The Fourteenth Issue of The Cat 5 Review

The Cat 5 Review is a publication of literature and the arts composed by students at Lone Star College-North Harris.

Volume 9
Fall 2025

Gemini Wahhaj, Executive Editor
D.W. Puller, Editor

Poetry

Barely Noticeable by Devoshia Webb

The Roots and Branches of Family Literacy: A Five-Paragraph Essay for English Class by Devoshia Webb

Prose

Escaping the Past by Lisseth Escobar

Where the Mountains Meet the Heart: Life in El Barrial by Carmen Meija

My Afro Is Not Bad Hair; It Is the Representation of My Ancestors by Lia Zayas

Out of Place by Wilser Miranda

Sellers Road by Judith Padron

Fidelity by Breah N. Rogers

Unspoken Rules by Hieu Vu

Loss of Innocence by Brissia Escobar

Unbound by Tiffany Castro

Life Is a Highway by Johnny Tax

Barely Noticeable by Devoshia Webb

Rocks gathered like

A family on Thanksgiving Day.

Shameless shadows speak

With no words.

Flowing winds twirl like

My sister’s feet.

Cobwebs hang on branches like

A baby nursing from its mother.

Specks of red flower buds waiting

To bloom and bask in God’s glory.

A quiet place

To think and express as the mind wonders.

Sounds of chirping birds with the melody that reminds me of

My other sister’s song.

The silence of nature is loud!

The step and stones big and small

With room to grow.

The trees stand still as if they as if they are

In alignment.

A beautiful scenery, as in the garden, or should I say

Eden?

A bee flies past without a sound,

Barely noticeable,

Like my autistic son with no words.

Rising of the sun, beaming with light,

big bold eyes staring at me

as my sonshine kisses me

Good morning.

Green tree.

Hear the trees sing.

The Roots and Branches of Family Literacy: A Five-Paragraph Essay for English Class by Devoshia Webb

In the garden of my soul, family literacy grows,

A tree with roots deep involved, where wisdom flows.

Each member a branch, reaching wide, reaching far,

Tales entwined in melodies; stories written in stars.

My Father’s Musical Roots

My father, the root, the pulse of our home,

His piano keys rhythms, no one plays alone.

Every chord a heartbeat, every note a sigh,

He taught us that music lets our spirits fly.

In the evenings in his makeshift studio, the air thick with sound,

Melodies wrapped around us, a haven we found.

He sang tales of heartbreak, joy, and despair,

In each note, a lesson, in every silence, a worship.

He showed us that songs hold what words often miss,

That the language of music can cradle our delight.

With fingers dancing on the keys, he’d sing us nearby,

To listen, to feel, to shed every tear.

And as I grew older, I found my own voice,

In the words I penned, I made a choice.

To honor his lessons, to honor his art,

Each word is a tribute, a piece of my soul.

The roots of our family, nourished by sound,

Where stories of struggle and hope can be found.

In his songs, I discovered the power to share,

The essence of life, the beauty laid naked.

My Mother’s Nurturing Wisdom

Then there’s my mother, the trunk that holds strong,

Her quiet strength whispers, a comforting song.

With her Bible in hand, she would read us truth,

Of faith, sacrifice, love, and courage that never fails.

I picture her there, in the glow of the light,

Her voice is like a wind, flying gentle and light.

Each verse a seed planted in the soil of our spirits,

Teaching compassion and forgiveness ties that bond.

She turned scriptures to lessons, woven with care,

From parables of kindness to truth of sacrifices.

Her faith ignited the fire of our souls,

A nurturing spirit that never departs.

Through her, I learned that literacy’s scope

Is more than just reading, it’s the foundation of hope.

The words she spoke shaped the way I see life,

Guiding my pen through moments of strife.

In every word I craft, her wisdom unfolds,

The lessons she taught me, more precious than told.

Her nurturing wisdom, a constant embrace,

Reminds me that words can uplift and erase.

My Sister the Dancer

One sister, a dancer, her body a brush

In the art of movement, she creates a hush.

With grace like a whisper, she speaks without sound,

In each leap and each twirl, new stories are found.

Her classroom, a stage where young hearts learn to fly,

Encouraging voices to rise, to reach for the sky.

She teaches them language in every sway,

That dance is a story, beautiful unsound words.

I watch her pour passion into each arch,

A beacon of light, igniting a fire.

Through her journey, I learned that expression could take

Many forms, and movement, new words can make.

In her performances, I see the love flow,

A narrative woven in each spin and throw.

As she teaches her students to find their own way,

She cultivated courage, brightening the day.

Her branches reach outward, embracing the air,

Reminding us all that creativity’s rare.

In her dance, I find inspiration to be

An artist, a thinker, an echo set free.

My Sister the Singing Minister

And then there’s my other sister, a minister’s grace,

In her voice, I find faith, a warm sacred space.

She leads with compassion, her spirit a song.

Through music and sermons, she shows us we belong.

Her voice lifts in worship, a melody pure,

In the stories she shares, our hearts can endure.

With lyrics that resonate, she teaches us love,

Reminding us of all the blessings above.

In the pulpit she stands, a ray of hope,

Encouraging others to rise and fight.

For hope, for connection, for stories untold,

In her ministry, warmth and wisdom unfold.

Through her journey, I’ve seen how faith intertwines

With the fabric of literacy, the strength it defines.

