EDITORIAL

Seventy-Five Reasons to Believe You walk in through the front door to a table full of pastries, charcuterie boxes, hot coffee, and personalized cookies. Everything looks welcoming, intentional. Off to one side, a room buzzes softly as scholarship recipients get their makeup done. Another space holds racks of clothes—outfits that each student brought for their photo session. In the main room, a professional photographer waits, lights adjusted, lens focused, as scholarship reci

Scrolling through our social media feeds, we’ve all seen those repetitive reminders: “Register to vote.” “Check your registration status.” “Make sure your voice counts.” They appear so often that after a while, they almost blur into the digital background noise. Most of us scroll past, assuming our registration is fine—that because we voted last time, everything must still be in order. But the other day, I decided to click one of those links. And what happened next was a wake

You know the one. The flowered nightgown your abuela wore, long enough to sweep the floor, high-necked, long-sleeved, probably with tiny pockets that held nothing but lint and power. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't sexy. And somehow, it was everything. And those batas got results. The vata doesn’t seduce—it commands. It’s a uniform for women who build lives, raise hell, and don’t try to impress no one. Cuenta la leyenda que with one single vata, a woman could secure ten kids, a p

There are moments when words feel too fragile to hold the truth. When a life is taken so suddenly, so publicly, language seems to break under the weight of it. That’s what happened on a Minnesota street, where 37-year-old Alex Pretti was killed before witnesses, cameras, and a world that already feels too familiar with scenes like this. To call it an act of violence feels too small. To call it shocking feels dishonest, because there’s nothing new about this kind of loss, only

In the tight-knit communities of the Rio Grande Valley, where familias stick together through floods, freezes, and the endless uncertainties of border life, the idea of someone exploiting foster children for profit strikes at the heart of our deepest values. Abuelas sharing tamales across fences, primos playing lotería late into the night—these are the bonds that define us. Yet, this betrayal isn't imported from distant cities; it's unfolding right here in the Valley, conceal

I can hear Vicente pacing in the kitchen. Back and forth. Back and forth. I'm in bed, pretending to be asleep, but really I'm just counting his steps. It's 10:50 pm, and his dentist appointment is at 8 tomorrow morning. This is how it always goes. A week before any appointment, I remind him. Five days later, I remind him again. The morning of, I'll remind him one more time. Then I set my alarm for 5 am because Vicente needs exactly two and a half hours to prepare himself for

Not all friendships are created equal. Some people will bleed you dry and act shocked when you finally cut them loose. Start with the emotional dumpers. You know the type. They show up, unload their entire psychological inventory like you're a storage unit, then bounce feeling refreshed while you're left processing their unresolved trauma. Venting and genuine emotional processing are different sports. One is screaming into the void for temporary relief. The other requires sit

Rome - Valentino Clemente Ludovico Garavani, legendary Italian fashion designer, has peacefully passed at the age of 93. Garavani opened a fashion house on Via Condotti in Italy. Known by the V logo, Valentino served as the creative director and influencer of the house from 1959 until around 2008. "Valentino Red" became a symbol of the fashion icon. His love for the color seemingly stemmed from the opera Carmen, a Spanish bel canto, that filled a stage with impressive red cos

Chicano. Mexican‐American. Same roots, different cultures. This isn’t just a box you check on a form—it’s the story of how people pick their label and decide how loud they want to be. How, then, is it that every Chicano is a Mexican‐American, yet not every Mexican‐American identifies as Chicano? Etymologically, many scholars trace “Chicano” to a colloquial contraction of “Mexicano.” In certain Spanish dialects—particularly among indigenous and working‐class communities—the “x

There was a time when America believed in itself the way a teenager believes in summer—endless, sunlit, and promised. Don McLean caught that feeling just as it slipped through the fingers of the time. American Pie wasn’t only a song; it was a vigil. A long, circling goodbye to a country that thought tragedy was an interruption, not a condition. “The day the music died” marked more than a plane crash. It marked the moment when innocence stopped being renewable. Buddy Holly, Ri

