Juan Miguel Arredondo believes there’s a spirit of solidarity in San Marcos that sets his Central Texas college town apart, even as right-wing culture warriors seek to force a wedge between neighbors. 

“When there’s a crisis, Superman isn’t coming,” Arredondo, 34, told the Texas Observer during a phone interview late last year. “We have to save ourselves, and so that’s what we do.” 

A fifth-generation native of the region, Arredondo served on the San Marcos Consolidated Independent School District from 2015 to 2023, and he was again elected to the board in 2024 after a year spent working as the chief of staff for state Representative Erin Zweiner, an outspoken progressive legislator and member of the LGBTQ Caucus. In addition, he’s president and CEO of the United Way of Hays and Caldwell Counties.

Beyond those achievements, he’s also the only openly gay member of the San Marcos school board. Arredondo came out publicly in 2017 during Pride month, about two years into his first term. 

“I had one of my biggest supporters call me, compliment me on my bravery, and then immediately pivot to say, ‘It’s just so unfortunate that you’ll never get reelected,’” he recalled. “That was the first experience, right out of the gate, of folks’ perceptions of what it means to be queer or gay or LGBTQ in Texas.” 

Time has disproved that prediction. In 2024, his election was uncontested. Now, when Republican operatives arrive to propose book bans or attacks on diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in the local schools, Arredondo’s firm but kind presence helps remind his fellow trustees what’s at stake for some of the most marginalized students. “It does not escape me that my colleagues have to have those conversations with an openly gay man next to them, and I think that’s incredibly important because we’re not talking about this in the abstract.” 

Meanwhile, San Marcos and its families face challenges that are more substantial, and more dire, than a trans student using their preferred pronouns or anything found between the covers of a hardback.

“Not once has a family been in crisis because of transgender bathrooms,” Arredondo told the Observer. “It’s families not being able to afford rent or put food on the table, issues with unemployment or lack of access to jobs that pay living wages.”

San Marcos, population around 70,000, is a community between Austin and San Antonio that’s anchored by Texas State University and home to a large working-class population. “I think I’m aware of two transgender students in San Marcos CISD, but I have 60 percent of my families who are at or below the poverty line.” 

“STUDENTS INSIDE AND OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM DESERVE TO BE THEMSELVES.”

Arredondo believes that San Martians have a knack for coming together through their shared struggles. A close-knit community solidarity has made it possible to weather a series of crises, from natural ones like the COVID-19 pandemic to human-made disasters like the temporary loss of food stamps during the government shutdown in the fall of 2025. According to Arredondo’s figures, about one-third of the roughly 8,200 students in San Marcos CISD come from families who temporarily lost SNAP benefits. 

To make up the gaps, San Marcos CISD teamed up with the Hays County Food Bank to ensure that students and their families wouldn’t go hungry. Their experience during the pandemic taught Arredondo and the other school board members that any crisis like this one leaves lasting effects, from missed rent to increased stress on nonprofits and their workers—reverberations that don’t disappear overnight. “Even if the spigot, so to speak, is turned back on, we know there’s going to be delays. We know this is going to have residual effects.” 

Arredondo’s role as president of the local United Way made it easier to coordinate funding for aid. He said the board plans to enter into a long-term partnership with the food bank to keep students and families fed. 

Anne Halsey, in her 11th year as a trustee on the school board and the current board president, said Arredondo has always been a champion of inclusivity, especially for vulnerable students.

“Miguel, since I’ve known him, has always been committed to ensuring that our school district serves all of our students and that it is a … welcoming environment for everybody—for kids, for teachers, for staff,” Halsey told the Observer. “That has been consistent in the entire time I’ve known him.” 

Halsey is especially proud of improved support for students’ mental health since the two began their shared tenure. “We had one social worker that served the entire district,” she recalled. Now, every campus has counselors, and clinical psychologists are available to consult with students when needed. “Every kid needs mental health support,” Halsey said, but the board is very aware that LGBTQ+ students face higher rates of mental illness or mental health crises.

