We Weather The Storm

Sensitivity Warning:

This story contains descriptions of traumatic events related to Hurricane Katrina, including flooding, injury, fear, and displacement. It may be distressing for readers who have experienced natural disasters, trauma, or loss.

August 29, 2005

Last night, a roach the size of my Nintendo crawled across my face!!! We have to get out of here before I lose my mind.

It was already bad enough that I fell through the ceiling trying to climb up here, and now we have to sleep with bugs and birds? I hate hurricane season.

At least this will be over soon. The water’s never been this high before, but there must be some kind of giant vacuum machine or something to suck it all up. Yeah! Tomorrow, me and Jane will be riding bikes and running in the street like normal.

Her room’s probably going to be worse than mine though—at least our house sits up higher off the ground. It’s okay. I’ll help Jane clean it when this is all over.

Ugh, my hand still hasn’t stopped bleeding. I can’t believe I punched through that glass just to break into this attic.

We’re lucky no one was home.

Papa’s lucky we got him up here. Mama and I almost couldn’t lift him—he must weigh like 400 pounds!

I guess we’re safe now. Someone’s going to rescue us soon.

August 30, 2005

It’s our second night in this attic, and I don’t know how much longer I can sleep on these crappy pieces of wood.

Why didn’t Papa grab food or water before we left the house? He knows Nana can’t swim, and neither can he. What the hell was he thinking?

I’m cold. I’m thirsty. And I don’t even know where I’m supposed to pee. Nana says I’ll just have to go on myself, but I don’t want to!

What if I have to poop?

This sucks.

I hope Jane’s okay. She said her family was leaving the city—I wish we’d left too. But Papa never leaves for hurricanes.

“We weather the storm,” he always says.

I guess he never thought about a storm like this.

Looking at all this water is making me want to drink it. Mama says it’ll make me sick—that it’s swamp water.

But I’m so thirsty.

One sip couldn’t hurt me that bad… could it?

Earlier, when I was sitting on the roof, I heard a woman screaming for help.

She screamed for a long time.

And then she just… stopped.

I’m sure someone helped her.

Right?

August 31, 2005

We have neighbors!

Well… they’re not our neighbors, since we had to break into somebody else’s house and climb into their attic. But still—there are other people! And they have WATER.

I’ve never missed water so much in my whole life. I’d trade every video game I own just to drink one glass right now.

But Nana won’t let me swim across to ask for help.

I know I could do it!

I helped Papa break a hole in the roof to climb out and look for help—I’m the one who found the neighbors!

I could help more, if they’d just let me.

Nana keeps talking about gators in the water, but I’ve been staring out there for hours, and I haven’t seen one.

I wish they’d stop treating me like a baby.

I’m the only one who can even swim.

September 1, 2005

Papa keeps calling me back into the attic, but I don’t want to go.

Sitting up here on the roof is better than being stuck in that hot, stinky place.

Besides, I need to watch for helicopters.

I’m getting on the next one.

I can’t believe he made me send the last one away.

What if nobody else comes?

What if that was our only chance to be rescued?

They have to have something that can pull up heavy people. Don’t they?

September 2, 2005

I never expected my first boat ride to be like that, but at least we finally got some water—and we’re out of that stinky attic.

The man from Texas was really nice. I’m so glad he had water on his boat and shared it with us.

He brought us to this highway bridge we’re on now. I saw Mercedes and Jacob with their families too! I wonder how long they’ve been here.

Are we supposed to sleep here now?

I wish I had a pillow—this cement is hard and wet.

Nana doesn’t look too good.

When was the last time she took her medicine?

September 4, 2005

Washington, DC.

Just a few days ago I was outside playing with Jane, and now they’re telling us we’re moving to DC.

We just made it to Baton Rouge. I haven’t even had a real bath yet, and now they say we’re going across the country. I know we have family there, but what about everything we’re leaving behind? What about our house? What about my bed, my shoes, my books—Jane?

We don’t have anything. Just the clothes we’re wearing. No bags, no toys, no pictures. Mama says we’re lucky to be alive, but it still hurts to think everything we ever had is probably gone under all that water.

And what if I never see my friends again?

What if we never come back?

Why can’t things just go back to how they were before?

Before the hurricane.

Before we were sleeping in attics and bridges.

Before everything we knew was gone in less than four hours.

I don’t want to start over. I just want to go home. But home is done now.

September 15, 2005

Today was my first day at my new school. It’s different, but they have a counselor that help me talk about everything I’ve been through. I’m nervous but also glad to know I won’t have to carry it all inside alone.

The teachers and counselors say it’s okay to feel scared and sad, and they’re going to help me find ways to feel stronger. I even met a few kids who understand what it’s like to start over.

It’s strange, but I think this might be a fresh start—not just in a new place, but inside too. Little by little.

I’m still scared sometimes, but I’m beginning to feel hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, I'm going to be okay.

Author’s Note

This story is based on my real experience as a child during Hurricane Katrina. These are not fictional accounts—they are the thoughts I had at the time, reshaped into journal entries years later to give order to the chaos I lived through. In August 2005, I was trapped in an attic in New Orleans with my family. We had no food, no clean water, no idea when—or if—help would come. I was scared, injured, and trying to make sense of it all as a young girl navigating something no child should ever have to. Writing these entries was my way of returning to that version of myself—the girl who stayed quiet so the adults could think, who looked out for helicopters, who listened to voices disappear beneath the floodwaters. I survived, but that girl still lives in me. This story is for her—and for anyone who’s ever felt powerless in the face of something too big to understand. If you’re going through something hard, I hope my story shows that survival is possible, and healing is too. Even in the darkest places, your voice matters. Your story matters.

Keep going.

—Keisha Hale