At Some Point, You Gotta Pass the Torch

Houston politics has been extra these past two years. And I don’t mean fun extra — I mean the kind of extra where you’re tired, confused, grieving, checking Google every five minutes, and wondering when the adults in the room are going to get it together.

And look: I say all this with deep respect. I’m not attacking anybody’s age, ability, or health. I’m not telling elders to sit down. I’m saying something simple:

Nobody is here forever. And if you truly love the people you serve, you should be training the person who comes after you.

That’s where my head is. And that’s why I think Congressman Al Green — who has done so much for Houston — might want to consider ending his service on a high note and helping build what comes next.

Let me explain.

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Houston Took Two Major Losses Back-to-Back

In less than two years, we lost Sheila Jackson Lee and Sylvester Turner — two people who didn’t just hold office; they were Houston politics.

Sheila Jackson Lee was everywhere — every parade, every community event, every crisis, every microphone. That woman served with fire. And her death from pancreatic cancer left a huge hole in the 18th District.

Then Sylvester Turner — our former mayor, someone with literal decades of leadership — stepped up to replace her. And before he could even settle in, he passed away, too.

Two giants, gone.

Two seats empty.

And a whole community left trying to hold itself together without clarity or direction.

And again — let me be super clear — I am not saying they were too old. Life happens. Illness happens. None of us are immortal.

But that’s the point.

When leaders don’t build a bench, communities suffer when something unexpected happens.

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And Then Greg Abbott Stepped In and Made Everything Worse

You would think the Governor would quickly call a special election so Houston wouldn’t be left without representation, right?

Wrong.

Greg Abbott delayed and dragged his feet like he was allergic to giving a majority-Black district a voice in Congress. And the whole time this was happening, Texas Republicans were also pushing through mid-decade redistricting, which is:

• Unnecessary

• Disruptive

• Confusing

• And honestly? In bad taste

Because why are we redrawing maps like we’re rearranging living room furniture during a hurricane?

Redistricting should NOT be something you pull out in the middle of a decade just because it benefits you politically. And doing it while Houston is already grieving and unrepresented? That’s not governance. That’s games.

And because of those delays, instead of having a representative months ago, we now have to wait until January for a runoff between Christian Menefee and Amanda Edwards.

Houston did not deserve this chaos.

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This Is Why Succession Planning Matters

This whole situation made me sit back and go:

“Why don’t our longtime representatives have someone ready to go?”

Corporations plan succession.

Churches plan succession.

Family businesses definitely plan succession.

But politics?

It’s like everybody wants to hold the seat until the wheels fall off and then let the community figure out the mess on their own.

That’s not fair.

That’s not leadership.

And honestly? That’s how districts end up vulnerable to exactly what just happened to us.

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So Where Does Al Green Fit Into This?

Al Green has served with dignity, consistency, and heart for decades. He has earned his flowers. Nobody can take that away from him.

But with these new Texas maps and the opening of a brand-new congressional district, this is a moment for him to choose legacy over longevity.

He could absolutely run and win.

But he also has the chance to become the elder statesman who says:

“I’ve done my part. Now let me help prepare the next leader.”

And honestly? That would be powerful. That would be leadership. That would be the opposite of what we just lived through with the 18th District.

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Here’s What Makes Sense to Me

Christian Menefee and Amanda Edwards are the two candidates headed to the January runoff. Both are talented. Both are respected. Both would serve Houston well.

So instead of letting one “lose” and disappear, here’s what I think should happen:

• Whoever wins becomes the representative for the 18th District.

• Whoever doesn’t win should be earmarked for the new congressional district that’s about to open up with a March runoff.

Why start from zero when we already have strong candidates right in front of us?

This is how you build stability.

This is how you build a political future.

This is how you stop the chaos.

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Legacy Isn’t Just What You Did — It’s Who You Prepare

Al Green has done the work. Nobody can argue that. But the next chapter of leadership in Houston doesn’t have to be chaotic or traumatic. It can be intentional.

We’ve already seen what happens when we don’t prepare.

We’ve already seen how quickly we can be left unrepresented.

We’ve already seen how political games — like mid-decade redistricting — can hurt communities that have been resilient for generations.

Now is the time for wisdom.

Now is the time for mentorship.

Now is the time to build the next generation of leaders before we need them.

And if anybody can set that example with grace and dignity, it’s Al Green.

Freedom of Religion: Faith Thrives Through Choice and Respect

In the United States, faith grows in hearts, not under government control. True devotion comes from love, choice, and personal conviction. Our Constitution protects freedom of religion, allowing Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Baha’is, Jains, Indigenous spiritual practitioners, and people of all beliefs—including atheists and agnostics—to worship, celebrate traditions, or live by conscience.

Religious freedom strengthens both society and faith. Christians celebrate Christmas, pray at home, lead church services, and share their faith openly. Muslims pray, fast during Ramadan, and gather in mosques. Jews observe Shabbat and celebrate Hanukkah. Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, and Jains hold festivals, perform rituals, and teach their children their beliefs. Even people without religion live according to conscience, free from imposed faith.

Misunderstandings arise when people claim one religion threatens another. The Arabic word “Allah” means simply “God,” and Arabic-speaking Christians have used it for centuries. A call to prayer, a hijab, or a Hindu festival in public spaces does not diminish anyone else’s faith. These practices reflect devotion, not competition.

