“Katrina.” A word I’ve hesitated to say aloud because of its weight, it’s gravity. A word that’s been quietly repeating in my mind. Not a name anymore. A symbol. People standing on rooftops, frantically waving at helicopters, begging for power for medical devices, for water, for food. Begging to be seen. It’s become synonymous with neglect of the most vulnerable people, neglect of places with poor infrastructure and few resources. Now, after Hurricane Helene, I’m seeing that kind of neglect play out in real time.
Right now I’m in rural upstate South Carolina, a half hour from western North Carolina. Our power is out, water is scarce. Fridges are quickly emptying of salvageable food. We keep checking on loved ones and strangers, sharing information, and managing fear and frustration as oxygen tanks dwindle and gas tanks empty. We are anxious for news of our North Carolina neighbors and social media is the only lifeline — when cell service or Wi-Fi permit. Texts ping urgently: “My parents are sick,” “My mom just had surgery,” “A woman is in labor,” “My son and his family are missing.”
There are people we think are worth headlines and urgency and aid, and people we don’t.
Across the state line in western North Carolina, cell towers are down, and first responders struggle to navigate roads that have crumbled. People need help. But we don’t know what kind — or how to get to them.
The reality of living here goes beyond the storm. I’m in a “possible” sundown town according to research by Tougaloo College. Everyone Black in surrounding towns knows this. Multiple times when I’ve told Black folks where my parents live they responded with wide eyes and a hushed “I don’t go there.” My white mom and step-dad decided to retire here before Obama was elected. Before the Confederate flag came down at the South Carolina state capitol and before politics became so openly divisive.
But now, those symbols are hard to miss. Flags fly on porches. Opinions are loud and clear.I lived here during the height of the pandemic, from 2020 and 2021. It was a terrifying time for so many, but for Black folks especially so. It was a time when South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham said “If you’re a young African American, an immigrant, you can go anywhere in this state. You just need to be conservative, not liberal.” I’m half-Black. I wore a mask and lived in constant fear
The South is a place of deep wounds, visible and invisible, for all.
And though my faith as a Bahá’í teaches me to see the good in others, to unite people, to rely on God, I slept with a gun by my bed. I hid when a white stranger visited my landlords. Then I had a realization: I could either (safely) be about what I say I am, or continue to live in fear. I took a walk in the center of town, past the Confederate monument and flag flying, and prayed.
I’ve since moved to a semi-rural area that’s slightly more diverse. I’m reminded of what I felt growing up in Florida and living in the Northeast and California: that our nation’s issues with race would be healed first in the South.
The South is a place of deep wounds, visible and invisible, for all. I firmly believe no one, not the richest “master,” not the most seemingly innocent bystander, came through hundreds of years of enslavement and Jim Crow unscathed. “Seeing White,” a podcast from Scene on Radio, and “Hillbilly,” a documentary by Sally Rubin and Ashley York, tell the story of a region where Black, white, and Indigenous folks are pitted against one another to protect the wealth of a few.
Even now there are people who have implied this region deserves what it’s getting.
The same playbook that dehumanized Black people as subhuman, unintelligent, bumbling, criminal, drug-addled, and responsible for our own oppression has been, and is, successfully used to caricature the white working class of Appalachia and the South in general, branding them “hillbillies,” “rednecks,” and “white trash.” It’s the reason the land and bodies here have been poisoned by coal mining, pollution, and prescription drugs, enriching only a few.
It’s why even now there are people who have implied this region deserves what it’s getting, not realizing that, aside from it being filled with human beings, there are folks who look and vote just like them who’ve drowned in their homes.
This isn’t about “both sides.” It’s about the illusion of sides altogether.
That brings me back to Katrina. And Helene. There are people we are in the habit of valuing, and people we are not. There are people we think are worth headlines and urgency and aid, and people we don’t. And what these people have in common is they are mostly without wealth, mostly neglected by our government, and mostly told the “other side” hates them, that they are on their own.
As I sit here, batteries dwindling, using scant solar power to fast forward through DVR’d national news coverage inundating us with the same political fights and gaffs and scandals from a dozen polished angles, I see little to no mention of the stacked or floating bodies, the people begging for help, the endless texts and posts pleading for someone to see. I see little to no mention of the words “catastrophic,” “biblical,” or “apocalyptic.” I see little to no mention of Katrina. But I know that I will.
As the word gets out, when the news media prioritizes the nightmare in western North Carolina, the grief will spread. And so will the shame. And so will the blaming of the victims of this disaster, for being poor, for being unprepared, for not being smart enough to get through it alive.
This is happening hundreds of miles from a coast, at high elevations, in an alarmingly warming world. It can happen to anyone. And if we don’t start questioning why we think certain people deserve safety and others don’t, more and more of us will drown — taking this nation with us.
Parisa Fitz-Henley is a Jamaican-born American actor, writer, producer and consultant with a passion for public health and education. She serves on the Advisory Council for the FUTURES Center for Policy, Action, & Leadership and the Board of Advisors for Mona Foundation.
