It Ain’t Like Back in the Day

Reckoning with Change, Gentrification, and the Search for Community in a New Houston

It Ain’t Like Back in the Day

Around 1997 or 1998, my mother and I moved to Houston with my stepfather to be closer to his family and for work. I remember feeling like it was a big step for her—a chance to finally settle after years of constant moving and searching for home.

By the time I turned eight, we had already lived in Atlanta, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Detroit. Houston felt like a place where we might finally grow roots. And my adolescent intuition was right—we stayed, and them roots grew, baby.

We spent years living in Midtown before eventually moving to the North Side. It was a shaky but hopeful existence—we teetered between the middle class, lower middle class, and lower class for what felt like every six months. When my mother and stepfather divorced, she had to start all over again. But she started over time and time again.

What Houston lacked in equality and infrastructure, it made up for in resilient communities of color, all figuring it out together. I was embraced by a vibrant Mexican community on the North Side that treated me like family when things felt tough. I went to a diverse church in the Heights where people would lay hands and pray over my mother and me when hope felt lost. After years of navigating schools where I was bullied and constantly fighting over a developing queer identity, my mom found a high school in Spring, Texas, that finally felt like a fit—a place where I learned lessons I still carry with me today.

Back then, belonging felt natural and effortless. You didn’t have to search for community; it was just there.

I moved out when I was 18 and didn’t look back, but I took those experiences with me everywhere I went.

Coming Back to a Different City

Then, I found myself in a position where moving back to Houston made the most sense. And as a 33-year-old adult navigating a deep sense of loss and hopelessness about what this country has become—and what that means for my life—I returned with hope. I hoped that I’d find community. That I’d maybe find love, like a hoodrat Carrie Bradshaw. That I’d find a renewed sense of purpose. Instead, I found confusion, misunderstandings, and a bitter sense of isolation.

Neighborhoods once full of color and soul now overrun by Tesla trucks and hookah spots. The streets I grew up on are now unrecognizable, lined with high-rise luxury apartments and bars serving expensive cocktails. The neighborhoods I used to call home are too expensive to even hang out in, yet despite the wealth pouring into these areas from tech companies looking for tax breaks, the sidewalks remain broken and unfinished. I often have to hop and skip over grass and dirt to get to public transportation, and public transportation is unreliable at best.

The other day, my barber, who was born and raised in Third Ward, told me he moved to Humble to find a house because Third Ward is too expensive now. Do you know how far Humble is?

Imagine the feeling of being invisible in the place that raised you—but being seen enough to be singled out. I walk down the street to catch the bus and brace myself every time I hear tires screech—the word faggot hurled from a passing car like a bullet. It happens often enough that I barely flinch anymore, but each time, it chisels away a little more of the hope I carried back with me. The worst thing is, I thought using gay slurs was a thing of the past, so yesterday—no Hillary Duff—but not in 2025 Houston, Texas, honey. Houston is still giving very much red-state Texas.

The Disappearance of Third Spaces

I try to meet people in person, but halfway through a conversation, they pull out their phones and start scrolling through dating apps. Houston has almost no third spaces designed for queer people—no neutral, communal places where queer people can just exist without expectation or transaction. If I want to meet people, I’m stuck navigating apps that feel impersonal, predatory, and designed to feed into the very mental health issues they cause.

In places like Mexico City, Berlin, New York, and the Bay, community spills into public spaces. People gather in plazas, parks, bookstores, and cafés. But 2025 Houston is sprawling and isolating. If you don’t drive—or can’t afford the rising cost of living—you’re locked out of much of what the city has to offer. An imbalance that feels strategic and, oftentimes, violent.

But I’m not from Mexico City, Berlin, New York, or the Bay. I’m from Houston. This is my home, and I can’t help but wonder—is this how locals feel when their cities become playgrounds for the wealthy? When their hometowns turn into places they can’t access anymore because of niggas with tech jobs who want to smoke hookah and drive their fancy cars down highways built over areas where communities have been displaced?

It often leaves me wondering—what exactly is home, and who gets to decide what coming home feels like? And it's not just about who can afford to live here—it’s about who can exist here. Who gets to have spaces that feel safe, that feel like home to them?

Moving Forward

But despite all that, not all hope is lost. I got a teaching gig where I spend 10 hours a week teaching kids things I learned that helped me get out of Houston and travel the world. Well, at least that’s the intention, but I often find myself screaming over innocent third graders who like to tease me about my slight stutter. But the other teachers are supportive, and we’re making it work. It makes me feel like I’m giving back in a way, and it reminds me of the 8-year-old version of me who had just moved to Houston and dreamt about what the world had to offer.

The changes I’m describing feel dystopian sometimes. Jarring, even. But I try to hold onto the hope I brought back with me—the memory of what Houston once was. Not just the physical spaces, but the feeling of community that bloomed despite hardship.

Maybe the spaces are gone, but the people aren’t. And in 2025, maybe home isn’t a place you return to—but maybe it’s something you can rebuild, even when it feels like it’s being snatched from the palm of your hands. Maybe it’s an opportunity to take that shit back.

Look, I don’t know—we’re working our way through this. But I know this: wherever I go, community is still possible. And even in the face of all this change, I’m still searching for it. I’m searching for it like I’m searching for the number 4 Metro bus that was supposed to be here, like, 25 minutes ago.

Because it ain’t like back in the day—but maybe that means it’s time to stop waiting and start building.

Maybe in 2025, home is something we have to give ourselves the power to take back.