Better
On Crystal, Jessica, Dolores, silence, and the moments that remind us we’re moving forward
I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel joy that day.
It was 4:30 a.m.
The chill of the night still blanketed the Southside of San Antonio. I was up early that morning for an appointment … but also from disappointment.
I was still aching, still gutted. I hadn’t posted since my initial reaction. Hours of blurry reading, doom scrolling, and heavy soul searching rendered me useless to my usual oversharing. The dinners, the lunches, the coffee runs… none of it felt important.
As I waited for my buddy Jose to pick me up, I said a short prayer.
“Tell me it’s ok to find my joy today. I’m struggling, and I don’t want to fall…again.”
- - -
“There were mornings met with trembling,
evenings filled with doubt…”
- - -
I broke up with a partner shortly before the pandemic started in 2020. A beautiful chapter of my life that eventually faded because of distance, COVID-19 made it a pain to retrieve some of the more important items I had there back to Houston. New York was ground zero (again) for another worldwide event.
My friends Jessica Hoppe and her partner Freddy Izaguirre met me at La Esquina Taqueria in Lower Manhattan. It was a lonely trip, yet my friends’ comfort was healing, just like the nation was recovering from the initial throes of the virus. And like the country, both of our recoveries would take awhile.
In the midst of the isolation, Jessica wrote about her own experience going through sobriety in such a disorienting time; that piece went viral as her words resonated with folks across the country. Eventually, with Tony Diaz, director and founder of Nuestra Palabra, we invited Jessica to our radio show/podcast; it was her second public interview ever.
“I know we carry generations of pain and because we don’t tend to this sorrow—because we don’t know how—we continue to hurt others.”
Jessica’s story was already reverberating, and her trauma, her pain, the burden she was carrying was not only being lifted but it was lifting others.
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“There is strength in every tremor.
In each unsteady stride. ”
- - -
Dolores Huerta was 96 years old when she shared her account of her sexual assault and r@p3 at the hands of a charismatic and prominent leader—Cesar Chavez—someone she helped build the United Farm Workers Movement. The accusations came with receipts in the form of two children born from that trauma, whom she gave up to adoption for the sake of the work thousands had contributed to but, through typical machinations, had been distilled into one man.
The bombshell rocked the Chicano/Mexican American/Latino community, but for me, as an activist who considers himself a builder, a connector, a vessel, it’s especially heartbreaking. Community begins with trust. No foundation will stand without that implicit understanding that we have each other’s backs. The news that one of our icons, who we held to such a high pedestal, used that power to prey on the most vulnerable of our people, our young women, nuestras Mujeres… it’s the type of revelation that punches you without remorse.
I was hurt by the betrayal, no doubt. However, the greatest pain I felt was for Dolores.
I saw my mother in her admission.
I cried.
- - -
“[Healing] welcomes tears as progress.”
- - -
One afternoon in early 2024, Jessica came across my Instagram feed. Her memoir, First in the Family, was being released that summer; it was receiving rave reviews from outlets all across the country. Esquire, Publishers Weekly, People magazine all raved about her story as “an unflinching and intimate memoir of recovery.”
I immediately reached out to express my joy. Jessica was always a writer; the book wasn’t validation, it was always the next step. We caught up and I offered any assistance we could in helping her book campaign through Nuestra Palabra.
We embarked on a multicity tour through Texas, starting in Houston through San Antonio, eventually ending in Austin at the Texas Book Festival. Jessica’s raw account, coupled with her tenacity on systems designed to work against marginalized people, especially women, was riveting. Her words made people emotional, moved them, made them cry, and left them wanting more.
Jessica came to Texas, and like her nationwide tour, she didn’t persuade; she inspired. As she left Austin, we were overjoyed at the success we had.
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“A chance to meet the wonderful with gentleness, not shame.”
- - -
Jose and I made it to Reese Bros. to finish shooting some B-roll at 5 a.m. Nick, one of the brothers running the business, was gracious in explaining his process and how escalating costs were affecting their business. We had a good conversation, wrapped up, and made our way down I-10 East.
Burnt Bean Co. in Seguin, Texas, was our next destination. Chef Ernest Cervantes is the top pitmaster in the state and I was happy to connect him with Jose to do the story. It was also Jose’s first time and I knew we were going to have a great lunch; the special pastrami, the brisket, the smoked beef rib frites, etc,. It was something to look forward to.
We wrapped up the interview. Jose gathered his equipment and since the food wasn’t quite ready, we decided to head to a nearby coffee shop to come back in a few hours.