More recently, a slate of laws has come down from the Texas Legislature, such as last session’s so-called “parental rights” measure, Senate Bill 12, which mandates that schools reject diversity, equity, and inclusion programs and adds new restrictions on how schools support the mental health of their students, especially trans kids. Arredondo said the interference from the Capitol was unpopular even among the board’s more conservative members. “Time and time again, we’re having issues around funding to make sure our families have the basic necessities they need to survive, yet the Legislature is passing laws about what pronouns or what names [students] can use.” 

The Texas Education Agency still hasn’t provided clear instructions on how to implement the law; in the meantime, Arredondo and the rest of the school board are working with legal counsel to ensure they balance implementation of the new restrictions with still doing everything they can for their kids. 

“Our educators and staff continue to show up for students every day, supporting them as whole people and meeting them where they are based on their individual needs,” Arredondo said in a January email. “As a district, our focus continues to be on doing right by students and families while navigating an evolving and often unclear legal landscape.” 

Jacob Reyes, the news and rapid response coordinator for the national LGBTQ+ advocacy organization GLAAD, told the Observer that leaders like Arredondo help improve outcomes for “students and schools” by ensuring every child feels they belong. 

“Students inside and outside the classroom deserve to be themselves and be safe so they have every opportunity to learn,” Reyes wrote by email. “LGBTQ students in Texas should know that their elected officials will fight for them at every level of government.” 

For Arredondo, his time on the school board is an example of the power of local politics to get things done. “Your city council member, your school board trustee, your county commissioner, they can make some stuff happen. And I think people getting more involved at a local level is incredibly important.”

The post Defending the Most Vulnerable in San Marcos appeared first on The Texas Observer.

The function of foundational myths is to fence off the present from ideas, counter-histories, and traditions from below that could cut through the barbed wire and reopen a sense of political possibility. As a great bard—Zack De La Rocha of Rage Against the Machine—once put it: “Who controls the present now controls the past, who controls the past controls the future.”

In his new book of revisionist history titled The Myth of Red Texas: Cowboys, Populism, and Class War in the Radical South, out April 14 from OR Books, David Griscom places a ten-gallon hat atop De La Rocha. “Republicans in Texas have been skillful at crafting a version of Texas history that is favorable to their current goals,” writes Griscom, a first-time author who hosts a podcast for the socialist magazine Jacobin and a streaming show called Left Reckoning.

Our state is home to the highest number of on-the-job construction deaths and to an epidemic of hospital closures, to name just two of many shameful designations. But how can we shift course? Must we recover an alternative story about this place with a different theme other than rugged individualism at its heart? Forge a connection between the hardhat and the maverick cowboy hat, the pecan-sheller and the Ascension hospital nurse on strike? Griscom’s book furnishes us with a strong “yes,” and it makes clear that the stick beating the drum of our potential counter-story is a left-wing old reliable: solidarity. 

It’s important to say that the Myth of Red Texas is not a comprehensive revision of our state’s passage through dispossession, colonization, annexation, independence, and national and global integration. Griscom clears this up early in the book, with an apparent understanding of the cactus-like prickliness of Texas historiography. In his words, “I will not tell the entire history of Texas, or give an exhaustive history of the Texan left; instead, this book introduces radical moments in Texas’ history with important lessons for the left today.”  

The book’s intention is clear: to sketch a distinct throughline connecting the left organizers of the Texas present to the radicals of the Texas past. Think of it like laying down an ideological I-35 for us to follow.