Her songs and her sermons, a powerful blend,

Show that our voices can heal and transcend.

In her presence, I feel the importance of sharing,

Of lifting each other, of loving and caring.

Her branch extends wide, inviting us in,

To celebrate life, where our journeys begin.

My journey as an aspiring Poet

And as for me, I’m a poet at heart,

Finding my voice in the rhythms of art.

Inspired by my family, I weave words like thread,

Exploring our stories, where courage has led.

In verses I pen, I capture our dreams,

The laughter, the struggles, the silent screams.

I reflect on our journeys, each moment we’ve shared,

A pen work rich with love that we’ve borne.

Writing is my refuge, a space to unfold,

Each poem is a tear of feelings untold.

The lessons I’ve learned from my father, my mother,

My sisters, their journeys each one like no other.

In spoken word, I seek to ignite,

To create a connection, to share the light.

I want my words to resonate, to touch every soul,

To show that our stories are what makes us whole.

In this family of artists, we weave our own fates,

Creating a legacy that time will celebrate.

With roots intertwined and branches that grow,

We honor our past while embracing the flow.

Conclusion

So here we stand, a family tree,

Each voice makes a note in our symphony.

Through music, through dance, through words that inspire,

We cultivate love, ignite the fire.

In the garden of literacy, we nurture our dreams,

Creating a legacy stitched at seams.

Together we flourish, together we rise,

In the embrace of our stories, our spirits touch the heavens.

This is our testament, our living decree,

That in family literacy, we forever will be.

A tapestry vibrant, a chorus of grace,

Each heart, each journey, a cherished place.

Acknowledgments

•My Father, whose music taught me the power of expression.

•My mother, whose wisdom nurtured my spirit and love for literature.

•My Sisters, who inspired me through their artistry and faith.

Together, they have shaped my journey and understanding of literacy.

Escaping the Past by Lisseth Escobar

When I was in elementary school, I always held on to the illusion that my teenage years would be a smooth road. I imagined a stellar student like the ones presented on the TV networks like PBS Kids, with perfect grades, college opportunities, being top of their class, and graduating with many cords. My childhood dreams were disillusioned the moment I failed eight-grade during the pandemic.

I still remember the hollow feeling of my math teacher bursting into my history classroom after STAAR testing, announcing to everyone I failed her class with a 3. “I cannot imagine how you will hold yourself in the future. See you in summer school,” my math teacher said. My face burned as the room fell silent, I could feel the gaze of my peers stabbing my back. Her words struck me with the reality of the path I was going down, and I began to have little hope for myself to do better. Looking back, I know exactly why I ended up there. Growing up, my mother would repeat, “Whoever you surround yourself with is a reflection of who you are.” In my adolescent years, I set my dreams aside to be accepted by my peers. I allowed my surroundings to be filled with people who valued smoking and drugs, rather than success.

Coming from a strict Pentecostal household, I would constantly be controlled and supervised. Simple things such as listening to secular music, watching anime, and wearing pants were not allowed in our household. When I would ask my parents why, I would receive ambiguous responses like “it’s Satanic” or “it’s too worldly.”

Around fifth grade, as I began growing into adolescence, I began envying the people around me that lived without care, had no control from their parents, and could wear the clothes they wanted. I wanted the “freedom” they had. I wanted to fit in and express myself the way they did with their baggy ripped jeans and loud heavy metal, so I decided to try and go against my parents. However, the consequences of my actions were right at the doorstep as I began rebelling.

I still remember being in fifth grade and getting caught listening to my favorite metal song “Cowboys from Hell” by Pantera. My phone was taken, and I would only receive it back under the condition that I would not listen to “Satanic” music like that again. Of course, as a rebellious adolescent, I learned to be sneaky behind their backs, hiding apps and deleting my history to make sure I could continue doing what I wanted without being punished. I began trying to be like my friends that had “freedom,” but I chose to ignore that many of them obtained that at the cost of going down the wrong path.

 One of my first friends in sixth grade was the reason I saw my first bag of weed at just 11 years old. I remember him slowly and carefully pulling his unzippable Ziploc bag that contained the green rocky sustenance. It had a strong smell that penetrated through my nostrils and made my eyes watery. At the time I was innocent enough to conclude it was weed he pulled from his mother’s garden. When I found out that was not the case, I became curious and started hanging out with people like him. The wrong crowd, filled with junkies and kids who did not care about school, eventually became a part of who I was from an early age, leading to me failing 8th grade math with a 3 and having to take summer school. My humiliation at the words of my teacher should have been a wake-up call to realize I mistook rebellion for control, but that was not the case. Instead, I took her words negatively, and to make myself feel better, I constantly told myself, “I know I’m not going to be better, so why try?” Although deep down I hated the person I was becoming, I secretly liked the idea of doing what I wanted, whenever I wanted.

Finally, I passed eighth grade summer school, and high school became my present, where I wanted to forget my past and start over. However, things did not go as planned, and eventually I met Angel in my freshman year, leading my habits to only worsen. Angel was the boy sitting across from me in biology. He was quiet and reserved, often sticking with his only friend in that class. He wore a sharp look, dangerous enough for many to fear and stay away. His voice was soft with a strong lisp, his hair thick with brown curls flowing from his fluffy mullet.

