Texas Roots, Mexican Bloodlines

Growing up on the border meant two lives divided by a river that never stopped flowing. Being the daughter of a father from Laredo and a mother from Garciasville, the question when I got to college—where are you from—was always complicated. When I said Garciasville, the reaction was always in awe: no way, you have your own town?! My childhood was simple and beautiful, but describing life on the outskirts of a small city in a quiet county was difficult to explain to friends in Dallas, Austin, or Houston. “South Texas” to them meant San Antonio. When I’d say I grew up about four hours south of San Antonio, the confused looks always came. “Northern Mexico,” I half-joked. Truth is, life is different in the 956.

I recently ran across my report card from first grade and in big bold writing the check in bilingual was no. To my surprise, I thought I was bilingual my whole life. Turns out I spoke very little Spanish. It wasn’t until college that I really improved my Spanish skills; while I’ve worked on the language, I still find it difficult to read and write it proficiently.

The groups in school I remember were kids with stories of visiting family in Cerralvo or Miguel Alemán, spending timeless nights at their ranches. My stories were of going to my grandmother’s in Laredo on Springfield or my other grandmother’s down the street in Garciasville. I could understand my friends when they spoke in Spanish, but when I tried to join in, I was laughed at for mispronouncing words. That tug-of-war followed me long past childhood.

Fast forward to working in Houston. Talking with a client recently, they asked where I was from. I said Texas and gave the usual breakdown. The answer wasn’t enough. “Sí, pero tus papás?” “También de Tejas.” “Bueno, de dónde son tus abuelos?” My response stayed the same. Texas.

While my bloodline traces back to Revilla, Mexico (Guerrero Viejo) and other countries, growing up on the border has a way of making one feel ni de aquí ni de allá. You speak English so you’re Texan. You speak Spanish so you’re Mexican. But if you don’t speak the “right” Spanish, suddenly you’re not Mexican enough.

My paternal grandfather in Laredo sold typewriters and was a semi-pro golfer. Together with his wife, Maria “Chita,” they raised children who valued education. Their oldest, Marianita, earned her degree and taught for many years. Lucas became a psychiatrist. Memo was a chemist. Pancho and Javier became teachers. Felix and Raymond joined the ministry. Sixto was a horse jockey who later dedicated his years to ranching and fishing. My grandmother Maria “Chita” de Jesús Guerra García grew up in Los Ojuelos, a booming oil town ranch born of a Spanish land grant from the 1790s. Her grandparents carried the last name Donovan.

Down the river, my maternal great-grandmother Maria Garcia Garcia was a teacher and postmaster in a town named after her patriarchs—Garciasville. With her husband from Falfurrias, Texas, they raised a family that included their son Victoriano, a Starr County Sheriff’s deputy, and Marin, who served as the Starr County District Clerk. They later helped start La Unión Water Supply.

The history shaping my identity has always been both here and there. The river running through the border has been my constant. Whether I am Texan, Mexican, or Mexican American, I am a proud child raised with blood flowing like that river, in a borderland full of ranch land, dialect, food, music, and art. Soy de aquí y de allá. I am Martie.

@Martie

@MartieVela

Copyright © 2025 Martie Garcia Vela for FRONTeras.