Faith flourishes when chosen freely. Christianity, like every religion, thrives when it inspires love, service, and moral guidance—not dominance or suppression. Jesus taught peacemaking, humility, and love for neighbors, including people of different faiths. Other traditions emphasize compassion and respect as well: Judaism calls for tikkun olam—repairing the world; Islam emphasizes mercy and justice; Buddhism focuses on compassion and reducing suffering; Hinduism values dharma—righteous living; Jainism emphasizes nonviolence and truth; Indigenous traditions honor balance and respect for all creation. Even atheists contribute moral guidance and civic virtue through reason, empathy, and shared human values.

Protecting religious freedom does not weaken Christianity or any faith. It strengthens society, creating an environment where moral values, spiritual growth, and service flow from choice, not law. When every faith thrives, people practice principles they believe in, and communities flourish in respect, freedom, and love.

Faith lives fully when freedom reigns. Christians follow Jesus, Muslims follow Muhammad, Hindus honor their deities, Jews study Torah, Buddhists practice mindfulness, Jains uphold nonviolence, and people of all beliefs—including atheists—contribute to a society built on respect and compassion. Freedom of religion allows every person, every faith, and every heart to flourish.

When They Claim They’re “Protecting Women,” I Don’t Buy It

Every time I hear lawmakers say they’re protecting women, something in me pushes back. Protecting women’s sports. Protecting women’s privacy. Protecting women’s spaces. The words sound familiar, but the actions don’t match. It feels less like protection and more like performance.

Across red states—and now at the federal level—lawmakers keep pushing bills that ban transgender women from sports teams and public bathrooms. They sell these laws as care for women and girls, but all I see is a fixation on controlling a small group of people while ignoring the problems most women face every day.

Women have asked for equal pay for decades. We’ve asked for affordable childcare, paid family leave, better maternal healthcare, and real accountability for sexual assault. We’ve asked for rape kits to get tested instead of collecting dust for years. We’ve asked for protection from harassment and violence in our workplaces, schools, and homes. Yet lawmakers keep choosing a different fight—one that costs them very little politically and fixes nothing materially.

Texas now enforces laws that block trans students from using restrooms that align with their gender identity and threatens universities with massive fines if they don’t comply. Other states follow suit, redefining sex so narrowly that trans women disappear from public life altogether. On the federal stage, politicians try to rewrite civil rights protections under the banner of “fairness in women’s sports,” even though those efforts target a tiny population.

That’s what makes this feel dishonest. Trans women make up a very small percentage of the population, yet politicians center them again and again, not because they pose some widespread threat, but because they serve as a convenient symbol. Fear mobilizes voters faster than compassion ever will.

What bothers me most comes down to enforcement. Every time someone argues for bathroom bans, I ask the same question: who enforces this? Who checks? Who decides whether someone looks “female enough” to walk into a bathroom without getting questioned, stares, or worse? These laws drag all women into surveillance. They turn restrooms into spaces of suspicion. They invite strangers to police bodies—and that should disturb every single one of us.

Women didn’t ask for this. I don’t know a woman who said, “This solves my problems.” I know women who feel exhausted. Who feel unheard. Who juggle work and family without support. Who navigate healthcare systems that dismiss their pain. Who worry about safety far more often than about who stands next to them in a bathroom.

When lawmakers claim they’re helping women while ignoring everything women actually demand, it feels insulting. It feels like being used as cover. Like our lives function as talking points instead of realities that deserve serious solutions.

These laws don’t protect women. They divide us. They cast trans women as threats and treat cis women like props. They deflect attention away from broken systems and redirect it toward a group with the least power to push back.

Real support for women would look different. It would center economic security, healthcare, autonomy, and safety. It would expand opportunity instead of shrinking who belongs. It wouldn’t rely on humiliation, surveillance, or fear.

When politicians talk about protecting women, I pay attention to what they choose to protect us from—and what they choose to ignore. Right now, they ignore pay gaps, healthcare disparities, childcare crises, and violence against women. Instead, they police bathrooms.

The fact that we now have to ask who belongs in a bathroom tells me everything I need to know about how far off track we’ve gone.

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Support Systems Don’t Destroy Families

Every so often, someone appears to warn us that if women rely too much on government support, we will collectively forget how marriage works. As though the presence of public assistance causes rings to slide dramatically off fingers. As if Medicaid is standing in a doorway whispering, “You don’t need him anymore.” This argument assumes one extremely important thing: that women must choose between love and infrastructure. Apparently, we cannot have both.

The framing usually goes like this: if the government supports you, you won’t need a husband. And if you don’t need a husband, you won’t want one. And if you don’t want one, the collapse of society is imminent. This suggests marriage and government assistance are competing romantic prospects. Like the government is nervously twirling its hair while a husband clears his throat across the room. But here’s the thing: marriage has never once paved a road, funded a public school, provided unemployment insurance, approved family medical leave, or shown up during a hurricane. My husband is wonderful, but he cannot process a FEMA claim.

Historically, women relied on men not because it was ideal but because it was legally required. Marriage wasn’t just love—it was survival paperwork. For a long time, women couldn’t own property, couldn’t open bank accounts, couldn’t leave marriages easily or safely, and definitely couldn’t say, “I need time to find myself” without serious consequences. If your choices are marry a man or enter poverty immediately, that’s not romance. That’s economic coercion with a lace veil. So when people say, “Women should rely on husbands instead of the government,” what they’re really asking is for women to re-enter a system where dependence was compulsory, not chosen. Pass.

