Dallas

Dallas, Texas, November, 1841.

A man stood on the banks of the river. It was unusually warm, even for Texas in the fall, and the man had traveled far for this bank of this river. ,

He sat, his fingers spread in the thick, cool grass. The sun beat down on his tanned and leathery skin. This land was not new, not fresh, as so many would portray it in the years to follow. It was a home already, the land was already spoken for, already worn, already loved.

That day in November, it began a transformation. That man, John, we'd later learn his name was, built a white man's trading post that year. And then, the new people came.

They built highways, they built stores, and roads and sectioned off farmland. And the old guardians of the land were murdered, and silenced, and moved.

1849, They had a newspaper.

1856, they were granted a town charter. They named their town "Dallas" and lost the papers to tell the future why.

And they grew. More travelers came, and stayed when they felt the warm fresh air and saw the wide, beautiful sky and felt the magic that surrounded the river. They sent for their families, and their friends, and they settled in.

The French came, and the Germans. The Belgians, and Swiss, and of course, they brought the Africans they had enslaved. Ninety Seven Men, Women, and Children who would never have their part of the story told.

There were fires, and battles and there was division in spades. But there was also beauty. There were telephones and electricity and a whole Elm Street of markets and merchants. And there was the State Fair. There was laughter, and community, and hope.

Then the railroads brought in more.

The city tripled, and quadrupled and became one of the largest cities in Texas. They played Jazz in Deep Ellum, the blues. They built theatres downtown, and performed it all. And the Klan came too, and breeded.

And then, the depression came. And then the Wars.

The city took a breath, and paused.

And then, like so many times before, they grew. After the war came one of the biggest booms the city had ever seen.

1961, they integrated. It wasn't perfect, it was progress.

1963, they shattered, and they crumbled.

It was a single shot that brought a city to its knees, and an entire country down with it. A president gone, his family forever altered.

They came together, and they started to heal.

They dusted themselves off, and they started again.

They started to build again, and love again and grow again. But it wasn't without pain, and inequality and violence.

The river would flood, until the river was altered to stop it. The river banks where the indigenous would live and thrive for hundreds of years, where John stood, and built his trading post; that river would shrivel, and wince, and grimace as it was polluted and contaminated. As if it had never been the birthplace of it's destroyer.

Today, the people of Dallas are still learning. We are trying to acknowledge and learn from the deep racial divisions in our city. But we are still killing each other, we are still spreading hate.

We are trying to learn how to exist as a thriving metropolis, while simultaneously healing our river and her ecosystem. But we are still treating our city like a garbage can.

We are building beautiful architecture, and parks and homes. But we are still gentrifying, and forcing people to the streets.

We are celebrating our diverse cultures through our food and art and music. But we are still failing to take care of each other.

We are honoring our ancestors, and trying to do better than many of them did. But we are still divided, and we still don't always speak the truth.

We are a city, the good and the bad, the violent and the peaceful.

We are Dallas, and we are my hometown.