We know people around the country feel a deep connection to New Orleans, especially those who were displaced by Hurricane Katrina 20 years ago and never returned. For many, Katrina meant leaving home and becoming a stranger in a new place. It uprooted lives and scattered families, some permanently.

Many members of WWNO/WRKF and the Gulf States Newsroom live and work in New Orleans, and are active members of the community. We want to tell the city’s story not just through the lens of news headlines, but through lived experiences.

We’ve asked listeners from near and far to share love letters to the city, so we can center your voices, your memories and your love for the city, and reflect on what was lost, but also honor what has endured.

Here were your submissions.

My wife and I have left New Orleans a number of times. Going against the practical advice and desperate pleas of family and friends and probably defying logic, we’ve always returned. It would be easy (and a bit cliché) to say it was the music, food, or architecture that drew us back. Truth is, it was something else. What, pray tell? I’m not exactly sure. My mother, a character culled from the pages of a Tennessee Williams’ play, used to blame it on some unexplainable ethereal force. “Even Marie Laveau,” she would say, “couldn’t peg a voodoo pin to it.”

My father, the quintessential southern gentleman says, “The city is like an old familiar chicken coop. Eventually, we all come back to roost.” My doctor diagnosed it as “dementia induced by the balmy subtropical heat.” We were incapable of responsible decision-making because our gray matter had been reduced to a lumpy, swamp-like roux. A lay meteorologist friend of mine quickly retorted, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity stupid.” Another friend of mine is an entomologist. For him, the answer was easy: “The place is just crawling with bugs. Swarming termites and marauding fire ants, cockroaches the size of pterodactyls and mosquitoes capable of carrying off small bovine, what’s not to like?”

And then there are the transplants, people who came down for Jazz Fest or Mardi Gras and never left. While dancing to the Iguanas at Café Brazil or drinking a Pimm’s Cup at the Napoleon House, they slammed headlong into their geographical soul mate. It’s as if they were abducted by aliens, aliens who just happen to live on a much cooler planet. (Dorothy, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore!) They Buy a shotgun double and rent out the other half, take a few classes at Tulane or UNO, acquire a taste for chicory and seersucker, and, eventually, join the “confederacy of dunces.” Like so many other Big Queasy “char-ac-tuz” (Listen to Dr. John’s rendition of “Basin Street Blues” for the proper pronunciation.), they become part of the ethereal force my mom couldn’t quite put a finger on.

Two days before Katrina hit, my wife and I fled to the “high ground” of Avery Island. We watched from a distance in disbelief as our city was battered and beaten about. We, like others around the world, were incensed by the slow response and human folly of it all. It was utterly surreal.

For the longest time, we considered leaving. San Francisco, Charleston, Key West, Charlottesville, and a slough of European and Latin American cities made the initial cut. We listened to people far more rational than us and we swallowed the poison of one pragmatic argument after another. And then, two days before the mayor said we could return, we were back.

When people ask me what it is that keeps us here, I think of George Harrison’s famous song and simply say, “Something.”

The lyrics of an old song asks “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” Yes I do! “ I miss it each night and day”.

Here I am, a native New Orleanian, living in Baton Rouge since Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Baton Rouge is a lovely city, filled with beautiful trees and kind, generous people, but it is not New Orleans. I miss the traditions and culture of old New Orleans that are reflected in the substance of the city, the way we talk, our food, our music, the architecture, the friendliness and joie de vive. All of these make New Orleans feel different than most American cities.

All these differences developed over the 300 years of the city’s existence. Its first inhabitants were Native Americans then French, then Spanish, French (again) then American, along with the entrance of African slaves, many Italians and Irish and in modern times Cubans and Asians. All influenced life in New Orleans. It’s no wonder that we sound different, have an unusual cuisine and will dance to any kind of music.

Over time some of the richness and elegance of design has declined, but the old-world charm with peeling paint and faded colors adds a special beauty and intrigue to the already treasured architecture.

Author Willie Morris says “ Southerners have in their bones an awareness of the past”. I have passed on my awareness and love of anything New Orleans and Louisiana to my children.