When Northgate Market floated the idea of a gigante concha rolling down the streets of Pasadena for the Rose Parade, it wasn’t just another pretty float — it was a dare to one of the most traditional stages in the country to make room for us. It was an invitation for Mexican-American families, from East L.A. to the Rio Grande Valley, to see something deeply familiar placed unapologetically at the center of the national gaze. Because let’s be honest: that giant pink concha was

Elizabeth Warren fumbled the easiest question in progressive politics. Asked whether she'd continue funding Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the Massachusetts senator offered a conditional yes—funding with restrictions on behavior. A technocratic answer that misses the entire point. The correct answer was no. ICE didn't materialize from Trump's fever dreams. The agency was created in 2003 under the Homeland Security Act, signed by Republican George W. Bush but supported b

Stephen Miller is the man who looks like every mall Santa’s lawyer, if that lawyer’s specialty was getting kids deported for crying in line. He is best known not for one bad policy or one ugly soundbite, but for a sustained, years‑long crusade to turn the immigration system into a weapon, especially against Latino families who dared to believe that “land of opportunity” was a promise and not a legally unenforceable slogan. He is the human embodiment of the “Do Not Enter” sign

Minnesota is standing in that classic fault line right now, where the state line meets the federal boot, and a governor is quietly getting his Guard ready, not for a hurricane or a blizzard, but for Washington’s own agents on his streets. That alone tells you how far this immigration “crackdown” has gone off the rails, and how willing this administration is to turn blue states and brown bodies into props in a national show of force. In south Minneapolis, ICE didn’t just show

Nobody agrees with everything. Not a spouse. Not a best friend. Not even the version of themselves from five years ago. Yet people wear political parties like team jerseys and defend every play, even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones. The reaction feels automatic. It sounds trained. Political identity now behaves like a personality. I’m a Democrat. I am a Republican. I am a liberal. Then there’s I am MAGA. Labels replace thinking. Allegiance replaces scrutiny. Once some

The gallows were real. So were the zip ties, the bear spray, the broken windows, and the politicians cowering under desks while their constituents hunted them through the Capitol. But five years after January 6, 2021, half of America remembers an insurrection while the other half sees a protest that got out of hand. That disconnect might be more dangerous than the riot itself. Donald Trump spent two months after losing the 2020 election telling his supporters the victory had

Let me say this slowly for the people in the back: I can despise Nicolás Maduro's authoritarian regime AND think Trump's invasion of Venezuela is imperialist bullshit. Both things. At the same time. I know that breaks some people's brains because apparently we all live in a Marvel movie now where you pick Team Iron Man or Team Thanos, but real life doesn't work like that. Real life is messier. Real life is multiple villains and millions of innocent people stuck dealing with t

My mother died in March. Everything else that happened this year exists in the shadow of that fact. We love to rank suffering. We love to throw around superlatives about pain. Somehow we equate pain to resilience. I split my head open at five. Had a boil the size of an egg under my armpit at eighteen. Childbirth at twenty-four. C-section at forty-one. I've built up pain tolerance. None of it prepared me for losing my mother. That absence operates on a different frequency enti

As this year closes, one truth rises above the noise for me: I believe FRONTeras exists because people keep showing up. Showing up to read. Showing up to argue. Showing up to see themselves reflected honestly—without translation, without watering down, without permission. This year, the stories I've written for FRONTeras did not aim to make anyone comfortable. They aimed to be real. I moved through border politics without the lazy narratives that flatten us into talking point

I'm watching caravans of vehicles with Mexican plates stream across the road all morning long. The Rio Grande Valley's retail corridors look like Black Friday stretched across an entire month. Parking lots overflow. Cash registers sing. Store managers scramble to restock shelves emptied by Mexican nationals doing their Christmas shopping north of the border. Está hasta a la madre. Everywhere you turn, there are Mexican nationals standing in line to buy what American people ca