I still hadn’t posted anything.
- - -
A chance to speak the unsaid.
A chance to breathe again.
- - -
Jessica’s tour ended but her book remained in our inventory and was one of our best sellers for Nuestra Palabra. One of the goals of the organization is to meet the community where it’s at. From book festivals, to bars, tattoo shops, breweries, to the Librotraficante caravan, Nuestra Palabra’s ethos echoes Tony’s mission: meet the community where it’s at.
We set up a pop up at a LULAC, the League of United Latin American Citizens, meeting at the Houston Community College Auditorium. We only sold eight books that day. One gentleman, Joe Carreon, was responsible for a quarter of those purchases. He had reached his own limit on purchases and asked my opinion which book he should get via our online store. I reached for Jessica’s book, explained the book, and without hesitation gave it to him.
“I think you’ll love it, man; it’s a powerful book.”
Joe Carreon is the director of construction for the Harris County Department of Education (HCDE). More consequential, he happened to be working with Fortis Academy, a high school for students recovering from substance use disorders, offering a sober environment with academics, counseling, and support to help them earn a high school diploma.
Joe read the book, then shared it with the principal, who then called Tony and ordered 40 copies. The conversation shifted from book purchases to possible collaboration. There was liberation in this book, something the students needed, and as caretakers, we were going to find the way.
Jessica’s work was now in a school setting at Fortis Academy, in an environment often considered a last resort, where students are deemed “last chance”, labeled as “at risk”, and are told “it’s over.”
Over the next few months, the students not only read the book, they consumed it, they passed copies among themselves, and the interest was so high that school administrators (to their credit) asked Nuestra Palabra to develop a poetry workshop for the students with Jessica. After all the planning, several Zoom classes, as well as in person instruction by Tony, we upped the ante and flew Jessica in from New York to lead the last portion of the modules.
I picked up Jessica from the airport. We hugged and had tears in our eyes. It’s one thing to see your work receive praise from critics, awards from literary circles, and congrats from your peers, but to see young folks who are just starting life, who have their own trauma they are working on, to embrace her message and now distill their emotions into writing. In Jessica’s words, “it’s why I wrote my book.”
It was transformative. The last module was everything: emotions, curiosity, questions came pouring out.
The class read poems one by one, expressing some of their hardest moments.
Then Crystal spoke.
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“Healing is not a straight line… it bends and breaks.”
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Like Dolores, my mom suffered in silence many times, and always to placate my father, his image, his stature. I love my father, and he only knew what he knew, and looking back through the prism of my own therapy, it’s easy to understand he was surviving.
It doesn’t make it right.
It doesn’t make it fair.
Truth is, my father was just trying to make it.
Unfortunately, my mother was tasked with the heavy burden, with the consequences of a man who couldn’t / wouldn’t face his own demons. My mom bore that pain, the drunken nights, the domestic violence, the emotional abuse, the manipulation, basically the who’s who of attributes of the classic machista.
Dolores’ decades-long silence was put into question. Women are often chastised, persecuted, and attacked. Even in accusation, men are given the benefit of the doubt. For women, shame becomes guilt, secrecy an alibi, accusations an interrogation.
Men often cover for other men, often out of stupidity. Whether it’s not understanding power dynamics in relationships, centuries of patriarchal systems designed to keep women down, and cultural imprints that continue to this day, the defense for men is so basic but rooted. This protection is so planted that even other women feed into it, often as a means of survival.
I remember my mom facing it. My tías told her it was nothing—that the bruises fade, but the fancy necklaces last forever. The countless properties would properly compensate her. The numerous beers he drank each night eased his stress; the aftermath was framed as her perseverance in the morning.
“You’re so strong, Ana.”
My mother’s tolerance became her acclamation—an award she never asked for.
- - -
There is a kind of bravery in simply staying here,
in facing storms of memories without disappearing.
- - -
Crystal shared her poem.
It described a horrible experience she had with a (male) family member.
The poem was called “The Monster.”
Unrehearsed, raw, monotone, and with all the weight of a confession, she laid out the theft of her childhood.
It shattered me to think Crystal endured this cruelty but now had the fortitude to share her story. I cried, as my recent diagnosis of depression a month before seemed diminutive compared to what she went through, and what she was doing. It was heart wrenching yet inspiring.
Crystal seemed unaware of her poise, her strength, and probably, least likely, the cycle she was breaking. The young lady was taking a step, ankle monitor and all, into her healing.
