The ofrenda we build to honor loved ones will include not only our distant past but also the very sorrow that we’re living through now.
Frustrated by the perception of the border as a lawless land, two native sons embarked on a 1,200-mile journey to capture, through a series of images and letters, the region’s untold stories.
In Texas Monthly writer-at-large Oscar Cásares’s forthcoming novel, a retired high school teacher in Brownsville is reluctantly pulled into the world of human trafficking.
When I needed a new home office, I thought I’d save money by hiring a draftsman. I got what I paid for—and more.
Growing up at Charro Days.
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
Was January 20 really the dawn of a new and more inclusive age?
My father was passionate about lawn care. Me? Not so much.
I was a server at Pappasito’s for a week. It felt like a lifetime.
Race and racism at the state soccer championship.
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.
My father’s not-so-brief, happy career on horseback.
But not without some difficulty—even though I’m a third-generation Mexican American.
I still remember the moment I discovered that a world existed outside Brownsville. I’ve been trying to explore it ever since.
