April 2, 2017



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In July 2004, I took my first trip to New Orleans, Louisiana. My friend Rachel and I instantly fell in love with the city. With Jazz music filling your ear around every corner, the alcohol flowing 24  hrs a day, and the city’s charm with deep roots in American history, it’s kinda hard not to fall in love with NOLA. I was hooked.

Rachel and I went to New Orleans again in October of that year. Our next trip was planned for August 30, 2005. Needless, to say we didn’t make that trip. Just the day before, the city I left my heart in, was devastated.

Fast forward several years to 2007, I took a trip back out to New Orleans. My heart broke into a million pieces. Seeing the devastation first hand, 2 years after the storm, was surreal. I remember standing at a gas station with my friend (another survivor) down in the 9th Ward. I asked him “What is that line way at top of this pole?”.  He informed me that was how high the water was. It had to be at least 16 feet above my head. My mind was officially blown. I could of been in Katrina. I was suppose to arrive the following day.

While I was there I interviewed another friend of mine. I had previously informed him that I had this school project where I was writing a book and asked if I could tell his story. He had never told his story to a soul about the hell he went through but agreed he would tell me for my project. Hearing his story was gut wrenching.

This is a excerpt of the book featuring Philip’s story. It was printed in 2008.

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