I remember our first interaction: the day we solidified our friendship. In a group assignment on photosynthesis, he somehow managed to misspell the word flower to flour. Despite his intimidating appearance and not being well acquainted with him, I grabbed his paper, pointed directly at his error, and laughed at him. He stared at me blankly with no expression for about 5 seconds and soon began smiling and chuckling. After that day we became friends with a custom of teasing, pushing, and correcting each other around school. As the school year came to an end to a transition towards sophomore year, Angel and I began to share an unusual friendship.

Unlike my controlling parents, Angel had no authority figures in his life, and his parents cared little about what he did, explaining his heavy consumption of drugs and alcohol at the age of 15. He was free-spirited, reckless, and stubborn, sharing many characteristics with me. He liked danger and often partied with alcohol, sneaked out, and hung out after school with us whenever he pleased; no one governed him. I admired our similarities, and he had something I did not, “freedom,” and his character hypnotized me. Eventually, it was not long until his unhealthy habits began rubbing onto me, and I went back to being the person I wanted to forget.

I soon bought my very own weed pen at the age of 15. The cartridge was a Big Chief, pineapple flavored, and the battery was rainbow colored and shimmery, an appearance that fools innocence. I was again the person who smoked in the school restrooms with her friends, but this time it was worse than before. I was not trying to be sneaky about getting high anymore; instead, I would be bold enough to get high at home, sometimes before church services, just because I could. Anyone who would talk to me could note my bloodshot eyes and a half-turned smile, but I did not care to get caught anymore.

Somehow my parents, who were so strict and demanding, did not seem to care anymore, and I was only doing the damage to myself now. The fun and games were over when each exhaled cloud of smoke would produce a burning sensation in my lungs with a strong cough followed by blood, and if I was lucky, bright green phlegm. I began realizing the consequences of the path I chose to go by and finally caught up to me.

 To make matters worse, Angel had been caught smoking in the boy’s locker room towards the end of the second semester of our sophomore year. My health was deteriorating and one of my closest friends was on the verge of getting expelled. My heart raced and a lump formed in my throat at the thought of not being able to see him. Together, we tried to convince the school board to let him stay, but the school committee had already decided, and Angel was quickly expelled. His last day of school was the last day I saw him again, and we tried to stay connected, but our friendship eventually faded to nothing.

I was filled with regret and shame for who I had become, and I realized my mom had always been right. The crowd I surrounded myself with became who I was in my early teenage years, and all because I had lost hope I could be better. I once allowed the words of my eighth-grade math teacher to let me lose hope of myself, but this time I was going to use them as motivation to prove her wrong.

Although there was nothing I could do to change what was done, I knew I could change my outcome, and I remembered the dreams I held dear to my heart when I was a child. I began studying rigorously in the dark late nights until the sun rose and shined brightly again: I was going to be the person I longed to be. By the end of my senior year, after all the hard work, I graduated with honors, 8 chords, more than 15 college acceptances, and 5 scholarships. Although it was not how I had planned, I fulfilled my elementary school dream, and I realized before it was too late my surroundings would not shape me.

Where the Mountains Meet the Heart: Life in El Barrial by Carmen Mejia

Here, we feel cared for, not only by the people but also by the mountains that surround us, standing like guardians to protect us.

You know it is late for school when parrots chatter by the window. By six in the morning, they are already awake, swooping down to eat the overly ripe mangoes that hang from the seven-foot trees in the backyards. This is how the day begins for most residents of El Barrial, where homes are surrounded by fruit trees that provide food and shelter for these colorful birds. This neighborhood is located in San Pedro Sula, Honduras, in the heart of Central America, a region renowned for its verdant, elevated mountains and tropical weather. While the big green mountains behind El Barrial offer stunning views, it’s the generous people and active community that truly define this neighborhood.

The closest comparison to this place would be Disney’s Encanto movie. Kids genuinely believe that growing up with towering, majestic mountains surrounding their homes is normal, but many people do not truly appreciate living in a place like this until they move to an area lacking biodiversity. Watching the wooded mountains from the window gives you a sense of tranquility, but these mountains not only provide a majestic view and imposing presence but also bring abundant wildlife to the neighborhood. It is common to see toucans flying across the neighborhood in search of food. These multicolored birds, with their large, curved beaks and bright yellow chests, make a peculiar sound recognizable from a mile away, reminding you of the background forest sounds people play on their phones to relax or fall asleep. People are already used to seeing them daily, just like the colorful parrots that live in backyard trees. The strong fragrance of wildflowers and tall pine trees fills the air, making you feel as if you are in a tropical paradise, which is not far from the truth.

Living in such a vibrant place tends to make people more generous. Every time a family moves into the neighborhood, it is customary to knock on their door and welcome them. A common way to greet new members of the community is by bringing fresh-baked goods or giving them a small plant to grow in their backyard. Members of the community often host gatherings for special occasions like Christmas. They post open invitations in the neighborhood group chat, welcoming everyone to come over for dinner. The neighborhood committee always plans a fun day for children on Children’s Day, preparing the park with big trampolines, colorful piñatas, and plenty of traditional foods like baleadas, pupusas, and tacos. All these events have a purpose: to bring people together through shared traditions and create friendships that span the entire block.

“How can a community’s spirit exist if it is not created first?” That is what a committee member once said in a meeting with the residents of El Barrial. Activities that encourage residents to interact with one another are carefully arranged each year. Residents eagerly await the annual marathon, where families run together and the winner earns a free dinner at a fine restaurant. Events like these keep the community spirit alive, fostering harmony and connection among residents.

