Where I live we speak different languages. By the highways, with a lake in our backyard where we spend our Fourth of Julys, where you’ll find the best bakeries and barbacoa tacos, on the side of town where you get called “mija” or “mijo” the most — the West Side. I was raised by the neighborhood that had the house with the address I’ll get tattooed with my cousins one day.
I have so many memories that paint the streets of West Craig. I close my eyes and can vividly see the peace that crosses over Woodlawn Lake. I see the old yellow house on the corner that I have known my whole life.
My house is the house you go to every holiday. It dresses up with the seasons. When Christmas comes to town, it is the most seen house on the block. We string up hundreds of lights, as if we are about to start charging people for a light show. But it all just comes from our spirit.
The whole familia comes home to make tamales in our small kitchen every year. Chicken, beef and even strawberry ones. Any reason we can think of to have a family cookout is the right reason. We all have our own silly problems, but everyone leaves them at the door. Through its chipped paint and worn-out walls, every smell travels. Its beauty comes from the memories.
You can hear the ducks and the laughter of children feeding them when you sit on the white rocking chairs outside. When the wind and the heat in Texas work together, I could sit on the front porch forever.
I grew up a Catholic girl at the Little Flower School across from the Little Flower Basilica. It is where I had my first communion, Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD) classes every Wednesday, and Mass every Thursday. I learned the values of culture and faith. It’s where I was baptized and where I felt the power of prayer through song for the first time.
The church stands tall and proud in what feels like the heart of the West Side. There are remarkable statues and art of the angels inside and out. The crowd sweeps in when the giant bell rings, letting us know it’s time for Mass.
My favorite thing to do in my neighborhood is ride with the windows down and my radio up, yelling out my favorite songs. Sunset is the best time to do it, sitting on the passenger side with your head leaning on your arm.
I can’t help but smile when the smell of food hits my face with the wind. Here on the West Side, we have some of the best Mexican restaurants. My nose can pick up the scents from Mi Guadalajara, Garcia’s and Leticia’s. To some passing by, they are just Mexican food spots. To me, they will always remain a feeling of home.
I like to stop by the drive-thru of La Michoacana nearby, which has been around since I was a child. When I get my mangonada treat, I park and sit on the trunk of my ’05 car. The world feels like it might stop for me so I can catch my breath. It’s more than just another street you pass by. It’s more than just the park with the lake. It’s more than just the people you run into on Sundays.
My parents grew up on opposite ends of the same block of West Craig. They first saw each other when their older brothers played on the same baseball team. A true Hallmark love story. They ended up both attending Jefferson High School, where they became high school sweethearts, married soon after graduation and bought their first home a block from where they grew up. Both came from nothing and worked their way to the top. Like a tree, it seems we have roots here. And like a bird, we may eventually fly away. But the neighborhood that built me is a token I’d never trade.
