When I walk Shoreacres’ streets, I catch glimpses of what I knew years ago. The same curve where the bay floods first, the same live oak leaning into the wind, the same neighbors who still nod from their porches. But layered over it is something sharper. A town doesn’t just age — it absorbs.
This place has absorbed twenty years of politics. After 9/11, flags rose everywhere. After Katrina, people spoke of preparation. After Ike, they spoke of survival. After Trump, they spoke only of each other — who was with them, who was against.
That’s the shift I feel most: the collapse of community into camps. Politics here isn’t about policy. It’s about belonging. Belonging means loyalty, and loyalty means silence when your own side crosses the line.
I learned that lesson the hard way. Back in the day, my writing got picked up by the wrong hands. I told myself it wasn’t my responsibility where my words landed. Silence bought me comfort. It also bought me complicity.
Now I hear the same silence all around me. Neighbors who know better won’t say so. Family members shrug off lies because correcting them means conflict. Churches keep quiet because truth might empty the pews.
That’s how lies win. Not because they’re convincing, but because the truth gets too heavy to carry.
I’ve carried my share. Harris County jail taught me that weight. Every man in there had a story, and most swore they were framed. After a while, the truth stopped mattering. What mattered was the mask you wore, how convincing you made it.
Politics isn’t much different now. Masks everywhere — some stitched with flags, some with slogans, some with the blank stare of people who just want the noise to stop.
But Shoreacres itself doesn’t lie. The bay floods when it wants. The storms hit when they choose. The drains back up whether you believe in them or not. Nature doesn’t negotiate.
Maybe that’s why I came back here. Not to escape the noise, but to remind myself that something still tells the truth, even if it’s brutal.
The edges of memory cut, but they also clarify. This town remembers me. I remember it. Between us, there’s no pretending.