An interview with Houma filmmaker Mariah Hernandez-Fitch on storytelling, climate change, and cultural resilience.
In many high schools, seniors submit baby or childhood pictures along with their senior portraits. This tradition often involves looking through old family photo albums, each full of memories and stories. Family photo albums preserve stories of important moments to be shared with kids and grandkids. They are like history books for the family.
However, for Mariah Hernandez-Fitch, whose family lives in Dulac on the coast of Louisiana, within the homelands of the United Houma Nation (UHN), family photo albums sometimes serve another purpose. They are used for insurance claims, as documentation of how their houses looked before hurricanes.
At a young age, Mariah is facing the reality of what it means to lose her homelands. Here along the Louisiana coast, sea level rise and engineering projects in the Mississippi River have led to the disappearance of about 2,000 square miles of land since the 1930s – an area about the size of Delaware. For Mariah, the land-loss isn’t just physical – losing her lands means losing the stories that define her identity, her family’s existence.
Mariah is an emerging Indigenous filmmaker from the United Houma Nation, and director of a short film — “Ekbeh” — that screened at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival. She was born and raised in the heart of the bayous of southern Louisiana, like every matriarch in her family. She is currently in her first year of study at Tulane Law School, and holds a master’s degree from the University of California, Los Angeles in American Indian Studies. She is also an Indigenous Media Fellow with the Indigenous Journalists Association.
I come from the southwest, where all the talk is of surface water disappearing. I am fascinated by the juxtaposing realities with water—the way that ecosystems can fall out of balance when there is too much or not enough. That is the harmony of ecosystems. There is a purpose for every animal, every current, every tree, every gust of wind.
I recently met Mariah at the 2025 Indigenous Media Conference in Isleta Pueblo territory. A mutual friend told us to look out for each other, since he knew that we were both attending the same conference. Coincidentally, I attended a panel where Mariah talked a little bit about her work and background. Eager to learn more about her story, I beelined to her after the panel without knowing she was the Mariah I was looking for. Then we realized we were looking for each other; it was fate.
As I soon learned, Mariah is doing essential work to protect and honor her people through storytelling. A few weeks later, we met over video chat to discuss her work and her community.
-tylee nez
Note: This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Interview with Mariah Hernandez-Fitch
tylee: What drew you into storytelling and journalism?
Mariah: It really started in filmmaking. Currently, I am working on this very personal new documentary series project about my home. This project inspired a lot of reflection on the creation process about the people and their stories. Writing is super useful to reflect those thoughts. It allows practice to dive deep into the purpose of this series.
Recently, I have ventured into writing. For example, my thesis, Through Stories, We Remain: The United Houma Nation, Historical Erasure, and the 1994 Bureau of Indian Affairs Proposed Finding on Federal Acknowledgment, for the American Indian Studies master’s program, focuses on the history of the UHN, including the repercussions of inaccurate information. It was like peeling back an onion and diving deep into understanding what was hindering UHN from federal recognition, requiring a bit of creative journalism inside of it, I guess you can say.
Policy is deeply embedded in history with various perspectives on history. Currently, there is only one story told, the dominant one, and not multiple stories.
I want to dive into a different light, like the story of creation. There are different sides to storytelling. The dominant history is from the white man’s perspective via journals, which are inherently very different from the stories we tell. This should be taken into account when talking about history.
tylee: Is that the reason you’re going to law school? To understand the policy side of history?
Mariah: Yeah, I want a background in the legal field because if filming or recording occurs on the reservation or with a Native Nation, there will be a story written about them. So then, who are the lawyers protecting the tribe?
I would want to be the person willing to understand and respect different Indigenous cultures and values, because we are not a monolith. I think it is important to make sure the stories are protected on both sides — the producers and the people sharing the stories.
Laws are like an entirely different language to understand and think in, as I am realizing in my first year of law school. I am open to this journey of learning law, but a non-negotiable, I want to keep making stories. My big priority is film, creating films.
tylee: Why do you think stories are powerful tools for communicating about climate change and land changes from climate change?
Mariah: You know, the people who know the land the most are the people who live in it. Having always lived where I am from, I am able to know the stories of my grandparents and parents and to see how much the land has changed in their lifetime.