Dear New Orleans,

I left a piece of my heart on your streets the night our choir sang gospel harmonies to ward off the storm.

We were a ragtag crew—43 Australians and New Zealanders, strangers once, but bound by our shared love of gospel music. We had come to walk your streets, feel your rhythm, and lift our voices across the American South under the guidance of our choirmaster, Tony Backhouse.

We arrived on a Friday—August 26th, 2005—stepping into your warmth, brass bands, fried oyster po’boys, and the slow hum of a city alive with jazz and soul. We were meant to sing in your churches, but as Katrina loomed, those sacred spaces turned inward to protect their own. So, with time on our hands and our practiced melodies fresh, we took to your streets and did what we knew best: we explored the best of you and we sang.

We sang on Royal Street beside the buskers. We sang to strangers—those who stayed, by choice, by circumstance, or by hope. We sang into hurricane parties pulsing along Bourbon. “The Storm Is Passing Over” became our go to —hopeful, maybe naïve. That night, back at our hotel, we watched the mayor plead through the TV: Get out, if you can.

And so, we did. At 3:30 a.m. on Sunday the 28th, a convoy of fourteen taxis rolled out of the French Quarter—our fears and our luggage packed into the trunks. Leading the way was BJ, a driver with a heart the size of Louisiana, who got us out when the city exhaled its last dry breath.

We sang at gas stations and cried with strangers. We reached Memphis, only to watch the levees break, the water rise, and help fail to come. Still, we sang—in hotel lobbies, parks, and pews—not to perform, but to comfort. Music was the only thing we had to give.

New Orleans, you taught me that song is not just expression—it is survival. You are joy and sorrow braided like a second line, resilience and rhythm combined. You welcomed me back years later, not just as a singer, but as an artist tracing the story of that evacuation, the journey we made to safety. You even helped me find BJ, and I got to thank him.

I carry you in my work, in my voice, in every note I still sing. I watch your progress with the pride of someone who glimpsed your essence and never stopped loving you.

People who have never lived in New Orleans don’t understand. Once you’ve lived in New Orleans, you’re always FROM NEW ORLEANS. Living in New Orleans is like finding your first love again; leaving is like remaining friends with benefits (for your occasional required return visits). I speak from experience. Our family may have left in 2014, but we haven’t missed a Mardi Gras (except for 2021) in 20 years, and our visits always rekindle the spirit of New Orleans in us for the rest of the year.

Since when does an infrequent visitor
who only saw your aunt a few times
get to get up in public and sing her praises?
I don’t know her like you do, you who grew up
with her, a close relative, sleeping over at her house,
sitting out on the porch drinking lemonade
all those long hot summers of childhood?.
Your aunt even sat with you, getting you through your high school French
with late night sessions at her kitchen table
repeating je me souviens tu te souviens,
remember?

But you’re gracious and let me speak.
You let me recall how much your aunt impressed me,
when I first saw her as a child,
and saw she was wild,
riding a swing out of the house into the street, through a window,
kicking her heels into the air and holding a cocktail.
Truth be told, I was as scared of her as I was wowed,
but she showed me way back then, it’s okay to be different –
and acceptable – sometimes - to be outrageous.

When I visited her again in my 20s,
she welcomed me warmly like one of her own,
let me sit on a richly reupholstered sofa,
slide my hand along her wrought-iron fence,
sip sweet ice tea
from a thick engraved crystal glass filled with ice
and feel like my whole ever after could be as sweet as honeysuckle
and a fine as crinoline.

With a bright floral dress stretched over her curves,
she walked with me to the market, nodding at and greeting all the locals
on our way. She bought me warm, sugar-dusted beignets and chicory coffee,
then held my hand and hopped on a tram
and rode with me all the way into my adulthood, with its unexpected hurricanes.

Years later, I brought my first child back to see her,
to introduce them as lifelong friends.
Both giggled and soaked each other up the way babies and old folks do.
Your aunt gave my little girl a Joan of Arc Catholic charm
and a trinket from a voodoo shop to ward off harm –
said we all needed all the help we could get
and that the one God up above didn’t matter how we called Him.
Despite her magic and her wishes, the storms came –
mine a cheating husband and hers, Katrina.
It wasn’t just the betrayal, the winds and water, it was the aftermath –
Me raising kids on my own and struggling to make ends meets,
and at your aunt’s,
the sight of people huddled in a stadium, not being helped
and reports of poor neighborhoods
not getting any assistance.
That sinking feeling – harder to repair than city streets and buildings –
that people and places we loved and trusted
let us down in ways we never thought they could.

