered on shelter and food.

I arrived at a new Texas high school with no supplies and wearing the only clothes I owned. I was isolated from the only community I had ever known and was bringing with me the weight of trauma. Yet, my new teachers rallied to my aid; they provided supplies and made time to tutor, helping to compensate for my gaps.

The soccer coach purchased new cleats, and I later went to play college soccer. They showed me that I could embrace my new community while honoring the one I left behind. Teachers made me feel valued, and with their compassion, I held my head higher and began to heal. Despite the dire circumstances, a school became my refuge when I no longer had one.

I also saw the resilience of my former teachers. My mother, a lifelong teacher, moved back to Louisiana and lived in a FEMA trailer on the school parking lot. Teachers like my mother were committed to helping students, even at the delay of rebuilding their own lives.

A preventable tragedy

Katrina became my life lesson—my university. Over the next two decades, I consumed myself with understanding the Storm; it taught me more than any course or book. I learned that the flooding was hardly a natural disaster, but the byproduct of faulty levees along canals constructed through dense neighborhoods and fragile wetlands for shipping industries.

Most notably, the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet (MRGO) was constructed in the 1960s to facilitate quicker access to the Gulf for ships. People protested these profit-over-people initiatives, rejecting the false promises of economic prosperity. I vividly recall, as a kid, crossing the “Green Bridge” and seeing my father point in the direction of MRGO and prophetically say that it would “drown us” if it remained open.

These canals contributed to our vanishing coastline. Along with other factors like sea level rise, Louisiana has experienced massive coastal wetland erosion, losing our natural barriers against hurricanes. During Katrina, the MRGO funneled storm surge against levees, which led to many breaches and mass flooding.

The flooding did not originate from the Mississippi River, but from a surge in the Gulf that moved into the canals that were undemocratically constructed around the city. The MRGO was closed in 2008, but it was too late as my father’s words proved true. Although Congress called for restoration along the MRGO after the Storm, the federal government has yet to construct one project.

Much grief, much support

As the floodwaters rose, thousands were left stranded on rooftops. Nursing homes and hospitals flooded, police shot unarmed Black men in the back, and Blackwater mercenaries patrolled streets with assault rifles instead of assisting with relief efforts. Despite such absent or militarized responses, we also witnessed the highest form of humanity. Thousands rescued and cared for one another when governments failed.

This solidarity was international. Mexico sent a mobile surgical unit, 450+ tons of food, purified water, disposable diapers, and medical supplies. Mexican Marines conducted relief work. Immigrants poured in from Latin America to rebuild in the heat for low wages. Cuba, Iran, Venezuela, and countries around the globe offered assistance. The U.S. declined all of it.

The more I studied Katrina, the more my political ideology shifted. I used to say the Storm radicalized me, but there is nothing revolutionary about desiring a society in which all humans, regardless of identity, are uplifted and supported.

Katrina was a human-made disaster in which governments failed and corporations exploited, while ordinary people sacrificed their time and resources to help. When systems fail, people unite. We have to learn from the lessons of Katrina and advocate for systemic changes, like protecting communities, restoring coastal protection, and addressing the escalating impacts of climate change.

I’ve also consumed myself with confronting my trauma. I still have nightmares where water uncontrollably rushes into my house. I’ve learned that the more I pour into my fellow humans, the better I heal. Seeking human-centered connections led me to become a teacher.

It led me to write an Open Letter to High School Seniors to encourage the students who COVID-19 robbed. This letter garnered millions of views and responses from students worldwide. In many ways, these heartfelt responses drastically helped me heal. I had no idea that my experience sleeping in that crowded shelter would serve to assist others years later.

The teachers who graciously welcomed me in Texas and the teachers in Louisiana who sacrificed to rebuild demonstrate true service: dedicating their lives to the betterment of students regardless of circumstance. I consider these individuals my role models, and I think of them whenever I encounter a challenge that falls outside my job description.

Carrying their legacy, I now dedicate my life to showing up daily for those who were my age during Katrina, whether in Louisiana or Zanzibar. Nothing brings me more joy. If Katrina taught me anything, it is to latch on to hope and utilize my agency in ways that uplift humanity. Katrina will perhaps always haunt me, but it will also forever mold me into a more passionate and empathetic person. No storm could ever strip me of that humanity.