The Myth of Red Texas (Courtesy/publisher)

For those who may be left hungry for more—perhaps upset at omission or wanting a bigger telling—the most comradely thing I can do is to suggest expanding your Texas history bookshelf with: David Montejano’s Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836–1986; Gerald Horne’s The Counter Revolution of 1836: Texas Slavery & Jim Crow and the Roots of American Fascism; Gary Clayton Anderson’s The Conquest of Texas Ethnic Cleansing in the Promised Land, 1820–1875; Bruce Glasrud’s Texas Labor History;  David Dorado Romo’s Ringside Seat to a Revolution: An Underground Cultural History of El Paso and Juarez 1893-1923; Kathy Sosa, Ellen Riojas Clark, and Jennifer Speed’s edited volume Revolutionary Women of Texas  and Mexico; and Wesley G. Phelps’ Before Lawrence V. Texas: The Making of a Queer Social Movement.

Of course, you may not have time to work through the many worthy academic histories of our state, and that’s exactly where the success of Griscom’s work lies: in its intentionally narrowed case for Texas solidarity.

In the book’s brisk pages, you’ll read of fence-cutting fights against the enclosure of the open range that may call to mind fights against federal border wall expansion on local ranch land, or you may feel a sense of kinship between fence-cutter communalism and how neighbors came together during Hurricane Harvey and Winter Storm Uri. Or you might see connection between the populism of the Farmer’s Alliance and the Knights of Labor, formalized in the People’s Party, and the growing number of union candidates and Democratic Socialists of America electeds who are either running for the state legislature or governing in Texas cities. You might grin about how Texas union membership is rising, reminded that, as Griscom asserts: “Texas once was home to one of the largest Socialist Party chapters in the United States.” 

These facts are not inherently connected, but Griscom’s frame of solidarity in a state as repressive as ours prods us to ask whether the stakes necessitate us putting them on the same side of one bigger story.

The Myth of Red Texas finds grist for its argument even in monuments to conservatism like our state Capitol. The construction of the famous pink dome—the place where policies ensuring water breaks for construction workers were banned, where the achievements of the civil rights movement are regularly trampled, where cities are locked into bankruptcy risk over challenges to police power, and where trans Texans get treated like a bigger threat than the oil lobbyists who are dumping fuel on the climate crisis—was also birthed in a labor fight against exploitative convict leasing and the scab laborers brought in to quell that fight who themselves wound up choosing the right side of history. When unionized teachers pack the building today to resist the billionaire-backed demolition job on public education, they’re walking in a tradition that dates back to when the limestone was still being laid.

This inversion, of seeing the site not as a monument to the inevitability of right-wing dominance but as a sedimented record of struggle, is one of the book’s most useful political maneuvers. It reminds us that institutions we are told to experience as static were in fact forged through conflict and remain vulnerable to the same. As Griscom suggests, “What if we looked not to the Texas Capitol as a beacon of what it means to be Texan, but to the many workers who built it instead?” The task of organizers today, then, is not to manufacture a tradition out of thin air but to recognize themselves as inheritors of one that has been deliberately obscured.

Once you start looking for that tradition across the arc of Texas time, it gets harder to unsee it.

In more recent history, it should be better known that the Texas AFL-CIO was the first statewide labor federation to call for a ceasefire in Gaza, and that’s a truth I’m glad this book cements in print. It’s one of those moments that doesn’t quite fit the story the rest of the country gets told about this place, but it fits in the lineage Griscom is sketching. It reflects the same instinct that animated earlier Texas radicals: that solidarity is not supposed to stay small or comfortable, and it can blossom anywhere.

The connective tissue Griscom offers is not nostalgia for the Texana enthusiast but a kind of historical permission structure for strategists and insurgents. The fence-cutters, the populists, the socialists, the pecan-shellers, and the organizers of today are not linked by identical demands or conditions. They’re joined by the stubborn insistence that Texans are capable of collective action in defiance of concentrated wealth and state repression. Reading the book in the shadow of growing mutual aid networks, rising strike activity in healthcare and education, and a steady drip of headlines about the Texas union movement being out ahead and unafraid makes its central claim feel less like mere recovery and more like a recognition of the present.