What doesn’t kill us, right?
– I’m doing fine, the kids are great,
your aunt rebuilt -
but that storm broke more than the dam –
it broke our trust, it soaked through rot
to expose weak floorboards –
and plywood planks are falling still and flying.

Still, this is a tribute to your aunt.
Through it all, she stood her ground, she kept her chin up.
Through her example and my own experiences, I learned
marriages and authorities might fail.
But by all that’s holy in ourselves,
if we keep on going, we eventually prevail.

I was 11 years old when we evacuated from Hurricane Katrina. We woke up in the early hours of the morning, before the sun was up and only packed clothes for a few days.

I don't know why my dad decided to leave so last minute, but I can never forget the way the wind was whistling as we pulled out of our driveway. We went between Tunica, Mississippi and Memphis, Tennessee and were there for 6 weeks. I remember seeing dead bodies on the news, seeing my dad cry for the first time over not being able to get in touch with his Nan (godmother) in Waveland. We stood in lines at the red cross for hours to get supplies and MRE's. We prayed with strangers and went to Lutheran churches (we were Catholic) who welcomed us with warm arms.

I learned what it means for community to lift people up when they can't stand on their own. We even celebrated my sister's 15th birthday in an underground bowling alley in a shopping center in Memphis. We came home after those long 6 weeks and as we were on the GNO and passed the Dome, my dad said "Everytime you see this from now on, you're going to think 'this is home.'"

And he was right. We arrived home to our house mostly intact and no flood damage, but that wasn't true for the majority of friends and family and business. Our school was destroyed, everything closed very early, people were working together donating food and rebuilding their homes.

I saw the community at its finest. I watched over the years as our city got rebuilt. I attended NOCCA in high school 5 years later and walked the streets of the Bywater, where Katrina still told her story through art. The infamous "X" markers on businesses and homes permanently made into sculptures in remembrance, waterline marks, and images of homes underwater. As time went on, I attended UNO and lived all across the city. The sense of community and connection never faded. When my daughter was 4, I lived in Algiers and walked Newton Street to the levee with her everyday and walked under the bridge and back watching the sun set and river shift from high to low over the months. Our neighbors had our back and we talked everyday. I became a New Orleans girl through and through. While I reside in Madisonville on the Northshore with my husband and daughter now, I proudly have a sticker on my fridge that says "Be a New Orleanian, Wherever you are" because I know there's no place like New Orleans and I am proud my roots are from a resilient, loud, unapologetic, humid, bowl of a city.

As a species, we must react and adapt to our environment. The alternative is extinction. The list of human inventions for protecting ourselves from the elements is endless and dates back to our earliest ancestors: caves, huts, animal skins, foul weather gear, storm and quake proof structures, levees, mechanically conditioned air, etc. Then one day Mother Nature approaches gently and methodically, but seemingly with purpose and resolve. This time she must clearly demonstrate her status in the scheme of things. She enters your life and dares you to stand toe-to-toe with your puny man-made adaptations. “Go ahead,” she says. “Put on your slicker suit. No, not that one, the expensive one you bought from Sharper Image for ‘protection in extreme conditions.’ I dare you!” She whispers, “Use your Swiss Army knife and release that fine garment from its hermetically sealed, vacuum-pack.”

“Let's dance!” She demands.

I collected my Dad and his dog from his house in Metairie and we hunkered down for Katrina in my Lakeview house. I was born in New Orleans and lived here for over seven decades. Every storm is the same drill: gear up the boat with fuel, food, water, and survival supplies in case the worst happens.

The storm came and went. By morning it was calm and clear. Some downed trees and a bit of street flooding but not a catastrophe. Then the 17th St Canal levee broke. By late morning the water was chest high in my house. Dad and I and our dogs got in our boat and motored toward dry land in Metairie. I spent the next couple days in my boat collecting people from roofs and windows and eventually got ourselves to Houston with family.

