The Black Community Has a Target on Its Back
Systemic erasure, what does that look like? The Black community constantly has a target on their back, and we see attempts to destroy what we have built time and time again. No matter what, how, or where, we tend to be at the forefront of injustice and exploitation in the U.S., but why? With the help of the recent Netflix docuseries, Katrina: Come Hell and High Water, we will explore and attempt to answer this question. Recently, Hurricane Katrina and its impact on New Orleans, Louisiana has been brought back into the conversation on several media platforms. Prior to watching the docuseries, I saw increasing discourse from black Louisiana natives who experienced Hurricane Katrina and their stories prompted me to recognize that while Katrina was a natural disaster, the catastrophic neglect and policy choices that followed were intentional and deliberate efforts to dismantle what Black New Orleanians had built and clear the way for gentrification.
How did the Ninth Ward Come to Be?
Following the Civil War, New Orleans had one of the highest populations of free people of color in the South. Although repressive rules and policies sought to subjugate Black people, many were able to create wealth and thrive as individuals and as a community. During Reconstruction, New Orleans was unique: integration occurred on many levels, education was attainable, Black men held political office, and the community was making significant economic and cultural gains. This period of prosperity lasted until the end of Reconstruction, when federal withdrawal and the rise of Jim Crow laws stripped away these gains (UTNO, “Some New Orleans Black History You Should Know”).
Before the prominence of the Ninth Ward, Black New Orleanians were cultivating their culture in Tremé, one of the oldest suburbs of New Orleans and widely considered the oldest African American neighborhood in the United States. Eventually, many families moved to neighborhoods where they were allowed to purchase land and could afford property, including the Ninth Ward. First settled after the Civil War, it was not until the early- to mid-1900s that the area truly began to develop. The low-lying, marshy land made it inexpensive for freed Black people, who used the opportunity to create communities that reflected their values, embraced culture, and maintained supportive social networks (OAH Archive, “Lower Ninth Ward”). Despite environmental hazards, the Ninth Ward became a symbol of Black resilience and community-building.
A Familiar Tragedy
In 1965, Hurricane Betsy struck the Ninth Ward, devastating the community. According to the docuseries, current and former residents recalled a persistent rumor that city leaders had been presented with two options: flood the Ninth Ward or flood the Central Business District, the heart of the city’s wealth and a predominantly white area. Many residents reported hearing loud, bomb-like sounds as the storm hit, fueling the belief that the flooding was not accidental but deliberate, a calculated choice to protect the city’s financial center at the expense of a Black community. The resulting floods caused numerous deaths and destroyed much of what the Ninth Ward had built over decades. Following the storm, the army core engineers renovated the levy system. This history of suspicion and the reality of structural neglect mirrors the rumors and fears in the Black community during Hurricane Katrina, when many questioned whether levees were intentionally breached to preserve more affluent, predominantly white neighborhoods while leaving the Lower Ninth vulnerable. Although official reports deny that levees were ever deliberately breached in either storm, the persistence of these rumors raises a deeper question: if not dynamite, then who is responsible for the devastation and abandonment of the Lower Ninth?
Here Comes Hell
In the days before Katrina, the city and state were dangerously unprepared. Despite forecasts warning of the hurricane’s potential devastation, New Orleans did not issue timely mandatory evacuation orders, though other Louisiana cities did. Over 120,000 residents had no access to vehicles, and evacuation was delayed until the very morning the storm was predicted to strike. Mayor Ray Nagin urged churches to “buddy up” to help congregations leave, but without a coordinated system, chaos ensued. Highways became gridlocked, gas stations ran dry, and evacuees faced hours-long delays.
Many who could not evacuate sought shelter in the Superdome, which officials had underestimated in capacity and resources. The stadium quickly became overcrowded and undersupplied, particularly for the elderly, the ill, and those with medical needs, forcing some to seek refuge in the lower levels. Others climbed into attics, onto rooftops, or stayed in hotels as the water surged upward at terrifying speeds. Entire blocks were submerged within hours, leaving thousands stranded when multiple levees failed. The very structures meant to protect the city instead collapsed, amplifying the fear, danger, and trauma experienced by residents.
The Aftermath: The Ruins of Katrina
News coverage focused on the French Quarter, the city’s tourist and economic hub, while neglecting the Lower Ninth Ward and other low-lying neighborhoods most vulnerable to flooding. Early reporting even suggested the levees had held, creating a disconnect that left the nation unaware of the full scope of devastation.
Government failures compounded the disaster. Federal, state, and local agencies clashed, while thousands of residents were left to fend for themselves. Helicopters circled without landing, supplies were scarce, and instructions were nonexistent. Those trapped on rooftops, in flooded streets, or along highways faced a domestic refugee crisis. Officials prioritized policing over relief: martial law was declared, police redirected to “protecting the city,” and Black residents were portrayed in the media as looters, while white survivors performing the same acts were described as resourceful. Armed white residents even shot at Black evacuees attempting to reach safety in Algiers Point.
Military resources were misallocated, with much equipment in Iraq. President Bush initially remained on vacation, offering minimal acknowledgment, while FEMA director Michael Brown, a political appointee with no disaster management experience, floundered at every turn. Meaningful relief only began with Lieutenant General Russel Honoré, who commanded troops to “put your guns down, this is not Iraq,” reframing the mission as humanitarian.
Despite the abandonment, the Ninth Ward community mobilized. Neighbors rescued neighbors. Churches and local organizations provided what the government failed to deliver. Collective singing of hymns like “Amazing Grace” and “This Little Light of Mine” offered moments of solace. Yet the trauma endured: families were displaced across the country, communities fractured, and cultural life disrupted.
Why Us and What Can We Do?
The question is always the same: why is it that Black communities are the ones repeatedly left to drown, displaced, or dismantled? From slavery to Jim Crow to redlining to Katrina, the answer has never been accidental. The destruction of Black neighborhoods has always been tied to the pursuit of land, profit, and control. What was taken in the Ninth Ward was more than homes. It was culture, memory, and community.
In the aftermath of Katrina, the disaster became an opportunity. Public housing was demolished, Black land was repurposed, and the city’s poorest residents, disproportionately Black, were pushed out. The Road Home program delivered the largest housing recovery package in United States history, but its formulas gave Black homeowners in the Ninth Ward significantly less than their homes were worth. At least twenty percent of Black homeowners were lost. Before Katrina, New Orleans was about seventy five percent Black. Today, it hovers closer to fifty-five or sixty percent. Meanwhile, rent rose, schools were gutted, and five thousand Black teachers were fired, replaced with inexperienced recruits from outside the community. The result was a school system worse off than before, with nearly forty percent of children unable to read. The deliberate dismantling of housing, education, and opportunity reveals how Katrina was not just a natural disaster but also a man-made one, rooted in profit and policy.
Still, the question remains: what can we do? The first step is refusing silence. Preserving and telling our stories ensures that the deliberate erasure of our communities cannot succeed. The docuseries itself proves the power of representation. Through film, poetry, and music, it insists that Black suffering, survival, and resilience must be seen and heard. For too long, mainstream media has distorted the truth, portraying Black survival as chaos and criminality. Countering that narrative requires Black voices behind the camera, at the microphone, and in the writer’s seat. Black art is not just expression. It is testimony, resistance, and a blueprint for healing. From large-scale productions to grassroots storytelling on platforms like TikTok, these voices disrupt erasure and reclaim power.