Somewhere along the way, we started talking about public support like it’s a substitute for intimacy. As if a woman wakes up one day and says, “I was hoping for companionship, emotional connection, and mutual respect… but then I received affordable healthcare, and the desire for love completely evaporated.” Government programs do not listen to your feelings, split the mental load, argue about dishes, make you laugh when you’re tired, or hold your hand when you’re scared. A safety net doesn’t replace relationships. It replaces desperation.

People choose better relationships when they aren’t choosing under threat. When you don’t need marriage in order to eat, stay housed, or receive medical care, you can wait, you can choose well, and you can leave if you need to. “You’re with me because you want to be” is a lot more romantic than “You’re with me because my job has health insurance.” A society that supports people doesn’t weaken families—it allows them to form voluntarily instead of under pressure.

And it’s always interesting how this argument singles out women, as if men don’t collect Social Security, don’t use Medicare, don’t rely on veterans benefits, don’t file for unemployment, and don’t enjoy roads, bridges, and electricity. If using public infrastructure makes marriage unnecessary, then we need to have a very serious conversation with every married man who drives on a publicly funded street.

You can want marriage, value partnership, and believe in family, and at the same time support public healthcare, believe in childcare assistance, want labor protections, and support people regardless of marital status. This is not moral confusion. This is understanding that personal relationships and social systems serve different purposes. Your partner is there to love you. Your government is there to make sure no one falls through the cracks. No one is asking one to replace the other.

Wanting government support doesn’t mean you don’t value marriage. Wanting marriage doesn’t mean you want dependence. The government is not my husband. My husband is not my government. One shares life with me. The other makes sure bridges don’t collapse. It’s okay to want both.

Sticks and Stones

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how people talk—and how fiercely they defend the way they talk. I keep circling back to the same conclusion: it’s not the word. It’s the people using the word.

Most words don’t start as insults. They begin descriptive, practical, even clinical. Over time, though, words collect tone, context, and power. They carry history. Eventually the meaning shifts—not because dictionaries change, but because people use the words in ways that hurt.

Take retarded, for example. It began as a medical descriptor. But over the years, mockery and cruelty wrapped themselves around it. Now, if someone tells me that word hurts them—or hurts someone they love—the only reasonable response comes without argument: stop. Continuing after that point doesn’t show ignorance; it shows a choice.

Then there’s African American. Some people debate endlessly about when to use it versus Black. Which honors heritage better? Which respects identity more? None of that matters if the person in front of you tells you their preference. Their experience dictates the choice, not your opinion.

Other words carry histories we often overlook. Oriental once simply meant “from Asia,” but decades of stereotyping and exoticization turned it into a loaded insult. And words like gyp or gypped, which many use casually, carry anti-Romani prejudice baked into everyday speech. These aren’t abstract examples—they exist in daily life, often hiding in plain sight.

I don’t consider myself the most empathetic person. Sometimes I don’t understand why something stings the way it does. But I’ve learned that understanding isn’t required to change behavior. Respect doesn’t demand comprehension; it demands effort.

If someone tells me a word hurts them, I stop. No debate. No explanation of what I meant. No insistence on how the word used to be used. If I step on someone’s foot, I don’t argue intent—I move.

People love to say, “I didn’t mean it like that,” and sometimes that’s true. Intent matters, but impact exists independently. Harm doesn’t vanish just because it arrives uninvited. Both realities coexist, whether we like it or not.

Then comes the familiar defense: “It’s just a word.” But words rarely exist in a vacuum. Money counts as “just paper,” yet we fight over it. Flags rank as “just fabric,” yet people cry, rage, and die over them. Words shape reality. They carry weight because humans give them weight.

Language changes constantly. That doesn’t mean the world became fragile. It means people started speaking up. For years, silence carried the burden of harm. Now honesty does—and honesty tends to make people uncomfortable.

Even terms meant to honor identity shift over time. “Colored” once passed as acceptable, then “Negro,” then “Black,” then “African American,” and now often “Black” again, depending on the speaker and the listener. None of these shifts happened for the sake of rules. They happened because people said, “This no longer feels right. Please stop.”

Here’s the thing that frustrates some people most: you don’t have to understand why a word hurts to stop using it. You don’t need a dissertation. You don’t need a personal connection. You just need to believe people when they tell you their experience.

At some point, continuing to use a word after knowing it causes harm stops being about free speech, intent, or semantics. It becomes about refusing to adjust when adjustment costs nothing.

Choosing a different word doesn’t erase intelligence. It doesn’t weaken principles. It doesn’t hand over control. It simply acknowledges that language lives, breathes, and changes—just like people do.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about decisions. Once you know better, what you do next matters.

It’s not the word.

It’s what people choose to do when they know the word hurts.

Caring for the Least of These: Faith, Compassion, and the Law

Scrolling through social media, you might see a reel about welcoming migrants and a comment claiming, “The Bible says obey the law, so helping people who enter the country illegally is wrong. You should be ashamed.” Such a response misses both Scripture and reality.

In the hills outside Jerusalem, Jesus spoke to crowds worried about survival, not policy. In Matthew 25:31–46, He described the final judgment, separating people like sheep and goats based on their treatment of “the least of these.” Feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, welcoming strangers, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and imprisoned—Jesus tied every act of mercy to Himself. Scholars note that in His time, welcoming strangers often meant offering refuge to people fleeing violence or oppression, risking social disapproval or resources. Hospitality represented life or death, and the failure to care constituted moral failure.

Even His own birth carried a refugee story. Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem with no room at the inn. Their flight to Egypt followed Herod’s threat. Jesus identified from the start with the displaced, the vulnerable, and the hunted.