Casualties of the storm: they are indeed many and diverse– lives, pets, property, hearts, minds, futures, etc. What has this event done for us? These experiences have enhanced our personal power and resolve. We share a special bond that others will never understand, never empathize with, and can never relate to nor tolerate. We are more tolerant because we’ve all gone a little crazy and back (often). We are more patient because we’ve learned that to behave otherwise will merely enhance the frenzy. We embrace simple and mundane pleasures as if they were priceless treasures because we have been reduced to ‘starting over’ in the fullest extent of the phrase. Those who were lucky started with a car and a change of underwear, or a boat and some tools, or their pets and a friend’s sofa for rest. We cherish the tolerance and charity of others because we understand personal inequities, judgment lapses, and inexplicable reactions brought on by the event. We are comrades of cause and effect.

For the few days of the storm my spirit was glowing with the kindness, generosity, and tender mercies of my New Orleans neighbors. The on-demand rescue fleet, sharing of resources, and general concern for each other's well-being was abundant. I saw little of that on the news. Yes, there were extremely bad things happening and indeed very bad people doing those things. There were, however, equally good things happening. Again, I saw little of that on the news. Both are news and information, and the public deserves the whole story. Not just the sensational horror that might as well be slapped on a plastic lunch box and sold at the dime store. I believe in the goodness of people despite some of the media's obsession for the contrary. I believe that my time spent with the civilian rescue fleet validates my belief. I still feel the love, the caring, the perseverance, and the overwhelming camaraderie. I see the bad stories. I see the evil portraits. I choose to believe in what I feel. This I believe.

I love New Orleans because I love New Orleans. Full stop. Making a list of reasons would be pointless because it's quite simply everything. I will never leave her and shall fight for and with her until the end.

My love letter is to old Algiers and old New Orleans. When neighbors were family and you could walk and play in the streets without a care in the world. To the days when the ferry was free and a trip to Canal street was to shop was a highlight of a day. From riding the street car to walking to the French market for a nice treat. The days of Pre Katrina New Orleans are really missed! Who would have known that what most of thought would be a three day getaway just 20 years ago would change our lives forever!

My beloved New Orleans,

In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, when the storm’s fury seemed to threaten everything we held dear, I found myself standing at a crossroads. At that time, my son Justin was only 10, filled with hope and curiosity, and my daughter Mya was just 4, innocent and unaware of the storm’s full impact.

After the storm passed, I returned to this city with my parents and the weight of uncertainty on my shoulders. But I also returned with purpose — to my job as a healthcare worker, ready to serve and heal amidst the chaos.

Though the waters had risen and homes were damaged, your spirit — New Orleans — remained unbroken. I saw it in the strength of our families, in the determination of our neighbors, and in the resilience of every soul committed to rebuilding.

You taught us that home is more than a place; it’s a bond, a heartbeat, a promise that no matter how fierce the storm, love and community endure.

With each day, as I cared for those in need, I witnessed the courage and grace that define you, and I am forever proud to call you home.

I grew up in New Orleans--two blocks from the Mississippi in Old Jefferson--and this city will always be close to my heart. During Katrina, my parents did not evacuate, and my sister and brother and I did not hear from them for days. Through random good luck, they survived.

I am a poet and writer and creative writing professor in NYC and wrote a book about the city and the storm and their experience--BREACH (LSU Press 2010).

I will never stop thinking about New Orleans, its tragedies, its resilience, and its spirit.

I was in first grade when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans.

I didn't really understand what was going on, or the importance of it all. My mom packed all of our baby pictures, our valuables, everything in the car for what felt like a really long field trip. I didn't understand when we pulled out the driveway that this might be the last time home looked like home.

I didn't understand my mother's stress - a recently divorced woman with two young kids, packing away everything we know, maybe never to return. I didn't understand that what was originally supposed to be maybe a week turned into months of limbo. I didn't understand that my hometown was under water, and that people that lived directly across the river from us were trapped inside flooded homes, hoping to be rescued maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

It wasn't until years later that I began to understand the collective trauma of August 29, 2005. I still see spray painted X's on homes, even the ones that were repaired. It’s funny how that works: people “build back” but some choose never to paint over the reminder of what happened here. Some would call it a mark of resilience. I can’t help but see trauma.