Most communities in Honduras have a neighborhood committee because the government cannot fully handle responsibilities such as security, street paving, and pest control. Therefore, members of the committee are elected annually by residents, much like in political elections. Each nominee presents ideas and promises during their campaign, and residents choose the candidate whose interests align with their own. Ultimately, the committee’s job is to ensure the neighborhood does not lack essential services, including the restoration of public spaces such as parks and roads.

Beauty can surely be found in this neighborhood, whether it is the verdant mountains behind it or the people within it. Ultimately, the generosity of people and the wish to keep the community spirit alive are what make this place unique in people’s hearts.  Describing a place where so many memories are made may seem like a difficult task, but in truth, El Barrial is simple to define. Here, we feel cared for, not only by the people but also by the mountains that surround us, standing like guardians to protect us.

My Afro Is Not Bad Hair; It Is the Representation of My Ancestors by Lia Zayas

My hair is not just an accessory that makes me look pretty; it represents my family from past generations.

“Pelo de trapo”, “Pelo Malo” or “Vicente Van Coco”–these phrases marked my childhood, leaving it filled with confusion and insecurity about myself. Since I was little, I constantly heard those phrases, but I did not truly understand the intention of ridicule and racism.  People from my neighborhood, school and even family members used them until I entered in fourth grade at Cira Maria Holguín Cuba Elementary School. That first day of school I was very happy and excited. In my backpack I carried pencils with perfectly sharpened tips, brand-new notebooks and my shoes were spotless. My uniform smelled like Nacar, the soap my grandmother had used to wash it two days before, it was fresh and neatly ironed.

That morning, my Abuelita Obdulia and I walked through the alley located on Calle Aguilera Y Marti #6788 that was always full of mud and trash. I was hopping like a little bunny, and she scolded me softly: “Lia, don’t go that way, you’ll get your shoes dirty.” I immediately straightened up like a soldier, and she laughed quietly. When we reached the school entrance, she bent down, kissed my forehead and whispered, “God bless you my beautiful girl.” Everything feels perfect, until I entered the classroom. As we arrived, we had to line up outside the classroom to check attendance.

When it was my turn, the teacher named Maria Rosalva looked at me and said in such a disdainful tone, “No one did your hair before you came today.”

I froze. I didn’t understand why she said that. As I walked through the doorway, she messed up my hair with her right hand, destroying the buns my grandmother had made for me whit my golden ribbons. The happiness I felt at the beginning of the day turned into a cloud of sadness.

Later at lunchtime, she stood next to me with one hand on my chair and the other on the table, and said loudly, “You look like a crazy girl with that hedgehog hair; You remind me of Vicente Van Coco.”  Then she laughed out loud and the whole class joined her. My eyes filled with tears, my cheeks and ears burned. I was embarrassed and I kept asking myself: How could my teacher say that? Why was she mocking my hair? That morning my grandmother had prepared my favorite lunch for me, congrí with ropa vieja and platanitos fritos, but I could not even open my lunchbox. I rested my head on my crossed arms and cried quietly until lunchtime ended. All through the afternoon 12:40-4:20 I could not stop staring at the clock on the wall. With every litter movement of its hands, I felt one second closer to running back into my grandmother’s warm arms, where no one can bully me because of my hair. 

 When the 4:20 bell rang, I was the first one to stand up. I arranged my desk, pushed the chair under it, cleaned my table, and ran out fast like I was in a marathon. I ran through the hallway door to the playground, where all the relatives would wait for the children to come out. I saw my grandmother standing next to the tamarind tree wearing a red dress with yellow flowers and a scarf. Seeing her I started to cry, and she said to me: “What’s wrong, my girl?”

I just said, “Let’s go, Grandma”. 

When I got home, I took a bath with very hot water, as we say in Cuba, “Agua para pelar gallina” My grandma had food already made and served, but I felt so bad that I just wanted to lie down and sleep.

The next day, after brushing my teeth and washing my face, I told myself that everything would get better, that yesterday had just been a bad day, but as the months went by, the situation only got worse. From September until March, my days turned into a real nightmare. The teasing about my hair from classmates and teachers stopped being just words and they began to physically hurt me. During gym class, they threw small stones into my hair. They also put leaves from that plant right next to the classroom on me. The plant was huge, so its branches reached through the window.

Day by day, I felt more suffocated. I got sadder all the time. I did not want to leave the house anymore. Every morning, my grandmother had to struggle with me. I just refused to go to school. On the days she managed to convince me somehow, I put on a tight jumpsuit. Over that, I wore my granny’s headscarf. It covered me up completely. In that way, I tried to avoid the teasing and criticism about my hair. For one week, I really could not take it any longer. I felt exhausted from all the teasing I had endured. Every day, I gave my grandmother a different excuse. I said I felt sick, or I claimed I was tired. In the end, I even lied and told her there were no classes that day.

That Friday, she came into my room. She said good morning holding in one hand a hot chocolate and in her other hand a bread with egg, which was my favorite breakfast. She then sat on the edge of the bed and gently told me it was time to wake up and get ready for school. I was all set to give her another excuse, but she already knew what I was doing. She put the breakfast on the nightstand. After that, she told me I needed to be honest. She wanted me to tell her what was going on.