But, just as sales of The Communist Manifesto don’t automatically translate into a just utopia, this book will not dislodge the myth of red Texas by itself. I believe Griscom knows this and means for his writing to be a clarion call to the Texas left and the movements which comprise it. 

He puts it plainly: “Solidarity, and fighting for what you were due, were present from the very beginning of Texas’ shift from the frontier to the industrial and agrarian empire it would soon become. ” With a flourish, he adds, “Like the bluebonnets, which can lie dormant for years waiting for favorable conditions to grow, the Texas radical tradition can—and must—blossom again.”

This perspective doesn’t leave us with yet another romanticized past, or an artificially resolved present, but it does leave us less historically alone. We may not have a finished map, but we have proof of what can happen when we fight like hell against all odds here. And we have ancestors. What might change if more of us started acting like we knew it? How far might such a left reckoning take us?

The post Mythbusting Texas’ Reactionary Past appeared first on The Texas Observer.

Editor’s Note: This story is copublished with The Border Chronicle.

About 10 miles upstream from the mouth of the Rio Grande, along a quiet bend of the river near a historic Civil War battle site, Mexican fishermen in overalls casting their nets into the water are a familiar sight. Brown pelicans sometimes follow fishing boats hoping to catch a snack. The sound of water splashing along the riverbank from the wake of a boat is oddly comforting. 

But these days, as far as the eye can see along the natural border, small white buoys are sporadically placed marking a “restricted area” and declaring the river as property of the federal Department of Defense, part of President Donald Trump’s ongoing efforts to militarize the region. Small signs are wrapped around the buoys here, east of the border city of Brownsville. And these warning signs are only one small indicator of the vast change about to sweep through the river.

More than a year into Trump’s second stint in the White House, fast-paced border barrier construction has been steadily proceeding through areas of the Rio Grande Valley both on land and in the river itself. Last year, Congress appropriated nearly $47 billion for border barrier construction, encompassing both 30-foot-tall steel fencing and river barrier made up of larger orange buoys to deter crossers, and including surveillance technology. This is a historic investment in finishing the barrier in the Valley—which spans about 150 miles by car and 275 river-miles from Cameron County upriver through Hidalgo and Starr Counties and currently hosts disconnected stretches of both federal- and state-built border fencing. 

It’s a region that’s historically been difficult for wall-building presidents to conquer due to varying terrain and the fact that the riverfront land is held by private landowners often with complicated claims dating back centuries. But the Trump administration’s present plans to add another 90 or so miles of new and replacement wall would finish sealing off the region from the Brownsville Ship Channel all the way up to Falcon Dam, completing the job that George W. Bush and Barack Obama started. 

From trucks loaded up with the orange buoys—measuring 15 feet long and 4 to 5 feet wide—driving through the pothole-ridden streets of Southmost in Brownsville to shipments of steel border wall bollard panels hauled down Valley highways, the rapid spending of these taxpayer dollars is displayed all around the region.

Buoy barrier floats downriver from the Veterans International Bridge in Brownsville on March 6. (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

“For months, I’ve been documenting the Department of Homeland Security and their masked contractors installing buoys in the Rio Grande,” Bekah Hinojosa, a co-founder of the South Texas Environmental Justice Network (SOTXEJN), told the Texas Observer. “The Department of Homeland Security is not being clear intentionally about what their plans are, what they’re deploying in the region, and so it’s up to us in the community to track and document and report on it. This is how we fight back.”

A staging ground where the orange buoys are received by the truckload is situated a stone’s throw from the Veterans International bridge in Brownsville. On March 6 around noon, a mix of masked and unmasked construction workers unloaded the buoys. In the river, fragmented sections floated on the U.S. side. This section is set to receive 17 miles of buoys, at a cost of $96 million. According to a Customs and Border Protection (CBP) online “Smart Wall Map,” the agency plans to install over 500 miles of buoys in the Rio Grande, from the Gulf upriver well beyond the Valley and even past Eagle Pass.