Critics often assume helping migrants conflicts with the law. However, U.S. statutes and international agreements protect vulnerable people. The Refugee Act of 1980 created legal pathways for asylum seekers. The Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) allows individuals to request asylum, even without passing through an official port of entry. U.S. law also prohibits returning people to countries where authorities would threaten their lives or freedoms. Internationally, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the 1951 Refugee Convention, and the Convention on Migrant Workers establish protections for migrants’ dignity, safety, and family unity. Showing hospitality to vulnerable migrants aligns with these legal frameworks.

Stories bring these principles to life. A Texas church once hosted a family fleeing violence in Central America. Church members provided food, clothing, and guidance, helping the family navigate asylum procedures. Later, when authorities granted them legal protection, the pastor realized: their compassion had operated fully within the law. History echoes the same truth. During the Holocaust, European churches hid Jews, protecting lives even under harsh legal restrictions, demonstrating that moral law and human decency sometimes operate in tandem with—or even beyond—civil law.

This brings up an important reality: legality does not always reflect morality. Laws have historically permitted grave injustice. Slavery remained legal in the United States for centuries while violating human dignity and God’s command to love one another. Segregation enforced racial oppression under the law. The Holocaust executed genocide under a legal framework, showing how laws can sanction evil. Other examples include apartheid in South Africa, the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, and forced labor in the early 20th century. In each case, people suffered under legal systems that contradicted the moral imperative to protect the vulnerable.

Romans 13 instructs respect for governing authorities, while Matthew 25 calls for mercy and care. When laws protect migrants, compassion aligns with both Scripture and civil obedience. Even when laws fall short, God’s call to care for the vulnerable does not waver. Feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, and advocating for the oppressed fulfill both divine and moral law.

Every act of mercy toward someone in need, every warm meal or safe shelter, reflects God’s concern for the vulnerable. Obeying the law and caring for the least of these does not conflict; it flows naturally from a heart shaped by Scripture and informed by justice. From ancient Israel to modern refugee crises, hospitality remains a sacred duty. Ignoring the vulnerable carries consequences. Welcoming them opens doors not just to temporary safety, but to the living presence of God.

Scripture References: 

• Matthew 25:31–46
• Romans 13:1–7
• Hebrews 13:2
• Exodus 22:21
• Leviticus 19:34

Legal References:

• Refugee Act of 1980 (U.S.)
• Immigration and Nationality Act (INA)
• 1951 Refugee Convention & 1967 Protocol
• Universal Declaration of Human Rights
• Convention on Migrant Workers

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Modernizing Foster Care: Promise, Pitfalls, and the Path Forward

The White House has issued a new executive order aimed at improving the nation’s foster care system and providing greater support to young people who age out of it. The order focuses on modernizing child welfare practices, creating more opportunities for foster youth, and expanding partnerships with private and faith-based organizations.

Under the order, states are encouraged to update their technology and data systems to better track children in foster care, match them with appropriate families, and measure outcomes. For a child who moves between multiple foster homes, improved data collection could mean caseworkers always have accurate information about their school, health, and personal needs, reducing delays and mistakes that can make an already difficult situation even harder.

The order also establishes an initiative called “Fostering the Future,” designed to help young adults who have been in foster care access scholarships, job training, housing, healthcare, and mentoring services. A 20-year-old who has just aged out of the system could use this platform to find a short-term vocational program, apply for financial aid, and connect with a mentor in their city—all in one place. The aim is to give youth the tools to become self-sufficient and successful as they transition to adulthood.

Another key element encourages partnerships with faith-based organizations. Supporters argue that allowing these organizations to participate in foster care programs could increase the number of families available to children in need, particularly in communities where foster homes are scarce. Critics, however, warn that religious exemptions could allow some families to refuse placements based on religion, gender identity, or family background, potentially limiting options for children who need homes the most.

While the order has the potential to make foster care more efficient, supportive, and responsive to the needs of youth, its success will depend on careful implementation. Overreliance on predictive analytics and artificial intelligence carries the risk of bias or privacy concerns, and much of the plan requires cooperation from state governments and adequate funding. For children and families already navigating the challenges of foster care, this order could bring welcome improvements—but it also raises questions about equity, inclusivity, and how federal initiatives intersect with state policies.

Why Policies Built on Vague “Ideology” Language Are Dangerous for Everyone

Policies that rely on terms like “race ideology” and “gender ideology” may seem straightforward at first glance, but their danger lies in how vague and politically loaded those terms really are. When a policy is built on unclear definitions rather than clear academic or legal concepts, it gives the people in power enormous freedom to decide what counts as a violation. That kind of flexibility might look harmless when you assume it will only be used against people you disagree with — but it never stays that way. A rule that’s vague enough to punish one group is vague enough to punish anyone, including white, wealthy, able-bodied, straight men.

The first major issue is that these definitions rely on emotional interpretations rather than clear evidence. The policy frames discussions about race and gender as attempts to “shame” or “assign guilt.” But shame is subjective. If someone merely feels accused — even if no accusation was made — that feeling can become grounds for punishment. Now imagine a white male history professor explaining the role of racial hierarchy in the Civil War. Or a corporate trainer mentioning that employees may have different experiences in the workplace. Either one could be accused of promoting “ideology,” not because their content is false or harmful, but because someone disliked hearing it. In a system built on feelings rather than facts, anyone can become a target.