I looked her in the eyes and explained what was happening, I felt ashamed to tell her all the bullying I was experiencing, I told her they called me rag hair, Vicente coconut head. She took a deep breath, hugged me, and said the words that changed my life. She explained to me that my hair is not bad, nor is it at all like a rag. She told me that my hair carried the heritage of many of my ancestors and that it represented my white father and my black mother. She also told me that I should be proud of being a mixed-race mulatto, and that there was no reason to change my hair, by straightening or cutting it. Even if society makes you feel ugly because you don’t fit into the beauty standards that people hold in their minds. She ended the conversation with the phrase, “My girl, you are beautiful, my lovely mulatta.”

After that conversation, the way I saw myself changed completely. I never hid my hair again, and I didn’t care about the racist and mocking comments I got daily. Every day I asked my grandmother to put those ribbons in my hair in the different colors I loved so much. When I entered the classroom, I felt confident in myself and proud to be mulatta. That pride kept growing increasingly as I grew older.

This experience, being an Afro-Cuban girl, not only taught me how to love and feel proud of my hair; but every day when I look in the mirror, I feel proud of my roots. My hair is not just an accessory that makes me look pretty; it represents my family from past generations.

Out of Place by Wilser Miranda

Once the clock hits 6pm on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, it takes me back to the nauseous feeling I would usually get when my mom would say, “Get ready for church, kids. We’re leaving in an hour.”

I was not affiliated with a place of religion until I was eight. My dad, who used to be an alcoholic in his early twenties, got arrested for driving under the influence. Being away from his family for months changed his mindset about life and made him improve his life, as well as ours by attending a Christian church.

When I first got introduced to church, I felt very unsettled. Luckily, I had a brother and a sister with me. I remember the church in East Aldine, behind a small housing area. It looked like a small blue warehouse, named “Iglesia de Dios.” During service, the kids were sent to a classroom. My siblings and I entered the room, and we got nasty looks from the other kids. My aunt, who they called a “teacher,” introduced us. The kids remained silent and looked at us as if we were aliens. Only our cousins interacted with us. We didn’t let that affect us; we kept on drawing on our little red desks.

We continued with our activities until a kid murmured, “Don’t hang out with them, they’re weird.” I froze from the distress I felt. I looked at my sister’s brown eyes, starting to shed tears into her sweet red-cheeked face.

My brother and I stood up and held our sister with each hand and returned to our parents. They had asked us what happened but knowing that my parents felt joyful about attending church, we told them, “Les extraña,” meaning she missed their presence. My siblings and I knew this was our new lifestyle.

My cousins who lived near the church often invited my brother and me. We usually played common kids’ games like hide and seek, tag, and soccer. One day, they wanted to introduce us to a friend who lived nearby. They knocked on a black-windowed door of a red house, and to our surprise, it was the same kid who had made that awful comment. He opened the door and looked confused.

One of my cousins said, “Hey, we were wondering if we could play your video console.”

He looked at my cousins and us and said, “Yeah, come on in.”

 They entered the house, and my brother and I were about to enter.

He then pulled his arm out to block us from entering and said, “Not y’all, y’all can leave.” Afterwards, he shut the door in our faces with such powerful force.

Minutes later, we could see Mario Kart playing in the living room from his windowed door. I felt lightheaded and wanted to run away and be done with the kids from church. My brother and I didn’t want to tell my mom or aunt, so we just distracted ourselves from our emotions and enjoyed each other’s company.

We kept attending church, and our dread for it only grew. People in the neighborhood constantly complained about the loud bass from the worship music. One day, my brother and I skipped classroom time and played soccer as the sharp smell of the freshly cut grass was the only thing that calmed my nerves from being at church. Suddenly, we were interrupted by blue and red lights accompanied by loud police sirens. A neighbor had reported a noise complaint, and the officers had given a citation to the pastor. They had closed the church because they weren’t allowed to host services there anymore. I felt relieved, thinking we were not going back, but eventually the church decided to move to a different area. I thought I had finally escaped.

As time went by, the kids slowly started accepting me and my siblings for a bit. My sister had her own friends, and because my brother and cousins were around the same age, the other kids eventually included us because we would always be with our cousins. I was feeling much better about church, until my cousins’ family moved to North Carolina to spread the word of God. As my brother and I grew up, our relationship faded. We decreased our communication because of personal reasons. Without our cousins, the friendships we thought we had at church decreased.

I had made one genuine connection with a kid named Daniel. He was about 5’6’’ with brown hair, brown skin, and a beauty mark above his lips. He became the only reason I felt calm when going to church. That friendship unfortunately didn’t last as long as I wanted. I had an uncle who was married to Daniel’s cousin, and that cousin was unfaithful to my uncle. Due to the separation, it felt immoral to both of us to keep being friends. The last conversation we had was about joining his 16th birthday Fast & Furious theme party, which I unfortunately never had the chance to attend.

Since I no longer had a friendship in church or a good connection with my brother, I didn’t see the reason for attending church anymore.

One Sunday, my dad had told us to get ready for church, and my mouth went dry after I told him, “I don’t feel like going.”

He looked at me as if I had insulted him. He replied saying, “¿Y qué otra cosa te vas a quedar haciendo aqui?” meaning, what else would you stay here doing?

The conversation got long and worsened. It ended with my dad telling me that if I no longer wanted to attend church, then I shouldn’t. He shed tears and slammed the door on his way out. I felt sick, but very relieved. I hadn’t attended church for a month until my mom told me one of the most heartbreaking pieces of news.