Other students read their pieces, and they too had moments of clarity and were able to excise some of their feelings. It was a collective catharsis that couldn’t have happened without their courage. Jessica, Tony, Joe, and the administrators were floored by the presentations.
Jessica flew back to New York City the next morning. Nuestra Palabra continued the work with our author events, book campaigns, and poetry exhibitions. We invited Crystal, Jerry, Ana, and other students to read their poems, in whatever capacity they wanted to share. It was always Tony’s mission to platform everyone, and we showcased the Fortis Academy writers alongside Texas poet laureates, New York Times reporters, and international authors. Crystal read her poem several times.
At one showcase, the crowd was stunned by her words. Crystal’s contribution was met with disbelief that she spoke on her abuse. Perhaps the shock came from the cultural stigma that was baked in the crowd of mostly older Latinos, the belief that she shouldn’t speak on such subjects. Maybe it was the fact that she could speak on it so effortlessly when many of those same folks never could. Regardless, the audience was moved.
Crystal finished her poem, sat down, and without hesitation grabbed her phone and checked her messages.
- - -
“[Healing] asks for patience,
courage, and the hope of trusted friends”
- - -
Jose and I sat at a table along the wall so we could plug in our laptops. His deadline was approaching and he needed to make some edits while we waited for lunch service. A trip to Burnt Bean would not be complete without some food and B-roll so we held serve at Pecantown Books & Brews. A group of elders commanded the center table, discussing the latest events, only interrupted by one outburst of “No talking politics allowed” which was met with murmurs.
I started writing on my laptop.
Then the email came in.
“FW: Scholastic Award”
A short message from Joe exclaimed: “Check this out!! Crystal won an award for her poem!!! Thank you guys for inspiring these students. Let me know if you plan to attend. I’d love for you guys to join.” Her principal commented “Crystal won the Silver Key for her writing piece. We are very proud of her, as she is the first HCDE student to receive this distinction!!!”
Crystal was given the distinguished honor to serve as a featured reader at the 2026 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Ceremony, taking place at the Wortham Center in Downtown Houston.
From her award letter, “Out of thousands of submissions across the Harris County region, Crystal’s piece was chosen to represent the power of young voices by reading on stage before an audience of students, families, educators, and elected officials. This is an extraordinary recognition of their talent, composure, and ability to bring a story to life. Their selection also reflects the dedication of your teachers, campus support, and your leadership presence.”
14,000 submissions.
Crystal’s poem was selected as one of the best.
My eyes swelled at the news and I burst into tears. Jose, the coffee staff, and strangers noticed my tears but also my smile, likely befuddled at the mixed messages. I shared the news with Jose and he too became emotional, likely for her but also understanding the gravity of this email for me, my own struggle reconciling the national news that still rocked me.
“Dawg, this was the sign I needed. I needed to know that somehow we gotta do better, that we are doing better.”
I showed Jose my phone with the email up, tears flowing.
“This is better, bro.”
- - -
“There were mornings met with trembling,
evenings filled with doubt,
but also tiny victories that slowly carved the road.”
- - -
The ceremony the following week was gorgeous, with folks from Fortis Academy, parents, and students from various high schools filling the seats. On a night filled with the best pupils in Houston, many who have had the privileges and resources that all kids should have, Crystal shone brightly. It was a stage that was never set for her to step on, a platform whose possibilities were prohibitive to her, a dais deleted from her destiny.
Yet there she stood, defiant to her designated direction. Where other students had foundations, she took fractures and fragments and turned them into fuel.
She read a portion of her poem, “Finally Breathing.”
It was everything it was meant to be. As she finished, the faint cheer of her family echoed through the cavernous theater.
Afterwards, Crystal and her family gathered near the staging area for pictures. I watched from a distance, proud of the moment.
She asked Joe to take a photo. As he walked up, he mentioned I was there. Crystal turned, smiled, and waved me over. I shook my head, politely at first, but relented when she said,
“You too, Mr. Bravo. You did this. You helped me.”
- - -
Crystal, moments after the ceremony.
- - -
We dined, celebrating Crystal with her parents and family, enjoying a wonderful meal prepared by chef Patti Delgado, executive chef at Ninfa’s, and her amazing team. Afterwards, Chef learned that Crystal had competed with the Fortis culinary team in Waco at the Texas Pro Start Invitational, where high school students from ProStart programs across Texas compete in culinary and management challenges.
Chef Patti offered Crystal a position whenever she felt ready. If and when she wanted to pursue a career in the hospitality industry, she had a door to walk into.
“What do you think about that Crystal?”