That same uncertainty spills into everyday communication. When a topic becomes risky simply because it involves race or gender, people stop asking honest questions, even when they’re trying to learn. They hold back curiosity, they avoid clarifying misunderstandings, and they stay silent instead of engaging. And this silence doesn’t just affect marginalized groups — it also limits the knowledge available to those in majority groups. A straight, able-bodied, wealthy white man trying to understand the difference between sex and gender, or wanting accurate information about health disparities, may never receive clear answers, because instructors and experts are afraid that even acknowledging certain facts could be interpreted as violating the policy. In the end, he loses access to the very information that would help him personally and professionally.

The restrictions also undermine entire fields that rely on factual, evidence-based study. Disciplines like medicine, sociology, psychology, history, and public health regularly discuss race and gender because those topics are part of reality, not ideology. When a policy labels these discussions as “ideological,” it effectively blocks students and workers from accessing accurate, necessary training. A white male medical student, for example, still needs to learn how to treat transgender patients, recognize how cultural differences affect care, and understand patterns in public health. Limiting what can be taught leaves him less prepared than his peers elsewhere, ultimately harming his career and the people he will serve.

What makes all of this even more dangerous is the precedent it sets. Once a system normalizes restricting discussion of certain topics based on feelings or political wording, it becomes easy to expand that power to new topics later. A future administration could just as easily decide that conversations about economic inequality, men’s mental health, corporate privilege, fatherhood rights, or veteran support are “divisive ideologies” too. A policy that begins by targeting one group becomes a tool that can be turned toward any group, including the very people the policy initially claimed to protect.

And beyond the classroom or workplace, this kind of system erodes basic trust in dialogue. People begin avoiding important conversations for fear of misinterpretation. Supervisors become hesitant to give feedback. Teachers stop teaching fully. Coworkers avoid difficult topics even when discussing them would solve problems. These tensions don’t stay contained — they create dysfunction that affects everyone. A white, straight male manager, for example, may find himself unable to correct performance issues because he fears that criticism could be twisted into an accusation of bias. His team suffers, his evaluations suffer, and the policy that supposedly protected him ends up harming him indirectly.

Ultimately, policies built on vague terms like “race ideology” and “gender ideology” create systems where accusations matter more than truth, feelings matter more than evidence, and political framing matters more than expertise. They suppress learning, distort reality, and give decision-makers an alarming amount of unchecked authority. And while these policies disproportionately harm marginalized communities first, their structure ensures that no one is fully safe from their reach — not even those who appear socially protected.

Dangerous policies don’t always announce themselves with extreme language. Sometimes they hide behind broad definitions and comforting promises. But when the rules are built loosely enough to punish anyone, eventually, they punish everyone.

Texas Propositions 1–17: A Voter’s Guide

The upcoming Texas ballot includes 17 propositions covering education, taxes, judicial oversight, water infrastructure, research, voting, and parental rights. Here’s a neutral breakdown of each to help you make an informed choice.

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📘 Proposition 1: Technical College Infrastructure Fund (SJR 59)

What it does: Creates two permanent funds for Texas State Technical College and workforce education, starting with $850 million. Funds would be constitutional and outside the annual budget process.

Supporters say:

• Strengthens workforce training and modernizes facilities.

• Provides stable, long-term investment in Texas’ economy.

Opponents say:

• Reduces oversight and flexibility, locking funds in permanently.

• May not guarantee equal funding across campuses.

Bottom line: Permanent, protected funding for technical colleges vs. less flexibility for lawmakers.

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📘 Proposition 2: Capital Gains Tax Ban (SJR 18)

What it does: Permanently bans any state tax on capital gains (profits from investments). Texas doesn’t currently have this tax.

Supporters say:

• Protects Texans from future tax increases.

• Encourages investment and economic growth.

Opponents say:

• Benefits wealthier individuals more than average families.

• Reduces future revenue flexibility for lawmakers.

Bottom line: Locks in low taxes vs. limits future budget options.

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📘 Proposition 3: Bail Denial Authority (SJR 5)

What it does: Requires or allows judges to deny bail for certain felony suspects if they pose a flight risk or danger.

Supporters say:

• Increases public safety and prevents crimes by high-risk defendants.

• Strengthens judicial accountability.

Opponents say:

• More people may be jailed before trial, increasing costs.

• Could disproportionately affect poor or minority defendants.

Bottom line: Public safety vs. due process and fairness concerns.

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📘 Proposition 4: Revenue for Water Fund (HJR 7)

What it does: Directs part of sales and use tax revenue to the Texas Water Fund for infrastructure and rural access.

Supporters say:

• Ensures long-term water security and infrastructure improvements.

• Helps rural areas and supports economic growth.

Opponents say:

• Earmarks money, reducing budget flexibility.

• Oversight and distribution could be a concern.

Bottom line: Secured water funding vs. reduced legislative flexibility.

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📘 Propositions 5–11: Property & Tax Exemptions Package

What they do: Reduce or prevent taxes for ranchers, businesses, veterans, homeowners, and seniors.

• Prop 5: Exempts animal feed for sale from property tax.

• Prop 6: Blocks occupation tax on securities transactions.

• Prop 7: Lets surviving spouses of certain veterans keep homestead exemptions.

• Prop 8: Bans state estate, inheritance, and gift taxes.

• Prop 9: Exempts income-producing property/equipment from ad valorem taxes.

• Prop 10: Temporary exemption for rebuilt value of homes destroyed by fire.

• Prop 11: Expands homestead exemptions for elderly or disabled homeowners.

