Growing Up Plano, Texas.

Reflecting on this suburb and the subtle racist attitudes of this “all-American” town.

Photo by Johannes Schaefers on Unsplash

I have something in common with the El Paso shooter (here nameless). We both graduated from the same high school — Plano Senior High. Me in 2005, and him in 2017.

Plano Senior High is a high school that looks more like a college.

Something strange you’ll notice about the buildings — no windows. The doors are dark.

There is a strange tower in the center of campus, and beige buildings designated by letter — A building, B building, C building which consists of the library and cafeteria, D building, which is the theatre and arts building, and E building: the gym.

When I went there, my class consisted of 1200 students.

That was just one grade. Because there were so many of us, we had different numbers. My guidance counselor didn’t know my name. When I needed a college recommendation letter, I just told her my number — 0051. And she gave me something out of a template, with my name plugged in.

While it’s a “safe” neighborhood, everyone lives in fear.

It’s the kind of neighborhood where all the houses look the same. Where people lament over all the “foreigners” moving in and “changing” the area.

This racism is often disguised as something else. Complaining about traffic. It’s not that the newcomers are Latino, Asian, Middle Eastern, or Black…it’s the traffic. It’s the fact that homeowners can’t hit golf balls in their favorite field now, and they have to pay to go to a range.

But I see through all those “the neighborhood ain’t what it used to be” claims.

It’s a safe neighborhood where people live in fear — of their neighbors, of the “other.”

It’s a place where I once heard a mosque inaccurately called a “dome for the Hindus.” Where there is no difference between Middle Eastern or Indian.

Where, in high school, I was asked if I was a Mexican or a terrorist.

Hate starts slow, then brews.

The suburban racism starts with a desire for things to just stay the same.

It starts with lamenting for something that was never real.

It’s an illusion of safety.

A belief in scarcity. If they have, then I do not have.

It’s a lot of just statements.

“I just want to get to 15th without traffic.” “I just don’t want the schools to be overcrowded.” “I just don’t want the property value of my house to go down.” “I just want to walk around without wondering who my neighbors are.” “I just think there are already enough foreign markets; I just want a Kroger.” “I just don’t feel as comfortable as I did when I first moved here.”

All those “harmless” just statements stir a much bigger pot.

The change is subtle. The change is under the surface.

As I walk past the windowless senior high school toward the new bubble tea place, I take a short video of the shopping center where my best friend used to work. I send it to her.

Every store has changed. Most of the signs are in a language I cannot read. In an alphabet I cannot readily identify.

Plano has changed since I went to high school here. It’s become more diverse. And, unless you look closely, you cannot really tell.

You cannot really tell from all the houses that look exactly the same. One-story, ranch-style, with a decent yard.

You cannot really tell from all the Toyotas and pickup trucks going down Park, Parker, Custer.

You cannot tell from the beige-colored houses, the brown, sometimes green lawns, the brown high school, the long roads.

Everything is a brown or a grey.

All the colors are hiding.

And honestly, I think that scares the subtly racist people in the area…the people who think they are not racist — The idea that there’s a slow, unseen invasion.

Inside those beige buildings and stores, something is happening.

That one day, everything will be different.

Everything in Plano is under the surface.

The illusion of calm. Prescription drug abuse. Denial. People pretending to be fine when they aren’t fine.

That’s what I think of when I think of high school. Of Plano.

I think of teens taking AP classes who secretly sell drugs.

I think of suicidal kids who are still expected to get good grades.

I think of eating disorders.

I think of moms taking Xanax.

I think of people who live in fear despite living in a safe, suburban area. Who are jumpy. Anxious.

Of people who don’t really know their neighbors well. Who live isolated lives.

That’s what the suburb means to me. That’s why I left, and why when I visit, I’m eager to leave each time.

There’s something devoid of real human emotion here.

Car life, tinted windows, long roads.

The Plano neighborhoods could be grids, and should be grids, but they’re built with these intentional winds that you think would “add character” but really just piss you off when you’re lost.

Everything was so monotonous, except for this detail, the most useful one…the streets.

It’s hell for a pedestrian. I have lived in New York for so long that I forgot what it was like for drivers to have little regard for someone on foot. I get waved across at intersections. Given a questioning look. I’m often the only person walking.

In Plano, if you’re walking, something is wrong. You’re homeless. Poor. No one believes me when I say I want to walk. They are eager to offer me a ride.

But I need to be outside.

When you walk around Plano, you’ll notice a lack of people.

So many people went to my school. There are so many schools. So many houses, all identical.

There are so, so many parks.

And nobody in them.

When everyone is in their houses, people fear violent animals and ghosts.

Coyotes.

I even heard of people being afraid of chupacabras.

Is that what they’re afraid of? Or is there something so eerie about all these houses, all identical, all full, all noiseless?

These facades hiding who? Hiding what?

In a place so hot, people bounce from one air conditioned building to another.

The office to the house. The house to the rec center. The rec center to the mall. The mall to the movie theatre…or maybe the movie theatre is in the mall, and then you don’t need to leave the mall.

There’s no reason to see the sun. To feel it. To breathe fresh air.

After traveling for three years, and becoming accustomed to not using AC at all, I had forgotten what this strange life was like. This artificial existence in a tube, where all you had was TV and cold muscles.

When I moved to Plano, I was already 10. I had lived in New York. In Costa Rica. I liked being outside.

And then, I felt trapped. But unable to complain.

Complaining meant being ungrateful for everything you had, and you, an American in the suburbs, supposedly had it all.

Even if you were unhappy. Even if people had racist attitudes toward you. This, we thought, was supposedly the best the world had to offer. This was the “dream.”

But I left at 16. I graduated a year early so I could leave. And the older I get, every time I visit, I feel the same way.

I don’t want to live in the shades of beige.

I want change.

I want color…visible color.

And to choose vibrancy, to choose color, is a choice all of us have.