By Abe Villarreal

People like to ask me why I moved back to my hometown. Sometimes I feel bothered when this happens because it's one of those questions that comes with a suggestion. Sometimes it comes with an answer in a tone of voice or an extra emphasis on the words "why" and "back."

Most other places have other things that my hometown doesn't. Bigger stores. Restaurants that dish out more than Mexican food. Choices of where to shop. People that look different from each other. They speak differently from each other.

I like all those things, but I like my hometown better. I was in Austin this week scooting around the city. There's a lot of walking to do, but getting on those scooters is a bit more thrilling, and you can see more in a place where there is a lot to see. Buildings that touch the sky. Eateries of all kinds with food that you can't pronounce. Music coming from every corner. People in suits and people in sandals. There is some of everything in Austin.

I like all of it, but I like my hometown more. When I was growing up in the small town of Douglas, Arizona, the town seemed bigger. The streets longer. It took a while to get to downtown if you were walking, and along the way were familiar faces. You could stop by the arcade store and the card shop. There weren't too many surprises.

Now, in my forties, the town is different in some ways but not in other ways because no matter how much the winds of change can blow in all directions, some things never change.

Like how older people call you "mijo" in a style that makes it sound like they are related to you and care about you even if you don't know them. That happens in my hometown. Or the way people drive slowly no matter the speed limit and almost come to a stop when turning a corner. There isn't much to see, but what there is to see can't be missed. That happens in my hometown.

In my hometown, you always know when something out of the ordinary is happening and something out of the ordinary recently happened. In a place we hometowners have always cared for called Church Square, two of the four historic churches, standing together for over a century on a single block, burned down on the same day. It was an act of arson.

This crime, this message of hatred, changes our hometown. It feels sadder, a little defeated at the moment, but it doesn't make it a place we don't recognize. Morning walkers that walk their laps around Church Square still walk around this now different-looking place. Parishioners who worshipped in these two churches are still worshipping in other temporary homes.

Neighbors that you know and don't know stop by to stare quietly at the fresh ruins. Black piles of ash. Boarded up doors. Frames of darkness that once held colorful stained glass windows. We don't see what we used to see. That's a hard reality in a hometown. What you grow up with you expect to last forever. The things of your childhood aren't supposed to go away because you always need something to return to you.

Today, in 2023, my hometown is different but the same. That's why I like being back here, in a place that's familiar in some ways and not familiar in other ways. It's the familiar ways that brought me back and keep me here.

The way people come together in times of crisis. The way a fellow hometowner you don't know will stop to talk to you, to share with you the same feelings you are feeling. You don't have to personally know a hometowner to know that they are from your hometown. When you talk to each other for the first time, you understand what each other is saying. That only happens in your hometown.

Other places have more of what the world says you need. Your hometown has just what you need when you need it. Like in any other place, buildings fall, and people are hurt. In your hometown, when it happens, it hurts a little more.

That means something to me, and it must come from a place of love and understanding you can only get from your hometown. That's why I came back.

Abe Villarreal writes about the traditions, people, and culture of America. He can be reached at abevillarreal@hotmail.com.