Cultura, Life, Love & Community

By M.E. Avila I believe deeply in the promise of Community-Based Participatory Research. At its best, CBPR allows researchers and communities to learn together, build knowledge together, and create something that is useful beyond a publication or research project. But I also think we have to acknowledge that many of us are still not getting it right. We have become good at using words like community engagement, lived experience, equity, and community voice. But using the lang

By M.E. Avila Decisions about communities are made every day. Officials decide which programs receive funding, where services are located, what gets expanded, what gets cut, and where investments are made. Usually, there is data behind those decisions. We have budgets, needs assessments, performance measures, demographic information, and program outcomes. There should be data. But after years of living and working alongside community, while also working inside institutions ma

By M.E. Avila On August 28, 2026, a severe storm moved through San Antonio, bringing destructive winds, heavy rain, flooding, downed trees and power lines, and widespread power outages. More than 100,000 CPS Energy customers lost electricity at the height of the event. Among the hardest hit areas was ZIP code 78207 on San Antonio's Westside, where more than 15,000 customers were reportedly affected. In the hours and days that followed, families needed electricity, food, water

By M.E. Avila Twenty-nine years have passed since the West French Place massacre, but when I think of Christopher Tobias, August 1997 does not feel very far away. Christopher was someone I had a middle school crush on. To the world, his name became one of five listed in news reports about one of San Antonio’s most notorious crimes. To those of us who knew him, he was not just a name, a victim, or a young man described as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was a pe

By M. E. Avila There is something about Sunday on San Antonio's West Side that feels like coming home. Maybe it's the smell of barbacoa or the bottles of Big Red waiting on the table, the familiar church bells calling families to Mass, or the streets that hold generations of memories. Every Sunday reminds me that I am exactly where I belong. Living on the West Side is more than having an address. It is living among the stories of my family. It is walking streets that my grand