Remembering Colegio Jacinto Treviño at Cine El Rey

How a cultural event in McAllen helped me reclaim a history I never learned

“The stories I didn’t grow up hearing are still mine to claim.”

On May 28, I stepped into a place I had never been—but somehow, I recognized it. Cine El Rey, the historic theater in McAllen, Texas, is one of those old buildings that holds memory in its bones. That night, it was alive with music, history, and heart.

The event, “Colegio Jacinto Treviño and Resistance in the Rio Grande Valley,” centered on a legacy I never learned as a child: the rise of Chicano educational and political consciousness in South Texas.

Guest speakers included Dr. José Villarreal from UTRGV and Mr. Lupe Casares, a founding member of Colegio Jacinto Treviño in Mercedes. We heard powerful testimony from Dr. Petra Guerra, a former student of the college. There were performances by Los Hermanos Lopez from San Benito, and a moving tribute to Jacinto Treviño himself, including a corrido sung by several of his descendants. It was more than a cultural event—it was a reclamation.

And I couldn’t stop asking myself:
Why didn’t I know about any of this growing up?

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Growing Up in the In-Between

I was raised in small towns along the Texas-Mexico border, but I didn’t encounter stories like these until college. In my Mexican American Studies classes, I read snippets about Colegio Jacinto Treviño. But hearing people speak about it—those who had lived it—was different.

Their voices weren’t just telling history—they were history, still unfolding.

Founded in 1969–70 by the Mexican American Youth Organization (MAYO), Colegio Jacinto Treviño was the first and only independent Chicano community college in the U.S. Supported by Antioch College’s University Without Walls, the school was radical in both mission and practice. It offered a bilingual, bicultural education aimed at developing “a Chicano with conscience and skills,” and directly confronting racism and systemic exclusion (García, 1989).

Though it closed in the mid-1970s, the school’s legacy endures. Especially for those of us who are still figuring out where we belong.

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Not Mexican Enough, Not American Enough

When I left home at seventeen for UT Austin, I felt like I’d been dropped into another universe. A güero from Mexico asked how I could be both Mexican and American. A Spanish international student said I didn’t “look Mexican.” Professors mispronounced my name—Peña became Pena, the accent stripped away like dignity. Software didn’t know what to do with a tilde.

No matter where I went, I was either too Mexican or not Mexican enough. Too ethnic looking, or not melanated enough. My accent was either too thick—or too pocha, depending on who was critiquing.

Later, after marriage, my last name started rhyming with “Stallone,” and people assumed I was Italian. In Leander, Texas, teachers asked if I taught Spanish after I introduced myself as the new biology teacher.

I didn’t fit in anywhere neatly. But in Garrison Hall, that century-old auditorium —lined floor to ceiling with dark wood, the air dim and heavy from a lack of windows—as I sat through my first Mexican American Studies course, it marked the beginning of a deeper understanding.

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We Didn’t Use the Word “Chicano”

The first time I heard the word Chicano, I was in college. I’d joined a student group called the National Chicano Health Professions Organization—an inherited name from the '70s. Eventually, we renamed it the Mexican American Health Professions Organization.

My family didn’t grow up with that term. My relatives were born and raised in Mexico. Their history was Mexican, not Chicano. They didn’t go through English-only schools or Texas segregation. Their roots are proud and deep—my great-grandmother fled the Revolution and settled in Ciudad Mier, a town now designated a Pueblo Mágico. The Texas Rangers once tried to take it over—and lost.

My father’s family came from Michoacán. His parents moved to Ciudad Mier. That’s where my parents met. Their histories are rooted—but they stop at the river’s edge.

Mine begins on this side of the river.

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Language, Legacy, and Love

Even now, my family in Mexico—and sometimes even my own mother—can’t understand why my children don’t speak fluent Spanish. They say it’s my duty to pass on the language, as if love for one’s culture can be measured in conjugated verbs.

They mean well. But they didn’t grow up being asked, “What are you?” or “Where are you really from?”

Yes, we eat arroz, mole, and fideo. Yes, we eat tamales at Christmas. But no food can replace the ache of not fully knowing a language—or the shame of not passing it down fluently to your kids. Culture can nourish—but it can also haunt.

My parents don’t question who they are. My mother wouldn’t dream of leaving her Texas border town. But for those of us who’ve left—who live in Austin or San Antonio or anywhere else—we carry a different burden.

Still, I’m learning.

I’m learning that honoring my heritage doesn’t mean replicating it perfectly. It means showing up—with open ears and an open heart. At Cine El Rey. In classrooms. In community centers. In stories.

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Ni de Aquí, Ni de Allá

The stories I didn’t grow up hearing are still mine to claim. And maybe that’s what it means to be Mexican American—not fitting neatly into a box, but living in the hyphen. Straddling histories. Unearthing what was buried.

Walking into old buildings, hearing corridos, and realizing that what I thought I had lost was always waiting for me to remember.

Because belonging isn’t something handed down—it’s something we build. Brick by brick. Story by story.

In spaces like Cine El Rey, I find pieces of myself scattered in the voices of others. In history once erased, I find echoes of my own longing. And in honoring a past I never knew I needed, I begin to understand who I am.

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I may not speak perfect Spanish. I may never feel fully understood by my own family. But I’m here—listening, learning, claiming. And in doing so, I’m laying down my own legacy.

For myself. For my children. For anyone who’s ever felt they had to choose between two worlds.

The truth is:
We don’t have to choose. We carry both.
And that, in itself, is power.

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Want to Learn More?

Cine El Rey in McAllen continues to host events that celebrate Mexican American culture, politics, and history. Follow their Facebook page or visit CineElRey.org to stay informed about future programming.

Come for the stories. Stay for the community.
You just might find yourself in them, too.

Cine El Rey, dubbed the “Mexican Apollo,” opened its doors May 1, 1947, as a cinema showing Spanish-language films.

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