I began to think, what does it mean to lose it? The statistic is a football field is lost every 100 minutes to sea level rise — Louisiana people love to use football fields as measurements. This narrative is used for newspapers and articles. However, these are just words. It is completely different to live in it and to see it. Places 10 minutes down the road from me that are now underwater.
There is something about the authenticity of living it. The stories created from it are truer because you cannot hide from the truth in front of you.
I love to bring in people’s voices for storytelling; I love a good opinion. I love emotions. I love being dramatic. Now I am trying to figure out how a native voice can really break through a system. I do believe that doing those projects [focusing on native voices] in an unapologetic manner helps communicate the message. That can break down the walls a little bit, and kind of one step in a direction.
tylee: How have you used film to communicate these narratives? Why do you choose to pursue films instead of writing or photography?
Mariah: You need to see it to believe it. This is where visual aids of art are extremely handy. Sometimes when I look at videos, I feel like I am transformed into that place.
When I was really young, I was obsessed with my parents’ and grandparents’ photo albums because they were able to connect their stories back to visual aids. It was truly powerful to me. Some of the photos held stories of places that were once there, how our house used to look before a specific hurricane, or taking pictures for insurance purposes.
There is something to photograph or film that can serve as a memory. Memories invoke so much emotion and can be striking to the eyes. Striking a memory can be the most powerful tool of persuasion.
Even for me, I have those distant memories of places that once were, like my elementary school. I would tell my sisters, ‘This is where I used to play, this is where I got in trouble that one time, and this is where I got knocked down from football.’ Something as simple as retelling a visual aid can be useful.
Just to see a place functioning 10 years ago in a visual aid compared to visiting an abandoned or vacant building, you can feel the time passing. But not that much time has passed.
tylee: Wow, that is intense to grow up hearing your grandparents’ memories and now for you, to experience the same feelings with your siblings. The environment around you is changing rapidly; what are other ways you see it changing through climate, plants, or the land?
Mariah: Yeah, there are a lot in Louisiana. Of course, the rising sea level. Salt intrusion is extremely harmful to the land. The Gulf is mainly saltwater, and inland is freshwater (marshland), so saltwater is coming mainly through the oil industries. The oil process requires a lot of pipelines and canals to bring the oil back to the facilities.
Take an ant farm, for example — the more tunnels and disturbance to the soil leaves the land unstable. The oil industries are digging a lot of canals for pipelines; these cuts through the land allow the water from the Gulf to enter inland. Salt intrusion is deadly to the land. The plants and animals are not used to saltwater; there is a reason why their habitats are inland. Our beautiful Cypress and Oak trees are struggling to survive with the saltwater, so most end up dying. Those trees’ roots help hold the land, the soil, and the homes.
Another aspect is global warming; the heating of ocean water in the Gulf increases the frequency and level of intensity of hurricanes. Additionally, the liquefied natural gas projects built in western Louisiana worsen the air quality for the community, leaving increased health impacts like cancer.
tylee: The domino effect this will leave on the next generations is unimaginable. Can you share an example of a climate story that you reported on that was especially powerful to you or the people you shared? What made this story meaningful?
Mariah: I recently worked on an article about the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Seriously, Katrina was a big natural disaster that was record-breaking. It was a climate change disaster and a policy disaster.
In this article, I highlighted a project about cultural resilience led by my mentor, Tammy Greer. This project focused on recreating a mound, which is a traditional practice of Houma. It has many different uses. As part of this project, different places around the world and neighboring tribes donated dirt for this build. It was built kind of in the middle of New Orleans to symbolize Houma as the original inhabitants, stewards, and caretakers of this land.
Working on this 20-year-old story, I have noticed the conversation shift around the environment. Post-Katrina sparked a lot of conversation and awareness about the climate and environment in Louisiana and continues to leave a lasting impact.
Even more recently, there have been many more—well, thankfully, this year we have been okay. In the past, we have been hit left and right by major hurricanes again and again.