Standing amid the brush on the riverbank that Friday, and as a boat driven by a construction worker passed, Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe member and SOTXEJN co-founder Dr. Christopher Basaldú stared quietly at the bright-orange objects floating in the river. He worried about the buoys further polluting the river that supplies water not only to over 1.5 million residents in the region but also to the wildlife that coexists—and about the broader moral issues. 

“What the barrier buoys are doing, just like the wall, is that it’s saying that all the human beings that live on the other side of the buoys and the wall are disposable, or their lives are meaningless,” Basaldú said. “It’s showing that the government is willing to literally waste billions upon billions of dollars to make these useless walls … instead of taking that exact same money and making sure that everybody has housing or clean water and food and education.”

While the Observer documented the buoys floating in the river and trucks delivering them, a construction worker pulled a neck gaiter up to cover his face and approached. The worker declared the riverfront area a federal project and repeatedly demanded press credentials, which he then photographed.

With the help of community members, Hinojosa took point on drafting a letter taking a stance against the installation of buoys in the river and detailing concerns regarding human rights violations and ecologically damaging effects. After approaching Cameron County Judge Eddie Treviño at a forum in February to hand-deliver the letter, Hinojosa asked him to take a public stance in opposition. A week and a half later, Judge Treviño introduced a symbolic resolution, and the county commission voted unanimously against the buoys.

As for border wall, much of Cameron County already had the fencing prior to Trump’s second term, but the CBP map shows plans for significant additions and replacements. At the southern end of UT-Rio Grande Valley’s Brownsville campus, the map shows new wall—which is typically 30 feet tall under both Trump administrations—replacing a shorter, green mesh fence, which had been a significant compromise in the first era of Valley wall construction. The wall is also projected to skirt just south of a golf resort that was previously spared.

Upriver, much of the planned border wall construction will fill in gaps in between existing sections in Hidalgo County (in addition to new buoys). In 2019, Congress passed a bill adding protections to exempt certain sites from border wall construction in Hidalgo including the historic La Lomita Chapel, Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge, National Butterfly Center, and Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park. Seven years later, these sites face renewed challenges ahead—as last year’s “One Big Beautiful Bill” did not reiterate those protections and as the CBP map currently projects border barrier construction running through each site, with the associated contract being recently awarded. Laredo Congressman Henry Cuellar has previously said he believes the protections should still apply; he did not provide comment by press time for this article.

In most of Hidalgo County, home to McAllen, the border wall is built (dating back to the early Obama administration and continuing in Trump 1.0) by converting an existing earthen levee, sloped and simple to drive or walk over, into a sheer concrete wall topped with steel bollards (in Cameron County, the steel fencing has been built adjacent to the levee, while in Starr there is no levee to convert or build beside). This means the wall takes a meandering path through important sites; for example, the levee runs just 100 feet north of the humble white La Lomita chapel, and it bisects the butterfly refuge. Under Trump, the standard wall design has also included a 150-foot clear-cut “enforcement zone” adjacent to the barrier.

CBP spokesperson John Mennell said that the online map, which shows the fence running through the protected sites, “accurately depicts current wall planning efforts”—and that “All recently awarded projects and future contract awards are funded with [One Big Beautiful Bill Act] OBBBA funds.” Mennell said the contract for the project that includes the protected sites—labeled “Rio Grande Valley 4”—was awarded on March 18. Regarding La Lomita specifically, he said that access “will not be impeded,” with access gates installed “as needed.”

In between the chapel and the butterfly center is where the Cavazos family land is found. North of the levee, they have a family home; on the south side they have riverfront acreage where they keep cattle and rent out lots. Siblings Fred and Lisa Cavazos are no strangers to fighting against border wall construction. They’re a rare case in the area: Despite not receiving congressional protection during Trump’s first term, they managed to fight off the wall through legal maneuvering and widespread press attention.