Bottom line: Targeted tax relief vs. potential reduced revenue for public services.

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📘 Proposition 12: Judicial Conduct Reforms (SJR 27)

What it does: Revises the structure and authority of bodies that investigate and discipline judges.

Supporters say:

• Improves accountability and consistency in discipline.

• Strengthens public trust in the judiciary.

Opponents say:

• Could centralize power and reduce judicial independence.

• Administrative costs may increase.

Bottom line: Stronger oversight vs. concerns about independence and cost.

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📘 Proposition 13: Homestead Exemption Increase (SJR 2)

What it does: Raises school-district homestead exemption from $100,000 to $140,000.

Supporters say:

• Lowers property taxes, especially for middle-class homeowners.

• Encourages homeownership and protects long-term residents.

Opponents say:

• Reduces revenue for schools.

• May shift tax burden to others.

Bottom line: Tax relief for homeowners vs. potential school funding impact.

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📘 Proposition 14: Dementia Prevention & Research Institute (SJR 3)

What it does: Creates a state-funded brain research institute with a $3 billion fund near Midland for Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and related research.

Supporters say:

• Advances research, treatment, and cures.

• Creates jobs and positions Texas as a leader in medical research.

Opponents say:

• Large upfront cost from general revenue.

• Uncertainty about research outcomes and sustainability.

Bottom line: Investing in research vs. committing billions of taxpayer dollars.

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📘 Propositions 15–17: Voting, Parental Rights & Border Tax Exemption

What they do:

• Prop 15: Affirms parents as primary decision-makers for their children.

• Prop 16: Codifies in the Constitution that only U.S. citizens may vote.

• Prop 17: Allows property in border counties to get a tax exemption for value added by border security infrastructure.

Bottom line: Strengthens parental authority, clarifies voter eligibility, and provides targeted tax relief — balanced against concerns about limits on government guidance, unnecessary codification, or narrow tax benefits.

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✅ How to Use This Guide

When voting, consider:

• Stability vs. flexibility (Propositions 1, 2, 4)

• Public safety vs. fairness (Prop 3)

• Tax relief vs. revenue for services (Props 5–11, 13, 17)

• Oversight vs. independence (Prop 12)

• Investment in research vs. budget trade-offs (Prop 14)

• Family authority and voting rules vs. policy limits (Props 15–16)

  
  

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The Trouble with Sound Bytes: Missing the Bigger Picture

Let’s talk about something that really gets under my skin: Sound Bytes. You know what I mean—those frustratingly brief snippets of longer statements that often leave out critical context. It’s like someone trying to describe a delicious, multi-course meal by only mentioning the salad. 😩

Sound Bytes are typically 15 seconds or less, and they can be downright misleading. People hear a tiny fraction of a statement and jump to conclusions, making assumptions without taking the time to investigate the entire context. It’s a classic case of “the devil is in the details,” and unfortunately, many people seem to have forgotten how to read beyond the headline.

For example, during Kamala Harris's recent appearance, her full response to a question about the cost of living and homeownership was far more nuanced than what you might gather from a quick Sound Byte. Yet, many will form their opinions based solely on those brief clips.

If you're curious about the full scope of what she had to say, I’ve got you covered! Here’s a link to the full transcript of her appearance. 📜 [Insert link here]

And just for clarity, I’ve also broken down her complete answer in a concise outline. Here’s what she actually said:

• Acknowledgment: Thanked the couple for sharing their story and recognized the struggles of young Americans.

• Key Issues Identified: The American Dream is increasingly elusive, highlighting the importance of aspirations and hard work.

• Strategies for Change:

  • Lowering Everyday Costs: Focusing on reducing prices of necessities, particularly groceries, and addressing price gouging during crises.
  • Supporting Homeownership: Proposing $25,000 down payment assistance for first-time homebuyers.
  • Empowering Small Businesses: Committing to support small businesses with a proposed $50,000 tax deduction for startups.

In a world that loves to consume information in bite-sized pieces, let’s not forget to dig deeper. For anyone willing to listen, there’s always more than meets the eye—or ear!

So next time you hear a Sound Byte, ask yourself: “What’s the whole story?” Because missing the context could mean missing the truth.

The Story of Willard

If you were standing on Smith Lane in Charenton, Louisiana on a September morning in 1935, you’d probably hear cicadas buzzing, smell something frying, and feel the humidity trying to choke the life out of you. But somewhere in the cypress-thick swamps of St. Mary Parish, a baby was being nursed not with milk, but with bean juice. That baby would become a man whose name would echo through our family like a church bell during Sunday service—Willard Jacquot, better known as “Shonk.”

The Great Depression was still whooping America’s behind, Franklin Roosevelt was busy inventing Social Security, and Black folks in Louisiana were farming land they didn’t own while living under laws designed to keep them in their “place.” But Mama Laura and Papa Norbert were not about that life. They took in Willard when his mama couldn’t nurse him and raised him on equal parts prayers, chores, and whatever beans were left over.

Papa ran what we like to call The House of No Discussion. If he said “No,” there was no follow-up meeting. Mama Laura, on the other hand, was like a backwoods lawyer—quick with a laugh, quicker with a smack, and always negotiating peace treaties between Papa and the kids. The Jacquot household was crowded: siblings Margaret, Irmanine, Wilson Jr., Woodrow, plus a rotating cast of orphaned cousins—Calvin, Leroy, Samuel, and Mary. You couldn’t walk three feet without tripping over a barefoot kid, a mosquito, or a chore you were supposed to be doing.

