As Hurricane Francine churned toward Louisiana’s coast with 90 mph winds yesterday, Black residents in cities like Lake Charles are faced with tough decisions.
Many are weighing the cost of staying, knowing this is the fifth hurricane in four years to unleash its fury on their already battered communities.
For Lake Charles, a city with a predominantly Black population, Hurricane Francine is more than just another storm. In the past few years, the community has faced three severe tornadoes, two arctic freezes, a tropical storm, and catastrophic flooding. Each disaster chips away at the resilience that has defined the region for generations, as residents struggle to rebuild yet again.
The storm surge of Hurricane Francine was initially projected to reach as high as 10 feet, which prompted mandatory evacuations in several coastal areas, including communities just south of Lake Charles. The National Hurricane Center has labeled the situation as “life-threatening” with potential for rapid tornado formation due to unstable atmospheric conditions.
Yet, despite the severity of the warning, many Black Louisianans are tired of running.
“When you look at it, we all got to be so, so very careful in this area because we have gone through so much,” said Debra Ramirez, a resident of Lake Charles. Her home, still scarred by two previous hurricanes, says: “My driveway just dried up from being flooded last week, it never stops.”
Lake Charles, once a vibrant hub, is now one of the fastest-shrinking cities in the nation. Between 2019 and 2021, the city lost more residents proportionately than any other in the U.S., with Black communities bearing the brunt. More than one in five properties in the city sits vacant, a reflection of how many have fled the growing risks of climate disaster.
But for those who remain, the decision to stay or go is no longer simple. Lake Charles resident Tasha Guidry says: “Before, we figured we could weather any storm. I don’t get that sense anymore. Even if you grew up and were raised here, you don’t have that feeling of wanting to hang around and weather it out. People get tired of running all the time, and now there is the option to leave and go someplace else.”
Climate change has not only worsened the intensity and frequency of these storms but also added financial strain. Though home prices in Louisiana remain significantly lower than the national average, the cost of living here has skyrocketed due to the risks.
Louisiana now holds the title for the nation’s most expensive home insurance rates, a direct consequence of high climate risk. Since 2020, more than 20 insurance companies have left the state, leaving residents scrambling to protect their homes.
“We are a resilient community, but I think these storms killed the feeling like we just have to stick around for legacy’s sake,” Guidry said. “I know for sure, if my house is damaged, I’m not going to come back this time. I’m going to collect my insurance money and go someplace else.”
For many Black families, staying in Louisiana’s coastal cities once wasn’t a choice—it was a necessity. Housing discrimination and Jim Crow laws limited where they could live, and coastal areas like Lake Charles were some of the few affordable options. Now, however, with rising insurance costs, many feel it’s cheaper to live elsewhere.
Even in New Orleans, residents share a growing sense of fatigue. In the city’s Ninth Ward, Roy Smith worked for months to repair his home after Hurricane Ida tore through it in 2021. Now, with Hurricane Francine, he’s unsure whether he can endure another rebuilding process.
Lake Charles and other Louisiana coastal towns have been known for their resilience. Communities came together to rebuild after each storm, forging bonds of survival and solidarity. But now, as hurricanes grow more frequent and destructive, that legacy is being tested.
Still, many are staying behind, prepping their homes as best they can. In New Orleans, 81-year-old Ernestine Daggs is among those who can’t afford to leave. After Hurricane Katrina devastated her home in 2005, she took out loans and a second mortgage to rebuild. Now, she prays she won’t have to repeat the process, but she knows the risks.
Retired utility worker Everett Johnson says: “I’ve been watching the news, and they say, ‘If it jives this way, if it jives that way,’ either way, somebody is going to fall, whether it’s Lake Charles, Lafayette, New Orleans, or Baton Rouge. Somebody is gonna get it worse than somebody else, and that’s what comes with living in this state.”
Louisiana’s governor, Jeff Landry, has already mobilized the state’s National Guard, sending high-water vehicles, boats, and helicopters to areas in Francine’s direct path. With 25% of the nation’s offshore oil production temporarily halted in the Gulf of Mexico, the storm’s impacts will be felt far beyond the state’s borders.
But for the residents of Lake Charles and other predominantly Black coastal communities, the cost of staying is far more personal. As climate change intensifies and insurance costs rise, many are questioning whether the risks of staying in their ancestral homes are worth it.
“I don’t know if I have it in me to rebuild again,” Guidry said. “But leaving isn’t just about the money. It’s about letting go of everything that’s tied to this place.”
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