On a windy March afternoon at their family property, Fred and his cousin, Rey Anzaldúa, recalled working the land under the ownership of their grandmother when they were teenagers. Fred’s father was a farmer, so they would help out with those tasks in addition to improvement projects that their grandmother would request help with. “This is my interest in this property because I spent most of my teenage years here,” Anzaldúa, who lives in nearby Edinburg, said. “Even if I don’t own any of the property, I consider this my home.”

Cousins Fred Cavazos and Rey Anzaldúa on a pier overlooking the Rio Grande at their family property (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

Since the beginning of Trump’s efforts to build through their family land, Anzaldúa told Fred that he would only help if they never backed off and fought until the end. Anzaldúa had experience in opposing the government over border wall construction in the small town just down the road where he was born, El Granjeno, which eventually saw the levee at its southern boundary converted. Wall in this area was funded under the W. Bush administration and built by Obama.

At 81 years old, Anzaldúa is once again ready and willing to help Fred fight to prevent the border wall from infringing upon the Cavazos land. The future of their fight is uncertain as construction progresses daily on properties much too close for comfort. 

But one thing should slow Trump down. After years of the family’s maneuvering aimed at delay, the Biden administration returned the strip of the Cavazos’ land that Trump had condemned for wall construction. The family hasn’t received any notice yet of new eminent domain proceedings and only discovered that wall construction would once again encroach upon their property from recent news coverage. The spokesperson for CBP said that the agency “engages with landowners and relevant stakeholders” and noted that there are access gates in existing wall near the Cavazos property.

In flood-prone Starr County, the most rural of the Valley’s three border counties, wall construction has been stymied in large part for two decades. Without an existing levee, there’s no clear path for the barrier to follow, and planners must decide between routing it through residential areas or through active floodplains, which can worsen local flooding or threaten the structure itself. In his first administration, Trump only managed to build through a couple short stretches of federal refuge toward the county’s western end.

But now, on the heels of some state-level wall construction in the county by Governor Greg Abbott, the buildout is moving like there’s no tomorrow. 

According to the CBP planning map, projects are contracted out or under construction to wall off Starr from end to end. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service manages over 100 fragmented tracts of land across the Lower Rio Grande Valley National Wildlife Refuge, and several of these are sprinkled across Starr County and have recently been partially stripped as site preparations are made. 

The CBP spokesperson said that, when building in a floodplain, the agency “conducts a hydraulics analysis … to ensure construction does not alter the natural flow of the Rio Grande River or increase significantly flood waters into Mexico.”

Much like Fred Cavazos and Rey Anzaldúa, Nayda Alvarez is yet again preparing to fight with all that she has to prevent her family land from being taken for border wall construction. Looking up at the roof from the back of her home, Alvarez takes note of the fading letters that she painted on the shingles reading “No Border Wall.” When she first painted the letters 7 years ago, Alvarez hoped to grab the attention of any helicopter pilots flying above her home so that they would know where she stands on the controversial issue of border wall construction. “I should repaint it, but first I need to replace the roof,” Alvarez said, while staring pensively at her home in Starr County, located between Roma and Rio Grande City and about 250 feet from the Rio Grande.

During Trump’s first term, she faced the prospect of border wall construction tearing through her peaceful property, with her home possibly within the path. Alvarez was represented by the Texas Civil Rights Project, which also represented the Cavazos family, and the American Civil Liberties Union of Texas as she navigated land survey requests, the possibility of eminent domain, and going in and out of the courtroom for hearings. Alvarez recalled the judge looking over a map and stating that there was nothing of value on her property. Alvarez grew up here—and her dad lives here in a separate house—making a lifetime of memories in the process. 

Ultimately, the case was dismissed, but Alvarez remained skeptical that her family land would be spared from the wall forever. Nearly three years ago, under then-President Biden, the administration announced 20 miles of border wall to be built in Starr County using money appropriated under Trump—though not including her home. Alvarez, a Democrat, felt betrayed. 