My family was able to return to our lives with whatever sense of normalcy remains after a community gets absolutely pummeled. I remember eating the MRE leftovers. As a 6 year old, I didn't understand the heaviness of it all. 1,800 deaths, broken levee system, government failures. When I look back, I can't help but feel some type of guilt that my circumstances were better than others. I’m surrounded by people who have so much loss and grief; and even though I was here, we were all here, my life as I knew it was spared. I still don't know how to grasp this feeling every year. It sits inside me, quietly rumbling underneath the surface, which I guess is how most feelings work when you think about it.

Perhaps my memories are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I never dare to take up space in a conversation where my friends, coworkers, neighbors lost so much and still hurt. But this is my story, and I suppose I’m the only one who can tell it

10 years in Southeast Louisiana. A decade of levee rides at sunset, Mardi Gras magic, sweaty second lines, and protests that rattled the streets with purpose. I’ve danced, cried, evacuated, rebuilt, and fallen in love with a city that holds both relentless beauty and deep, aching corruption. New Orleans is a place that doesn’t let you forget the weight of history or the thrill of the present. It’s chaotic and crumbling, joyful and alive. Somehow, it’s become home.

Written by Roger A. Stetter after Hurricane Katrina

Why I Am Going Home

My world changed forever last August. We said good-bye to our son, Jack, a freshman at Cornell, in Ithaca. I visited the Teddy Roosevelt mansion in Oyster Bay and took a sentimental journey to my boyhood home in Massapequa. The old place evoked pleasant memories of a time when the world seemed very secure, marred only by an occasional freak accident, as when a neighbor's 12-year old son fell through the ice on Caroon's Lake and drowned, or my best friend's sister died a few days after she bore her first child. Riding the train back to Penn Station, I felt that Massapequa had prepared me for a happy life and a successful career as a lawyer and writer in New Orleans, the "city that care forgot" and which has been our home since 1982. A fateful message on the train that an old friend had died in New Orleans did not shake that perception. Nor a car accident on the night of his funeral that could have killed my beautiful wife. But a hurricane with the whimsical name "Katrina" hit my town hard a day later, and a strange odyssey in a world we never knew before began to unfold.

We left New Orleans on the eve of the hurricane and drove all night to a motel in a small town in west Alabama where I had never been before. We slept a long sleep, had a decent meal, slept some more, then got back on the highway after the motel lost power. In a few hours we arrived in Huntsville, Alabama where the people were friendly, the food moderately good, and the weather just fine. It was there that a waitress in a barbecue restaurant insisted on paying our tab, a young woman at the Wal-Mart invited us to attend church with her on Sunday, and a Red Cross volunteer fed us breakfast and gave us a wad of twenty dollar bills. On bended knee, I prayed to the Lord to shine a little light on me, and wept while an evangelical missionary helped me pray for my son, far away in college and with no place to come home to for the Thanksgiving holidays. Things seemed brighter after the prayer service and I began to enjoy my stay in Huntsville, a cozy, charming southern town that reminded me of Charlottesville, Virginia in 1968 when I entered law school.

I finally landed in Charlottesville where I have been living in the home of my best friend, Dr. George R. Minor, for almost two months. I have enjoyed every day in Charlottesville: delightful outings with Dr. Minor, visits with his family and friends, delectable meals prepared by his housekeepers, spectacular weather, and occasional visits with my wife, who stayed with family in Richmond until she returned to New Orleans a few weeks ago. I have hung out on the Corner and written notes to my son on pocket-size spiral notepads almost every day - mainly about my days in law school or childhood memories. I have also made new friends including several of the shopkeepers on Main Street who see me writing all the time and smoking my pipe, and probably think I am a writer or affluent retired person enjoying the sunshine and the college scene.