Willard started school in a one-room shack next to the church. He read by oil lamp, wrote letters for Mama because she couldn’t read or write, and memorized addresses like they were Bible verses. But sometimes, hunger won, and he’d tie a biscuit around his neck, eat it before lunch, and just walk home. That little trick ended when Mama Laura and Irma staged an intervention.

Out in the fields, Papa enforced The Corn Rule: exactly three kernels in each hole. Drop two? The belt. Drop four? The belt. Toss the seeds under the bridge to skip planting? The belt and a lecture. Willard only tested that rule once.

Fast-forward to the 1950s. Willard moved to Houston as part of the Great Migration. He got a job, but more importantly, he got a glimpse of Irma—a nurse from Kashmere Gardens via Smithland, TX—at a segregated bus stop near Rice University. Willard’s eyes went straight to the front where Irma was. Through a chain of connections worthy of a soap opera, he got her number, endured Houston heat for bus-stop encounters, and sealed the deal.

From 1954 to 1968, they had seven kids: Esther Pearl (the instigator), Evelyn (the quiet storm), Willard Jr. (gone too soon), Michael (the talker), Ronald (the protector), Laura (the reporter
), and Gerald (the loyalist). This was during the Civil Rights Era—Dr. King was marching, Medgar Evers was assassinated, and Willard was at home raising his own little army of opinionated, hardworking children.

Work-wise, he started shining shoes, moved up to janitor at Rice University (cleaning the marble halls of privilege), then to supervisor, and finally to the Southern Pacific Railroad—where he never called in sick unless there was a funeral. He was baptized, sat in church every Sunday, and raised his kids on Mama Laura’s mantra: “Do good, and good gonna follow you.”

He faced heartbreak—outliving three children. He faced disaster—when his house burned. And when a shady contractor tried to hustle him, Willard hit him with the Louisiana version of a cease-and-desist: “I ain’t giving you nothing upfront.” The man backed down. The house got rebuilt. Paid in full.

In his final years, Willard was still giving orders. “Don’t wait on me. Be ready. Handle your business.” He remembered everyone who helped him and regretted not thanking some of them sooner. His stories weren’t for pity—they were life instructions.

Sure, the census once got his name wrong as “Willard Jacks.” But no census can capture a man raised on bean juice, who planted corn with military precision, raised seven kids, buried three, rebuilt a home, and loved one woman for life.

So on his 90th birthday, we don’t just remember him. We tell the truth—loud, funny, and proud. Because in this family, “Shonk” doesn’t just mean Willard Jacquot. It means grit, love, and the right to laugh through all of it.

Cowboy Carter Was More Than a Concert—It Was a Spiritual Experience

Everyone’s out here speculating about Act III, but honestly…I’m not ready for Act II to end. Cowboy Carter has felt like a spiritual, ancestral experience—one that reached across time and memory and found me exactly where I was.

Y’all. I need Beyoncé to drop a Cowboy Carter movie or documentary because I was OBSESSED with the video interludes. The visuals were stunning. The storytelling was cinematic. I only made it to the last show and avoided every livestream like my life depended on it, so most of the show felt brand new to me.

I had been looking forward to hearing “Daughter” live since my very first listen, and she did not disappoint. I was not ready. And that “This is theater” interlude with the dress that literally transforms mid-performance—I had seen the pics, but I didn’t realize the dress actually changes like that. Icon behavior.

Now here's where it gets wild. My niece put me on to this Houston restaurant called Spaghetti Western, and it became our go-to family meal spot. That spiraled me into a full spaghetti western rabbit hole, so when Beyoncé started giving us cowboy grit and cinema realness, I was locked in. The way she worked Caro mio ben into the western vibe felt like a haunting little hymn floating across the desert. And honestly, adding an Italian opera to a spaghetti western aesthetic just makes sense—those films are Italian at their core, dramatic by design, and full of long stares, emotional tension, and soaring scores.

Westerns had become a weekly thing in our lives thanks to my uncle—so Cowboy Carter felt like it landed right in the middle of our real life. He was living with my mom, who could no longer care for him and needed care herself, so we were going over more frequently. Those cozy watch nights became a kind of unspoken ritual during a season when a lot was shifting at home.

Later that year, I pre-ordered the art book thinking I’d just flip through it on the couch in peace. I didn’t know how much I was going to need that book. I didn’t have any Christmas plans last year, but a bunch of my extended family also ended up going to the Beyoncé Bowl, so we tailgated together and turned it into this beautiful, joyful surprise celebration.

The art book got delayed, and it didn’t arrive until the week of my mom’s memorial service. People were mad that the “exclusive” shirt we got for waiting was eventually made available to everyone, but it said “100,000 watts of healing power”—and I needed every single watt.

This whole era has meant so much to me. It’s been personal. It's been healing. And it’s been peak Beyoncé. I could go on forever.

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Nomads, Nature, and the Myth of Permanence: A Childhood Theory That Still Makes Sense

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When I was a kid, I came up with a theory—completely unresearched, just a thought that popped into my head and stuck with me: maybe people used to be nomads because of the weather.

It made perfect sense to me. I had just learned about birds migrating for the winter and how they fly south when it gets too cold. So I thought, why wouldn’t people do the same? Why would anyone just sit still in one place, waiting for storms or snow or heatwaves to pass, when they could simply move?

I didn’t know anything about historical climate patterns, ancient civilizations, or housing developments. I just had questions—and this one stuck. As I got older, I noticed that this theory kept resurfacing every time a natural disaster made headlines.