A friend from church named Lauro passed away from cancer. Although I wasn’t close to this friend, he was kind, unlike the others. Lauro had saved me once from drowning in a pool, and that’s a moment I will never forget. On my way to the funeral, I couldn’t help but cry, not only for his passing but for the nervousness I felt about attending church again.

Once I arrived, my parents told me “Siéntate ahí,” telling me to sit in the row where Lauro’s friends were sitting. I saw the kid that had made the rude comment years ago, and I didn’t want to sit in there, but my brother sat down, and it felt like I had no other choice.

Once I sat down, I noticed something odd. I looked to my right since I was sitting last, and I noticed they all had the same shirts. I immediately saw they were all wearing blue memorial shirts with a picture of Lauro. I felt like an outcast. What hurt me the most was the fact that the new kid, who had just joined the church a few months ago had gotten a memorial shirt of a guy who he didn’t even know, while my brother and I, who attended the church for more than 8 years, got nothing but weird stares.

While the pastor was giving a eulogy, he was naming everyone in the row as Lauro’s friends. When he got to my name, I noticed a look of confusion on his face. My heart immediately dropped. It took him around thirty-five seconds to say my name, and only because an adult yelled it out. My face felt hot with embarrassment. I looked around, and mostly everyone was chuckling. While they took that moment as something funny, I felt lost. I started contemplating my attendance at church.

Once the eulogy was over, everyone from my row started getting up for the last goodbyes to Lauro. When it was my turn, I noticed the disgusted eyes I got from the guy who made that comment when we were kids. Even though the interaction was silent, his eyes told me everything I needed to know. I felt disgusted. I left the church and ran while looking for my mom. Once I saw her, I didn’t tell her anything; I just looked at her beautiful brown eyes and started sobbing in her arms. I told her “Ya me quiero ir,” meaning I wanted to leave. While she didn’t want me to go, she gave me the keys to the gray SUV and told me to wait for her there. Once I got in the car, I continued crying. I felt like vomiting. I couldn’t vent to anyone. I felt alone.

My contemplation turned into a realization. I realized that forcing myself into a place that doesn’t accept or acknowledge me was only making me lose pieces of myself. Church is a place that is known to be welcoming to everyone, no matter what, but since my first day of attending, there wasn’t a moment I felt like I belonged there.

After the funeral, I stopped attending church for a few weeks but eventually returned because of my parents. I am still alone there; the only person I talk to is my sister. The clock now doesn’t make me feel anxious enough to vomit; it’s only a sign of a closer day for me to be accepted. On that day, I learned that belonging isn’t about where you’re told to be, but about where you feel seen and accepted, and church was never that place for me. One day, I’ll find my place where I belong.

Sellers Road by Judith Padron

This community marked me with memories of poverty, death, and eerie stillness.

I am walking on the side of an old road with patches of faded asphalt and deep cracks, those cracks stretching out and pointing in the direction of the old, beaten mailboxes sagging on crooked posts, each one leaning precisely on the red, faded sign that sits just right at the entrance of Sellers Rd. Amongst the dullness of the bland maroon, black, and brown homes, behind each one of its peeling walls, memories of the barefooted children who grew up there, the old feeling of deep sorrow, grief, and shed tears could all be heard by the next-door neighbors, who stood stoic and unmoving, each significant remembrance tucked behind the rusted doors in front of each home. This community marked me with memories of poverty, death, and eerie stillness, each highlighting a core memory from Sellers Rd.

On most days, the children of Sellers Rd felt cramped and claustrophobic within their small homes.  We often choose to spend our days outside, seeking the fresh air. Our shoes, too worn to wear, were frequently left behind as our bare feet sprinted along the dirt paths. We looked for refuge away from our homes, which usually felt filled with a thick, tense air. Tables stacked with envelopes by our parents that read in red ink: “Late Payment.” We ran past homes with broken windows and rusted doors. The only way we could stop would be to fuel our empty stomachs by grabbing a large bag of chips. We’d wash the crumbs off our hands at outdoor faucets outside our homes, which were mainly unreliable, just like the electricity flowing in our neighborhood. Despite these limitations, our feet kept running; we were too young and naive to grasp our circumstances fully. However, we found ways to persevere, never taking anything for granted.

No one in the community took anything for granted, and the memories of Sellers Rd were often followed by grief and death. The sudden wail of sirens outside our homes was an all-too-familiar sound. Just that same year, an older man on our block had passed away. His home, left untouched, gathered an immense amount of grey dust over its windows, a thick musk fermented by years of neglect since his wife was widowed. Death and loss were something familiar, but the events that followed were beyond something easy to dissect. One dreadful night, paramedics emerged carrying a light blue blanket. The stretcher was partially covered by someone too young to cover it entirely. Tears streamed down the faces of everyone in the community. Mothers tried to shield their children’s eyes from the sight. However, one mother could not cover her son’s eyes from the horrific scene; she was already holding the lifeless body of her son, clinging to a desperate hope that he might wake up. Beside her, her own mother shed the same tears. An immense amount of pain consumed both. That night, as both lost someone dear, the community was left in shock and significantly impacted.

