Along with satsumas and crawfish, hurricanes develop seasonally as part of an annual natural cycle that shapes South Louisiana’s distinctive cultural character. The season brings with it a special vocabulary, both visual and verbal, of storm surge and blowing palmettos. Once again, these familiar sensations have returned with the development of Hurricane Isaac. Though this storm is turning out to be a milder one, it reminds us of important lessons learned and keeps us on our toes. These things are as much a part of life here now as they were for the generations that preceded us. As tropical systems roll across the Atlantic like truck floats in a parade, we buy batteries, water and plywood—just in case.

In pausing to reflect on the seventh anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, we remember the things and people that are no longer here. But the city’s cultural renaissance and economic resurgence are also worthy of our attention. The generative effects of the storm, while paradoxical, are undeniable. Simply put, art and creativity have mushroomed in New Orleans these last several years.

Even before art galleries from Magazine to St. Claude began exhibiting paintings and installations devoted to Katrina, New Orleanians had long since taken to the streets to share, commemorate and rally their spirits by remaking the destruction around them. Halloween and Mardi Gras costumes in the months following the storm incorporated the water lines, MREs and blue tarps that punctuated the urban landscape of that moment. Every street corner could at one point or another boast its own homespun masterpiece or editorial statement immortalized on a defunct fridge waiting, sometimes weeks, for collection. Tattoo artists saw a surge in business, as residents coming home sought to express how their experiences marked them permanently on the inside, permanently on the outside. Comic books, films, music and novels on the storm and its aftermath have all followed.

Perhaps the simplest emblem of Katrina, the image that remains the most iconic in its ability to evoke that time and place, is the spray-painted X left on each house by the out-of-town search and rescue teams that combed the city throughout September 2005. The anatomy of the X’s quadrants, moving clockwise from the western quarter, includes the name of the rescue unit, the date they searched the property, whether they entered, and whether they found any deceased on the premises. The Xes were democratic in nature, as well as grim; shacks, shotguns and marbled mansions alike bore the marks of the common disaster.

But as homeowners renovated, the Xes began to disappear, a sloughing off of old scar tissue to reveal the new, renovated façades. Some residents, though, have opted to leave their Xes, and a few have even chosen to have replicas cast of their own specific X, affixing the iron copy on top of the original’s footprint. Whether they’ve been painted over, torn down, faded to a shadow or immortalized, the Katrina crosses testify to the indelible memory we all carry of that time and to the joy with which so many folks have begun to find their way back home.

Though the city has become a haven for some talented graffiti artists, such as Banksy and Swoon, these simple coded glyphs bear more powerful witness to a collective yet diverse shared experience than anything else in the city rendered in spray paint. What was once a symbol of loss and grief has become a symbol of regeneration and perseverance. In speaking for us, this is what they seem to say: We’ve had hell. We’ve had high water. But we will always, always be here.