Last Saturday, one such friend, a pretty young woman who works in a copy shop, joined me for lunch at the downtown mall. We visited several bookstores, ate a light lunch, and did a lot of talking. She inquired what my plans were and I said I hadn't any but might work on a book. She asked why I did not return to New Orleans and I said I was afraid to go back to so much devastation. She then tactfully suggested that I needed to bite the bullet and go home, that if people like me stayed away, our City would not recover anytime soon.

My friend was right and I am going home in a few days. Home to the City of New Orleans, a place like no other that I love dearly. Now that I've seen the light, I can think of so many reasons to return, and I want to share some of them with you who are also from New Orleans. Here are three reasons why I'm going home:

New Orleans is the coolest city in America. A quixotic blend of delightfully irreverent people from every walk of life who really know how to party and just have a good time. Where else can you find the Roman Candy man in his horse-drawn wagon? Celebrate Boo at the Zoo? Walk down Magazine Street and see a thousand smiling faces you know or want to meet? Ride the streetcar all day long for a dollar and twenty-five cents? Take your kids on the Carousel in City Park or to Storyland? Greet your neighbors every day and actually have something interesting to talk about? Where else can you see long black limos waiting outside to take your neighbors' daughters to debutante balls? Walk in a jazz funeral? Catch a Carnival throw? Drink café au lait and bite into a fresh-cooked beignet at 3 o'clock in the morning? Bask in the sunshine of a Saturday afternoon when it's snowing all over the rest of the country? Nowhere but in New Orleans. New Orleans is not dead. It is just sick and needs some tender loving care. Don't believe what you see on television or read in the paper. First the news media blamed the victims, then they blamed the government, now they just ignore us, pretending that the country has recovered from Katrina, and returning to their favorite theme: Washington scandal and a shrinking president.

New Orleans needs us now and we need New Orleans now. Remember when we were kids and fire-trucks came screaming down the street? We ran behind them to the scene of the fire. We stood silent and watched as the flames leaped higher and higher until the house was consumed by fire. It was tragic but fascinating as well, particularly since it was somebody else's house burning, rather than our own. Well, now it's our house and we must help put out the fire. If we do nothing, the house will be destroyed and our hopes and dreams will be destroyed with it. How can we let that happen?

To you, my fellow New Orleanians -- in limbo, anxious, and confused -- I say, “Pack your bags and come home.” Together we have a unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rebuild a great city and get back what can never be replaced or forgotten. We must lead the way and others will follow. We must sacrifice the present so we can have back our future. We must dare to go where our fathers did not have to go. We must cry so that we can laugh again. We can do it and we will do it. Do any of you want to be left behind? To tell your grandkids you were afraid and therefore did nothing? To lie awake at night for the rest of your life and wonder why you did not help to save the city you love? The city that made you who you are -- intelligent, funny, and wise? Then ask yourself this question: If Not Now, When?

I'm a native of Galvez/Prairieville La. I had lived in Texas twice, Florida and Colorado after high school returning home and to New Orleans in 1996. In 2004, I realized my dream of owning a historic barge board side hall Victorian home in the Bywater. While my home survived the flood, it did not survive my career loss. Four layoffs, mismanagement of my mortgage by Citimortgage and other storm related struggles caused me to lose it. In 2010 I leased a Bywater duplex but ultimately moved back near my parents due to their aging and I'm an only child. I adore New Orleans and still visit friends frequently. My heart was broken when I first returned to that unique one of a kind place. Though my family begged me to leave for home, I refused stating my unwavering love and support of recovery no matter how daunting. (I remember going through two sets of tires within a year due to debris) I still remember sitting on my side porch on Sunday mornings with my Picayune listening to the calliope's and watching the ships pass above my roofline. With all her issues and challenges, there's no place like the grand old gal of New Orleans we all call home. I miss her!!!

Dear New Orleans, I first visited you with my husband for our honeymoon. It was our first time visiting and learning how much you have to offer. We originally fell in love with the spirit and culture, but left deeply in love with the food. So much so that we have (more than once) picked up Mother's or Willie Mae's before driving five hours back home-just to keep our trip going until we return. We last visited for a friend's wedding and before that was in November 2019, months before the pandemic shutdown. We will always have that week of heat and love back in 2018 when we first visited. Thank you for being you and continuing to be the best!