 Further down the street, where brown-shaded homes stood lined up at the very end, grief seemed less of a concern to the neighbors who lived there. These homes appeared set back, like forgotten relics, partially hidden behind mountains of garbage, yet somehow remaining unbroken, almost pristine. Each felt unsettling to pass by, as if every step was being observed. As a child, I was never permitted to walk down that particular street, nor to step on the side of the path that ran alongside these homes. The community members at the end of the street seemed overly uptight and distant from the rest of the community. They were strict about their properties, with tall picket fences that covered the view of their dogs, tied on loose leashes. These dogs, with powerful jaws and sharp, white teeth, seemed to embody the unspoken anger of their owners —a silent warning that you did not belong on that side of the community. Despite their intimidating presence, their homes were well-maintained, almost as if they had been newly renovated. Their lives rarely intersected with their neighbors’, making them appear secluded from the rest of the community. This stark contrast between their well-kept homes and their social isolation highlighted the distinct social boundaries within our community.

 Sellers Rd held far more than its dull appearance suggested. It marked me with memories of poverty, death, and an eerie stillness, each experience a crucial piece from a life lived on Sellers Rd.

Fidelity by Breah N. Rogers

No one should become statistics because of where they were raised. They should embrace their community and show that even a kid from the ghetto can make it out and make something of themselves.

Fidelity is an old historic community that has a history of almost a century. Even with its flawed appearance, and rough living, Fidelity is the epitome of many generations, surrounded by several churches, schools, parks and recreational centers, businesses, and most of all beautiful older generations who can teach about the history of the community.

Upon entering Fidelity, you’re greeted by a jagged railroad that is occupied by a roaring, whistling train that will keep you sleepless at night. The soaring old rusted, abandoned Texas Rice Inc. sits tall and high, consuming space that could be of use to another business. Hope your tires are in decent shape because leading you through the neighborhood of the run-down homes lies a narrow, crumbled road. As you breeze through, the polluted air is saturated by the aroma of marijuana, crack, and forties.

Although the homes may be on the verge of demolition, they are still filled by the beautiful, wrinkled-skinned, elderly who have spent major portion of their lives in the community. In the early morning, the elderly can be seen limping, dragging their feet across the concrete almost sounding as if someone were raking rocks, to sit on their front porch to read the Daily Houston article while enjoying their warm morning cup of joe that fills the heart with such joy. Towards midday, your usual dope fiends and homeless people, who once lived a normal life, can be seen walking like zombies, smelling worse than a barn looking for their next fix. At the break of dawn, you will hear the eerie sound of your living alarm system, roosters crowing also waking up the stray animals to get up and roam the streets to look for food and their next victim to chase down. Nothing makes the day more enjoyable than hearing the joyful sound of the kids playing outside, sweat running down their face and neck like raindrops.

Located across the second set of railroad tracks, The Catholic Church, Our Lady Star of The Sea Catholic Church, would host the annual “Bazaar” bringing the community together to dance Zydeco, host activities for the kids, sell different food, clothes, and accessories, as well as host bingo inside for the elderly. The aroma of the sweet and savory glazed barbecue would tear your eyes and salivate your mouth. Located down the street lies the neighborhood’s corner store, Kawagees. The store has been standing for decades appearing run-down and slightly reeking of mildew, slowly deteriorating, yet still serving your typical alcoholics as well as the neighborhood kids. Texas Rice Inc. used to store and distribute rice but was shut down as early as 2017. Fidelity Manor High once stood as a segregated school for African Americans from 1955 to 1970 but was later demolished in 1986.

Fidelity has outskirt communities that are connected. One being Galena Manor, the “Suburbian” part that houses the Sweethome Missionary Baptist Church that excepts everyone as they come. The church is family-oriented and provides transportation to the elderly and anyone who aren’t within walking distance. There’s a youth choir and youth praise dance team where the kids would sing their little hearts out like angels and dance until they feel the Holy Spirit that would then cause them to cry for joy. The church itself brings fulfilling love and warmth as everyone cares and is there for one another. A five-minute walk down the quiet, breezy street is the Recreational Center and Park. The “Rec” was opened in the 1950’s by residents like Paul Winfield. It was specifically for senior citizens but was later used for any event. The kid-friendly park is often noiseless to where you can feel the fresh scented air whistling through your ears is surrounded by a 0.5-mile track where the sun beams on your skin. The houses are filled with your older, nosey (in a polite way) neighbors who are also house-watchers, babysitters, and your personal chef from time-to-time.

Fidelity is also connected to another community Clinton Park “The Madness” home of the crime and drugs. As Fidelity also has its own share of drugs and crime, Clinton Park is usually where it occurs first. Police are seen rounding daily looking down on people as if they’re God waiting for a frequent flyer to make another mistake. Former classmates and childhood friends have become a victim by becoming a pants-sagging, tatted body, weed smoking, gun holding statistical “gangster.” Yearly homicides have become so frequent, it’s like a holiday. One of those homicides was the recent event of an 11-year-old boy who was fatally shot after a harmless game of “ding-dong-ditch.”

There are aged homes that accommodate hard-working citizens. Some deteriorated, broken-in roofed, infested houses are used as a “trap house” where you’ll see people running in and out like a colony of ants just itching for food. There are houses that are hidden by high-rise grass, trees, and even broken- broken-down vehicles that are filled with mildew and more. Some of these homes are still of effective use for the homeless to shelter themselves, especially during rainy days and gloomy nights.