She beamed with excitement, taking in the offer, realizing all her options.
Lawyer? Chef? Writer?
She looked up, processing it all, and just smiled.
- - -
“... tiny victories that slowly carved the road.”
- - -
Silence for women has often meant resignation, obedience, suffering.
Dolores, my mom, and Mujeres for ages have endured that muteness.
Jessica broke through it with her own story after years of her own reticence.
I don’t know what answer would break Crystal’s silence at that moment, but it didn’t matter.
Crystal has been empowered to define silence on her terms.
Silence meant survival at one point.
Now it meant choice.
- - -
“And somewhere deep within itself,
behind the grief and dust,
there lives a child waiting for someone they can trust.”
- - -
I’m well aware that my pain pales in comparison to the hurt Crystal, Jessica, Dolores, Mi Mama, y Mujeres everywhere have had to endure. Nothing I’m feeling will ever be adjacent, and likely never will. As a tall, big, Chicano who looks every bit the part of Magic from Blood in Blood Out, I have privilege. Even experiencing domestic violence as a witness, as a child, to being in a relationship where I was abused, the circumstances are far from equal. My experience as a man is an outlier compared to the pervasive and constant attack our Mujeres are under.
Stories weave, they intertwine, they create a tapestry for our lives that we often wrap ourselves in, for warmth, for protection, for security. We look for meaning in the chaos, trying to understand things from our vantage point. I don’t intend to speak on behalf of anyone’s perspective but mine, and my intention is always to uplift my community.
All praise and glory goes to the Mujeres in my life. Understanding your stories is how I learn to be a better man.
I didn’t have the words that morning. I was still searching, still sitting with the weight of it all.
But when that email came in, when I saw what Crystal had done, what she became in spite of it all—
I felt it.
Not perfect.
Not healed.
Not finished.
Just…
better.
Con cariño,
Rodrigo
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If this piece resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone who might need it.
Thank you for reading.
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(all poetic excerpts are used with permission from Crystal, from her poem, Finally Breathing.)
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ADDENDUM I
Jessica sent an email to me asking for an endorsement for speaking opportunities.
I wrote her the following:
“There isn’t sadness when I cry; instead, I take these tears as signs of progress.”
Crystal said this in her first reading. She is a student at Fortis Academy, a school that specializes in assisting students who are in sobriety, dealing with substance abuse, or those whom the general school system has jettisoned. At Fortis, these students are given another chance, often prescribed, but still an opportunity. Crystal, like many of the students, is a culmination of the environment, circumstances, and trajectory that our black and brown children often face.
Jessica’s book First in the Family, through a series of destined interactions from her friend, a campaigner, a construction superintendent, and finally a teacher, arrived in Crystal’s hands, and through Jessica’s commitment, she guided and inspired the students in this workshop to share their feelings, to transmit what they carried, and to express themselves without burden. Crystal had never written a poem, much less performed or spoken about her pain. She did, in front of her peers, and since then, twice in public as a poet with other artists.
I could tell you about the great campaign we had, the book festival, and all the awards, book club recommendations, and platicas we had.
But Jessica has done something else with her book, bridging her story to allow others to cross this path they never knew they could. She inspired Crystal and other students who had been written off, students who simply needed to see themselves in someone else and be given an example (not told) that life has its ups and downs, but you are still worth it, and that you can do whatever the f--- you want and be successful.
I’m blessed to call Jessica a friend, an ally, and a co-conspirator.
It is magical to work with her, but more importantly, let her work her magic.
(FYI, This was written two months before Crystal’s award.)
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ADDENDUM II
With Crystal and her parents permission, here is an excerpt from her poem, Finally Breathing, which she performed at the Wortham Center on March 26th, 2026.
There were mornings met with trembling,
evenings filled with doubt,
but also tiny victories that slowly carved the road.
A chance to speak the unsaid.
A chance to breathe again.
A chance to meet the wonderful with gentleness, not shame.
Healing is not a straight line.
It bends and breaks.
And when broken,
it asks for patience,
courage, and the hope of trusted friends.
It welcomes tears as progress.
It honors every scar and teaches that survival doesn’t mean you’ve gone too far.
There is a kind of bravery in simply staying here,
in facing storms of memories without disappearing.
There is strength in every tremor.
In each unsteady stride.
In choosing to exist despite the pain inside.
And somewhere deep within itself,
behind the grief and dust,
there lives a child waiting for someone they can trust.
#PersonalEssay #LatinoStories #MentalHealth #Writing #Community