A Love Letter to East Texas
I need you to know something
I need you to know that my roots are deeply intertwined with the essence of East Texas. Every corner of this region has shaped me into the person I am today. From Longview to Nacogdoches, from Lufkin to Tyler, the spirit of East Texas resonates within me. These towns have become more than just locations; they are a part of my identity, forever cherished in my heart.
I want to share with you a piece of my soul, a part that is uniquely tied to the vibrant culture of East Texas. In every small town and bustling city, I have found pieces of myself reflected in the welcoming faces of the community.
The sprawling pine forests and rolling hills have whispered stories of resilience and strength, stories that have become intertwined with my own narrative. As I navigate through life, the lessons learned from this region continue to guide me, reminding me of the importance of connection, humility, and perseverance. The essence of East Texas has become a beacon of authenticity and tradition, shaping my worldview and enriching my spirit along the way.
And as I reflect on these places—these towns, these people, this region—I’ve been sitting with a thought I can’t seem to shake.
What if East Texas wasn’t just a region?
What if it was a city?
Now before you roll your eyes, stay with me for a moment. I don’t mean city in the way we think of concrete jungles or crowded intersections. I mean a collective identity. A cultural city. A reimagined home where all of us—no matter how small our towns, how winding our roads, or how stubborn our area code pride—belong to something together.
Picture it: The Great City of East Texas.
Imagine Longview as one borough—gritty, working-class, and deeply rooted. Imagine Tyler as another—garden-filled, fast-growing, gracefully balancing tradition with innovation. Then there’s Nacogdoches—our historic borough, where the streets still echo with stories from centuries ago. And Lufkin? That’s the heartland borough. Strong. Steady. Stubborn in all the right ways.
Four major communities, each carrying their own flavor, each beating with their own rhythm—but all part of the same story. The same body. The same city.
And beyond them? A patchwork quilt of places that matter. Towns like Bullard, Gilmer, White Oak, and Gladewater. Livingston and Lindale. Huntington, Shepherd, Onalaska, and Marshall. Quiet towns with loud hearts. Places that don’t always make the headlines but are the backbone of this region.
They’re not just afterthoughts. In this story, they’re neighborhoods. Districts. Beloved corners of the same city. In this version of East Texas, we all have a place.
We’re not just Lufkinites or Tylerites or folks from “out near Gilmer.” We’re East Texans. That’s who we are.
I know it might sound like a rant—or maybe just a dream—but I think it’s time we start imagining ourselves with a little more unity, a little more shared pride, and a whole lot more connection. Because y’all, we already move like one city. We shop in each other’s stores. We attend church in each other’s towns. We marry across zip codes. We send our kids to schools in the next county over. The lines on the map never meant much to us anyway.
And then there’s the great divider: the area code. You’ve got the 903 crew and the 936 crew—each wearing those digits like a badge of honor. Some say 903 is East Texas, and 936 is Deep East Texas. And maybe there’s some truth to that. Henderson, after all, is right at the line. But whether you’re north or south, what matters most is that we’re in this together.
We are East Texas.
This isn’t about changing laws or renaming counties. This is about changing perspective. About shifting from a mindset of “me and mine” to “us and ours.” About building bridges across pine-lined highways and realizing we’ve got more in common than we ever imagined.
So here’s what I’m dreaming of:
A new story for East Texas.
A shared identity.
A unifying name for this beautifully rugged region we all call home.
What would you name it?
- The Great City of East Texas?
- The East Texas Boroughs?
- Pine City?
- The 903/936 Collective?
- Something we haven’t spoken yet, but that lives on the tip of your heart?
I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: we deserve to be seen, to be celebrated, and to be connected. From the backroads of Coldspring to the historic squares of Nacogdoches, from the football fields of Longview to the rose gardens of Tyler—we are part of something greater than ourselves.
So dream with me.
Name this city.
Claim this future.
And let’s start telling a better story—one where every East Texan knows they’re not alone, and not forgotten.
Because we’ve always belonged to each other.
We just need to start living like it.
🐀 Why “The East Texas Rat”?
(An Homage to Master Splinter)
If you’ve heard me refer to myself as The East Texas Rat, let me break it down—because there’s more to it than just a clever nickname.
Yes, it’s gritty. Yes, it’s unexpected. But most of all, it’s intentional.
The nickname is a nod—a deep, heartfelt homage—to one of my earliest examples of wisdom, mentorship, and unseen power: Master Splinter, from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
You see, Master Splinter was never the flashiest. He didn’t crave the spotlight. He wasn’t out swinging swords or grabbing headlines. But make no mistake—he was the root of everything. The guide. The healer. The teacher. He moved through the shadows, not to hide, but to serve.
And in many ways, that’s what I’ve felt called to do here in East Texas.
I’ve lived in the spaces between—between communities, between generations, between classrooms and care homes, between the formal and the forgotten. Like Splinter, I move quietly but intentionally. I teach, I listen, I drum, I show up, and I guide. Not with ego, but with presence. Not to be seen, but to help others see.
So when I say I’m “The East Texas Rat,” I’m owning that role.
It’s about proximity.
It’s about humility.
It’s about being close enough to the ground to hear what others miss.
It’s about showing up for the young ones who need rhythm.
And for the elders who need remembering.
For the educators, the parents, the leaders in small towns who often don’t get a second glance.
Like Master Splinter, I don’t lead with flash.
I lead with heart.
So no, I’m not trying to build a brand off a rat.
I’m trying to build a bridge—between towns, between generations, and between East Texans of every kind.
Because sometimes the greatest strength doesn’t come from standing on the stage.
It comes from sitting on the floor, drum in hand, reminding people they matter.
And if you ask me, that’s exactly what Master Splinter would do.
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