Clinton Park has a not so kid-friendly park as it’s occupied by your local dealers in their old-school Cadillacs and Impalas with chrome rims and “elbows” with chopped, screwed, and slowed H-Town classics blaring through the speakers sounding like gun fire. The park has a skate park that’s graffiti-filled if different gangs and surrounded by high-rise grass and weeds. The community pool is algae-green and has a urine smell as you get close, since all the pool is used for now is for the kids to just urinate. Besides the typical chaos that has developed, the park hosts its annual block party where the community can come together and just embrace life.

Fidelity may be just another “hood” just by its appearance and crime, but that can happen anywhere. Fidelity was once a great neighborhood that just so happened to deteriorate due to newer generations. No matter which part of Fidelity you live in, the god-fearing elderly have seen the community change over the course of decades and will always provide you with great advice, love, and encouragement. No one should become statistics because of where they were raised. They should embrace their community and show that even a kid from the ghetto can make it out and make something of themselves.

Unspoken Rules by Hieu Vu

When I was eleven, my parents moved us from Vietnam straight into Thompson Elementary, without giving me time to adjust. They were afraid I’d fall behind, so after a month of watching cartoons and playing online games, I picked up enough basic English for school. On my first day, I walked into the classroom already feeling alienated because I was the only Asian kid. I had no idea how American children acted. Back in Vietnam, no one minded if you stared while they talked or stood close enough to brush shoulders. Personal space was non-existent on the crowded streets of Binh Gia.

So, on my first day, when the teacher spoke too fast for me to understand, I stared right at her the entire time, as if she would slow down. When I needed another student’s attention, I tapped their shoulders the way I always had back home. I didn’t mean anything by it. But the second I did it, they quickly pulled away. I remember getting looks from other students, but I didn’t think much of it

I didn’t realize I was breaking rules I didn’t know existed. Here in America, not staring, not touching, personal space, and chewing quietly were basic manners that nobody taught me. In Vietnam, crowds pressed in, kids talked while eating, and a tap on the shoulder was normal. My everyday habits were out of place here, even though they were normal back home.

By the second week, I could tell the other kids were avoiding me. They didn’t say it out loud, but the way they leaned slightly when I sat down, moved their lunch trays aside, or how their conversations would feel silent when I approached. I knew I wasn’t fitting in. I went home every day wondering why I was avoided. I have been in school for 2 weeks; even new kids were fitting in better than me. I wondered why my actions were considered out of place.

One afternoon, we were working on a group project about the United States. My group had to name all fifty States. I didn’t catch the instructions, so I stared at the girl next to me, hoping she’d explain everything to me, but she snapped, “Why are you looking at me like that? Stop being weird.”

I froze. My face instantly turned red. I didn’t know what to say.

Another boy added, “Yeah, you always stare. It’s creepy.”

I opened my mouth to explain I just didn’t catch the instructions, but before I could speak, the teacher walked over. “Is everything okay here?”

The girl blared out, “He keeps staring at us.”

The teacher looked as if she already expected this from me. She said to me slowly, “It’s ok to stare, but don’t do it for too long.”

I nodded, my whole body collapsing in on itself as if I were trying to disappear. The group let out a light chuckle and returned to their project, while I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared blankly at the floor.

That night, I sat at the kitchen table while my mom cooked canh chua and my dad watched a Vietnamese news broadcast on the TV. When my mom asked me, “How was school?” I stopped eating and said, “I don’t think people like me.”

Dad didn’t say anything, but Mom said, “What do you mean?”

I responded, “They think I’m weird.”

Mom looked up then, confused. “Weird? Ignore what they say. You’re just being yourself.”

That was the problem. Being myself was weird.

The next day at recess, I tried joining a group of boys playing tag. I stood next to one of them the way I would back home, close enough to show I wanted to participate. He immediately stepped away and shouted, “Back up!”

A few kids laughed. Once again, my face lit up, but this time, a mini explosion happened inside my head. I quickly walked in the restroom, locking myself in the stall for the rest of recess. Standing in the stall, tears trickling down my cheek, nose filled with thick mucus, it was the first time I hated America and its unspoken rules.

About a month later, while working on my reading assignment, the boy next to me kept brushing his elbow against mine, as if trying to get my attention. I ignored it until he bumped me again and smeared my pencil mark. Annoyed, I turned toward him, ready to snap, but then I realized. That used to be me, the kid who didn’t know the unspoken rules. So instead of snapping, I asked, “What do you need help with?” His face brightened. “Problem 1,” he said. After helping him, I gently reminded him about personal space.

By the end of the school year, things slowly got easier. No one stared at me anymore for the way I stood or talked. I wasn’t popular, but I blended in well enough that most people barely noticed I used to be “that weird kid.” Fitting in felt like a different version of myself, one that closely monitored the space between me and others, checked the volume of my chewing, and how long I was staring. It felt weird, but I began to understand that what feels “weird” in one culture can be completely normal in another.

Even after I learned all the unspoken rules, it didn’t matter when I’m with my closed ones. I acted like myself when I’m around my family and people I was comfortable with. At home, I didn’t worry about chewing quietly or personal space. I would get “touchy” with my cousins who were born here, they would often tell me to “Stop,” but they also knew that’s just who I am.

I’ve started to understand something: you can learn how to fit in, but you can’t erase the place you came from. The habits I grew up with are still a part of me. Maybe they always will be and maybe that’s okay.