Flooding, tornadoes, hurricanes, wildfires—every time one of these events happened, I found myself thinking, should people even live there permanently? I don’t mean that judgmentally. I know people don’t always have the option to pick up and go. Jobs, family, economics, and deep generational ties keep people rooted. But the question still lingers: Is this a place meant for permanence?

Because here’s the truth—many of the most beautiful, fertile, or resource-rich places are also places prone to natural disruption. River valleys flood. Coastal towns get hurricanes. Plains face tornadoes. Deserts get scorching heat and wildfires. And yet, we build and rebuild, with the assumption that our homes and cities are forever.

I lived next to the Mississippi River for two years and saw firsthand how the water would rise and fall. Quiet one day, almost touching the roads another. There was a rhythm to it, a flow that didn’t ask for permission. That river wasn’t interested in our timetables or property lines. It was just being what it has always been: a river.

It’s strange, then, how we often act surprised when nature does what it naturally does. After a flood or a tornado, you’ll sometimes hear people say things like, “God must be angry.” But I don’t think that’s it at all. I think we forget—maybe even refuse to believe—that nature has a life of its own. The dry creek bed won’t stay dry forever. The wind won’t always be still. The ground beneath us can and will shift, and the skies can turn on us with little warning.

That’s not punishment. That’s nature.

And yet, modern life is built on the idea of permanence. We construct homes, sign 30-year mortgages, buy insurance policies, and make long-term plans. We treat the land as fixed, as if it’s supposed to adjust to us. But history—and nature—show us again and again that this isn’t how it works.

Maybe that childhood theory wasn’t so far off. Maybe being nomadic wasn’t just about hunting and gathering or avoiding enemies—it was about listening to the land. Moving with it. Responding to its rhythms instead of trying to dominate them.

I’m not saying we all need to pack up and start roaming again (though van life TikTok is trying). But maybe we need to rethink what “permanent housing” really means in places where nature is known to have the final say. Maybe our definitions of safety, security, and “home” need to evolve to include mobility, adaptability, and humility.

Because when we treat disasters like surprises—like interruptions—we miss the deeper truth: this is the natural flow of life. We can prepare, build better, relocate if necessary. But first, we have to remember that we’re not separate from nature. We’re a part of it.

And sometimes, just like the birds, we may need to move.

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Reflection Questions for Readers:

• Are there places you’ve lived where the land seemed to “speak” in its own way—rising waters, strong winds, shifting earth?

• What does “permanence” mean to you, and has that definition changed over time?

• How can we honor both our desire to root and our need to adapt?

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Technology Should Free Us, Not Replace Us: Rethinking Work, Worth, and Space in a Capitalist World

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how we respond to technology and change—especially AI—and how that ties into bigger questions about work, worth, and what it means to have “enough.”

There’s a lot of fear around AI replacing jobs, and honestly, I get it. When you hear that machines can do things faster, cheaper, and better than humans, it’s natural to worry about what that means for your place in the world. But here’s the thing: making tedious, repetitive work easier shouldn’t be a threat—it should be a relief.

If someone spent 40+ hours a week mopping floors or doing other physically exhausting, monotonous tasks, why shouldn’t a machine or AI step in and take over? It means that person can focus on something more fulfilling, creative, or simply enjoy more free time. This shift shouldn’t make anyone feel “worthless.” Humans are valuable not just for what they produce, but for who they are. And in a fair world, if businesses can make billions by cutting production costs with technology, they should absolutely use some of those resources to care for their workers—to ensure everyone benefits, not just the owners.

That’s the problem with how our society currently operates. The capitalist system pushes us to prioritize profit and production above all else, and that can make people feel disposable if they’re no longer “productive” in the traditional sense. It’s no wonder there’s anxiety around AI and automation—it feels like if you don’t keep up, you’ll be left behind, with fewer social supports to catch you.

This connects with another thing I’ve noticed in my own life: my husband and I live in a four-bedroom, two-story house with a den and a large kitchen. That’s a lot of space for just two people. We don’t have seven kids or even a large extended family living with us—although we’ve had up to seven guests stay overnight once or twice. In theory, more people could live here with us, and that’s what this kind of house is designed for: accommodating bigger groups, families, or even shared living arrangements.

But here’s the catch—most people don’t want to share their space. They want their “own space.” And that’s totally normal. But it also means a lot of us live physically isolated from one another, even when we have the room to build community under one roof. Inviting someone to live with you isn’t just about space; it’s about building a relationship, agreeing on rules, navigating boundaries, and sharing your life. That requires effort—something capitalism doesn’t necessarily reward or encourage.

Instead, capitalism often pushes the idea that the way to succeed is to work harder, make more money, and buy more stuff—bigger houses, more cars, fancier gadgets—whether or not that actually makes us happier or more connected. We’re stuck chasing more, thinking it equals success, but often it just means more distance—from each other and from what truly matters.

So yes, I’m all for technology and innovation. I want tedious jobs automated and machines to make life easier. But I also want us to remember that humans are more than cogs in a production line. Technology should free us from drudgery, not make us feel obsolete.

And having “enough” shouldn’t just be about how much stuff or space we have—it should mean having enough connection, care, and support. If there’s extra space in a house, why not use it to build community? If technology can make us more productive, why not let that productivity support a better quality of life for everyone, not just the wealthy?

At the end of the day, it’s not about fighting technology or fearing progress. It’s about redefining what we value: prioritizing humanity over production, relationships over possessions, and care over mere efficiency.