Your Custom Text Here
Personal and cultural reflections on place, movement, memory, and the ongoing work of belonging.
Before I say yes, I check the time.
I open Google Maps.
I check the route.
Thirty minutes, plus traffic.
Then parking.
Street parking. Paid garage. Rideshare suggested.
I zoom out to see what else is nearby since I will already be in the area.
Slight detour. Total time: 55 minutes.
It’s late.
I will just stay for an hour.
I grew up on the East Coast. Living in Texas came later, sometime in my mid-teens, folded into my life through family and circumstance rather than choice. I’ve lived in several Texas cities since then. Long enough to understand that each region has its own pace. Long enough to know Juneteenth before it became a headline. Long enough to feel how history lives in families, not just landmarks. Long enough to know that having roots somewhere doesn’t always equate to feeling rooted.
Where are the Black people in Austin?
I’ve seen this question pop up online more times than I can count. People saying there aren’t enough Black people here. Saying there’s no Black culture. Telling others they need to move to [redacted city]. Others push back, saying the Black people are here, we just don’t go out like that, or you have to follow certain pages, join certain groups, know where to look. Someone mentions a walking group on the weekends. Someone else lists events like a running thread you have to piece together yourself. The responses overlap, contradict, circle back. It never lands in one clear answer.