This article was written by Alieshia Baisy, educator, transformational leader and child advocate.
In August 2005, my first year of teaching in Houston ISD at Bastian Elementary in South Park, I was still figuring out how to be a teacher. Within weeks, two hurricanes — Katrina and Rita — would not only reshape the city I called home, but the teacher I was becoming.
In the days before Hurricane Katrina (which made landfall in New Orleans on Aug. 29, 2005), my colleagues and I constantly checked in with my teaching partner, Mrs. Davis. She and her husband, both from New Orleans, had moved to Houston to attend graduate school at TSU.
Limited understanding of hurricanes
I had moved to Houston in 2001 for the University of Houston and missed Hurricane Alicia, so my understanding of hurricanes was limited to campus closures during undergrad. That week, I could only offer sympathy as Mrs. Davis anxiously watched her phone between passing periods. Eventually, she requested leave to help her family evacuate to Houston.
At the time, Katrina still felt like late-night news — tragic, but distant. Outside of Mrs. Davis, I didn’t have another personal connection that forced me to fully take it in. That changed on September 1, 2005. The University of Houston was playing Nebraska in a televised game, and my friends and I went as recent college graduates just out for a fun night.
First Katrina exposure
Leaving the game, everything shifted. Bus after bus rolled into what is now NRG Stadium — for what seemed like hours. Children stepped off in tattered clothes, some barefoot, their faces drawn and quiet. Adults carried plastic grocery bags and duffel bags stuffed with what I’m sure were hastily gathered belongings. The humid air clung to us, thick with diesel fumes from idling engines. My friend and I stood in stunned silence before walking toward the makeshift stations where volunteers were handing out water and information.
We stayed for five hours — passing out supplies, helping direct people to rest areas and talking with families who had just lost everything. By the time we left that night, the weight of the moment was undeniable. We decided right then that we had to be part of any effort to support survivors.
The next morning at school, that decision became reality. Some of the same families who had been on those buses were now walking into our building. Students who had been laughing with friends in New Orleans classrooms just days before were suddenly in my care, holding everything they owned in a backpack or plastic bag.
Support these children
I didn’t have time to figure out how to be the “perfect” first-year teacher — I had to be what they needed right then: A steady presence, a safe space and someone who would help them believe there was still a future to build.
Less than three weeks later, on September 24, Hurricane Rita was headed toward Houston. The city was unprepared — resources had been focused on welcoming New Orleans evacuees. In South Park, we were receiving new families but still going about business as usual.
That morning, our principal told us HISD hadn’t decided whether we’d evacuate. The call finally came mid-morning. The terror on our students’ faces was unforgettable. For the second time in three weeks, they were packing up for an unknown destination. Many had no funds or connections to leave Houston, so they braced for another storm. Rita wasn’t Katrina, but it left its own mark of trauma.
KIPP Liberation: Game-changer
The next year, I joined KIPP Liberation in Third Ward, led by a Houston legend who had worked directly to establish schools on the Northside for New Orleans students. Our small team of six had big goals: Meet families where they were and equip them to be the change in the world. We revamped the curriculum so students could see themselves in every lesson, provided clothes and shelter and offered a safe space to simply be.
We quickly realized our New Orleans students needed different supports before they could fully engage in learning. We split reading classes for more focused time, ran before- and after-school tutoring and gave students a voice in school events — from choosing field trips to bringing bounce music to Friday celebrations. Families shared their traditions with us — I remember Mardi Gras, when they brought king cake, beads and joy into the building, keeping their culture alive. Parents like Kavain and Dillon, both entrepreneurs, worked tirelessly to ensure every student had what was needed to regain a sense of normalcy.
That year taught me that no amount of training as a 21-year-old grad student could prepare me for what was required. I had to rise to the occasion because our families were resilient and trusted us completely.
Reflections
Almost 20 years later, I often think about students from that founding Liberation class. We recently lost Tyrell, one of the giants of that group. His homegoing celebration became a reunion, a moment to reflect on the bonds we forged during that extraordinary time.
When I watch the new HBO series on Katrina, I’m struck by how clearly it captures the chaos and urgency of those first weeks — the exhaustion, the disbelief, the compassion that fueled us. Living it, there was no time to fully absorb the tragedy. We didn’t ask for the whole story. We just showed up, again and again, until our students felt safe enough to begin building their own new stories.
Twenty years later, I’m still in awe of the way Houston showed up — not just in those first chaotic weeks, but in the years of rebuilding that followed. In classrooms, churches and community centers, we became family. And that is a legacy worth remembering.