“It’s like déjà vu, but this time people aren’t interested in fighting the wall anymore like they were before,” Alvarez said. 

Alvarez has been teaching for 28 years, and last year she became eligible for retirement. Despite wanting to retire, Alvarez holds onto her job because of the fear that she may be forced to leave her lifelong home and take on a mortgage elsewhere.

Looking at the current CBP map, it’s hard to tell exactly where the wall will run in relation to her house. Alvarez recently received a letter asking landowners for permission to survey their property, leading her to believe that border wall construction will soon make its way to her doorstep. 

The wall in Alvarez’s area will be built “closer to the riverfront than the houses,” said the CBP spokesperson.

“A lot of people are fine with it,” Alvarez said. “I tell them, ‘Yeah, because it’s not going to affect you. You’re not the one that’s going to lose access to the river.’” 

Upriver in Roma, a border town of about 10,000, a historic central plaza sits atop a river bluff. The CBP map shows the wall running somewhere roughly along the tiny strip of land between the water and the bluff, but Roma’s city manager said the city was unaware of any plans to build the typical 30-foot wall through this area. The CBP spokesperson said that “In most locations, [the agency] is constructing 30-foot-tall border wall panels; however, in this location the design has not been finalized and CBP will work with the contractor to determine the wall height.”

Just downstream of the plaza is the international bridge, then a colonia called De La Cruz, and then a short section of state-built border wall. 

José Noe Loera, a truck driver, grew up in the De La Cruz colonia and currently lives at his parents’ home beside the Rio Grande, while he saves to buy a house for his wife and three kids. His parents, who have lived in the neighborhood for over 30 years, built a home around 15 to 16 years ago, which sits atop a foundation more than 2 feet tall in the event that another flood sweeps through the area similar to the last such major event in 2010. 

An aerial view of the De La Cruz colonia on March 4 (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

Looking toward the state-built border wall visible from their backyard, Loera was surprised to hear that a CBP map currently shows a 34.1-mile section of border wall marked as under contract that would run through their backyard. From Loera’s parents’ backyard, the riverbank is less than 200 feet. From other homes in their neighborhood, backyards are less than 100 feet away. Without exact plans from CBP, the possibility looms that homes will be acquired through eminent domain and demolished. 

Sitting in the carport next to their home as his kids laughed and played around us, Loera expressed the sadness of such a reality. “Where are we going to go?,” Loera said. “First of all, we don’t got nowhere to go. It’s going to be sad, leaving all these memories here where we grew up.”

The agency spokesperson said the wall here “will be constructed adjacent to the patrol road along the river” and that “CBP does not anticipate needing to acquire the land where the houses are situated.”

Meanwhile, toward the far western edge of Starr County, a 2.6-acre tract of land just shy of the riverbank constitutes a global birding destination known as the Salineño Wildlife Preserve, owned by the Valley Land Fund. 

Just upriver from the birding destination, a section of the border wall is listed as currently under construction according to the CBP map. Avid bird watcher Bob Bowman, who has spent the last three years volunteering at the wildlife preserve during the November-March bird watching season, told the Observer that every day bulldozers, trucks, and general construction noise can be heard.

On the CBP map, the planned wall runs just north of the preserve. But Bowman shared concerns that once construction starts closer to the property, they will likely have to close for at least one season due to the noise and “unbelievable amount of destruction” caused. It remains uncertain if there will be a gate providing access to the wildlife preserve. The CBP spokesperson said that “access gates may be incorporated to provide access to land south of the wall, if required.”

Bowman sees the wall itself as a smaller issue compared to how the landscape around a proposed construction site is demolished. The barren enforcement zone surrounding sections of the border wall is a man-made “wasteland,” he said.     

“Will it affect the birds?” Bowman said. “Of course it will affect the birds. It’s massive amounts of habitat that get wiped out by this thing.”

The post After 20 Years of Resistance, Trump Is Walling Off the Rio Grande Valley appeared first on The Texas Observer.