And the story of how I started spelling it that way (with the accent) begins with a kidnapping.
The grand opening of a new H-E-B in McAllen drew crowds—including several who showed up to hear a native son read from his collection of locally set short stories.
A jogging path along the Rio Grande was a treasured, secret place—until it became part of the front lines in a war I still don’t understand.
The border fence cuts through a Valley farmer's property, upending his family's life.
Brownsville’s first federal judge was a legendary figure in my house. So legendary that I never believed my father when he said he knew the man.
They say you can’t go home again—especially when pretty much your entire family has moved away.
An exclusive excerpt from writer-at-large Oscar Casares's forthcoming first novel, Amigoland
My dog, Flaco, sleeps on a bed from Pottery Barn, gets three walks a day, and very nearly had his teeth cleaned for the princely sum of $208. What would my father say?
My father, who had grown up on a farm, used to talk about his family’s killing a pig for the tamales, but this was back in the twenties.
But not without some difficulty—even though I’m a third-generation Mexican American.