For example, my grandparents and elders recall a devastating hurricane, Hurricane Betsy, in 1965. This hurricane changed the way they view such events; they would say, ‘We were never afraid of hurricanes.’ Until Hurricane Betsy brought flooding, they had never seen or experienced it before. This was a wake-up call. Things are changing. Hurricane Betsy was a Category Four. Then in 1985, Hurricane Juan was devastating. Hurricane Betsy and Juan are notorious hurricanes, I hear from elders.
tylee: Wow! For the community, the elders—the experts—living in the area began to sound like the alarms in the 1960s?
Mariah: Yes, I would definitely say post-1950s, many elders felt like things had changed. The climate has changed. Coincidentally, that is when the oil industry boomed. Wow, it’s almost like a connection.
In Louisiana, there are a lot of weird practices like how systems and governments fight with nature, such as building floodgates, installing levee systems, and trying to control the Mississippi River through engineering. It’s a big river with a very strong, powerful current; it’s meant to move and be a delta.
However, now there’s private property, and the owners do not want their land to be part of the flood zone, thus lowering property value. This pushes governments to build systems, levees, that prohibit the natural movement of water. Just recently, the city of New Orleans built a million-dollar floodgate to prevent flooding, but the water must go somewhere.
It’s not ‘how do we compete with nature.’ How do we coexist with our place and our land? That should be the focus.
All of this is so interesting because it is all interconnected. It is like peeling back a big onion; once one layer is pulled back, there are 1000 more layers to undo. Honestly, it is not a matter of pointing fingers but understanding the events that led us to this moment. To understand how we got here, it will better equip us to avoid repeating the same cycle.
tylee: How does storytelling support the belief of climate change experience?
Mariah: There is a fight between science and stories, but in fact, they can go hand and hand. I think climate stories or any stories, you must have faith. Where does that faith come from? It comes from trust.
Tying back to elder storytelling, you are believing in the people that lived on the land because they have seen it all. So, their trust and faith are in their words. The element of faith in stories is genuinely powerful.
tylee: So insightful, that is a beautiful way to connect the dots for storytelling. Do you have any advice for young people who are interested in pursuing a career in journalism or film/photography?
Mariah: Just do it. It’s sometimes hard to be inspired in the second, but once you are completely immersed in it, the ideas flow, and you are in this relationship with that project. Building that relationship is exciting because you do not want to let that project down. It can spark this motivation and justification; this is why I do it at the end of the day. Even if it is not for something and you are doing it yourself, then taking those pictures and writing that story down—it is thrilling to see what you created. Then, if you can share, it is even more exciting.
Honestly, building trust in yourself will go a long way. If you keep quiet, then no one is going to see that perspective. It is important to write about your passions because how will someone understand if you are not doing that?
tylee: When you have shared your work with your community or family, what is one of the most rewarding aspects?
Mariah: In a community setting, seeing and listening to the conversation open between different people is indeed insightful. For instance, at my public library, I was showing elders clips of this project I am working on. I was asked, “What does this mean?” which opened to more stories, conversations, and even growth. This is the best part! Creating one story creates an exponential number of other stories and perspectives. Motivating me to create more stories and share them with people. So, it is a cyclical, non-stop movement of ideas and resurfacing of the past while rethinking different futures we can have. It is exciting.
tylee: Definitely, being able to build a web of lived experience through conversation is powerful and necessary for future-building. My last question — how have you been able to navigate being an Indigenous journalist writing about climate change and environment where your identity is not commonly shared, while staying true to your community and values? Basically, what holds you down to community and your commitments?
Mariah: It’s hard. When you’re a Native journalist writing about tough issues, there is so much grief, and I don’t know how I deal with it. Some days can honestly be hard when I am immersed in a project and hear these stories or rewatch clips and write down what it means to you—it is a lot of grief. For me, I just got to chug through, and I feel like it is a duty to document; it is an honor. And honestly, it’s like, who is going to write it? No one.
More information
For more information about Mariah Hernandez-Fitch and her work, please visit: https://www.mariahhfitch.com/
About the author: tylee nez
tylee is Diné (enrolled tribal member) and Hopi. tylee is a water protector and storyteller, working to support Indigenous-led movements and fights against resource extractive projects across the desert region through community organizing and raising awareness. The Native Resilience Reporter program provides a platform and opportunity to uplift frontline communities facing the destructive impacts of climate change and capitalism.