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WEST ODESSA — Two brick houses stand beside each other on a remote street off the main highway. A statue of Jude the Apostle, the patron saint of hope and lost causes, stands guard in front of the compound.
The houses are not mansions, but Jesús Sierra is proud of them all the same. After all, he built them himself, layering each brick. In just two years, he turned a blighted lot in the middle of nowhere into a home.
The freedom to build a life with no questions asked is a rarity found in West Odessa, an unincorporated area here in Ector County. There is no city council, no municipality with zoning laws. Only state and federal laws apply.
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It’s what attracted Sierra.
“Here, I can build what I want,” Sierra said. “And I don’t owe anybody a thing.”
“And it’s tranquil,” his wife, Ernestina, said as she gazed at the parcel of land where the family of seven lives their idyllic life.
Jesús Sierra’s grandchildren Xavier and Malyna play in their family’s yard. A small PVC pipe seen nearby provides water to their parent’s home.
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An oil rig storage yard is seen beyond the Knox Village neighborhood in West Odessa.
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Eli Hartman/The Texas Tribune
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While the taxes are low and the government barely exists, there is a cost to those who desire to live unbothered and under the radar.
In this libertarian Utopia, dogs and donkeys run free. Mansions are built next to junkyards. An infinite number of tires for cars and trucks litter the side of the road and are piled high on acres of deserted land. Oil wells pop out of nowhere. Businesses known as game rooms, which provide space for legally dubious sexual activity and other questionable undertakings, dot the map.
For thousands of residents in West Odessa, running water is a luxury with no widespread infrastructure to support it. Neighborhoods are connected by uneven dirt roads. Driving conditions are choppy at best and risky at worst. If there is a speed limit — no one behind the wheel of a large pickup is paying attention to it. Streetlights are few and far between.
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The nearest hospital and police department are in the city, miles from reach.
Ector County Judge Dustin Fawcett — a newly elected millennial with Ronald Reagan’s movie star good looks and conservative values — hopes to slowly civilize the sprawling arid acres that make up West Odessa.
He hopes to foster an unlikely relationship between himself and the residents who moved there hoping to steer clear of bureaucrats and politicians. And in doing so, establish an emergency service district.
The plan — which will require voter approval — would bring ambulances and a fire rescue department to the residents’ backyards. The cost of introducing those services to West Odessa would be roughly $1 million annually through a new property tax, Fawcett said.
On a fundamental level, Fawcett is asking West Odessans to grapple with timeless American questions: How much government do you want in your life? And what are you willing to give up for the greater good?
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Residents are either skeptical or outright opposed to Fawcett’s plan. Frustrated residents in a crowded room told him as much during a town hall this summer.
Ector County Judge Dustin Fawcett poses for a portrait at the Ector County Commissioners Court in Odessa.
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Eli Hartman/The Texas Tribune
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Members of the Permian Basin Regional Planning Commission, including Ector County Judge Dustin Fawcett, meet on Sept. 13, 2023 in Midland. The commission deals in issues specific to its 17 member counties and their highest ranking officials, such as supporting emergency operations and economic development in the region.
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“You’re a liar, Dustin!” one resident yelled, saying the county had already fallen short of helping West Odessans.
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Fawcett said the meeting served its purpose and piqued the interest of residents.
It will take more than one town hall to persuade them to vote in favor of the services, he said.
Months later, residents are still unsure what to make of Fawcett’s pitch. Many shrugged it off, an early indication of apathy the county judge — the highest ranking elected official in Ector County — will have to overcome in order to drive people to the polls.
“It’s a hell of a challenge, but this is a majority of the reason I ran,” Fawcett said. “Because if something isn’t done soon, then the future is very bleak for the region.”
Unincorporated regions can be the most Texas part of Texas — freewheeling and wild, it’s each rugged individual for themselves.
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In Texas, there are 538 unincorporated areas, according to the census. The total number of inhabitants in unincorporated areas of the state is over half a million, a fraction of the state’s 30 million. Some areas have as few as nine residents. The most populous is The Woodlands, north of Houston, with more than 110,000.
Official census figures report an estimated 32,000 people live in West Odessa. Fawcett believes the population is much higher at 50,000, nearly half the size of the city of Odessa.
Dagoberto Fierro loads groceries into the bed of his truck with help from Karime Quintana after a trip to Lowe’s, one of West Odessa’s only grocery stores.
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Ruben Pando, left, and his son Armando Pando, second from right, sit down for a meal at El Taco Loco Brirrieria as the sun begins to set in West Odessa.
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As oil production reaches record levels in the Permian Basin, the petroleum-rich region of West Texas that includes Ector and Midland counties, workers flock to the region in droves, settling in trailer parks and man camps that offer a bare minimum livelihood.
Ector County provides what services it can afford to West Odessa through the sheriff’s department, ambulances, and road crews, but it’s stretched thin. The money the county receives through current taxes is not enough to massage the growing pains.
Emergency calls can take up to an hour. The only service in the 62 square miles is a volunteer fire department, a group of seven that has responded to over 600 emergencies this year alone.
Such was the case for Jesús Rodríguez, who lives with his wife, Anita, in one of West Odessa’s many backstreets. One night, the couple recounted, Rodríguez, 67, suffered a stroke, and Anita called 911. But the ambulance wouldn’t reach their home for almost a half hour, they said.
So they waited.
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“It was scary,” Anita said.
Rodriguez is recovering and keeps himself busy in a makeshift junkyard with odds and ends he’s accumulated over the years. And the best part, Rodríguez said, is that he gets to have a chicken coop, which is illegal in Odessa due to a local ordinance preventing residents from owning livestock, fowl, or hogs.
The couple said they dislike getting involved in politics but agreed that the area needs the support. Rodríguez said the volunteer fire department needs help. He would vote for the emergency district if it would help the fire department.
Motorists avoid potholes while driving down a caliche road in Knox Village, a mixed neighborhood of permanent homes, residential trailers and recreational vehicles in West Odessa.
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A guard dog is seen chained to a slack line outside of Jesús Sierra’s home. The family has lived in West Odessa for 13 years after spending time in various parts across Texas and New Mexico.
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Eli Hartman/The Texas Tribune
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If approved, the emergency service district would add to the recently established water district. The county created the board that oversees and administers the utility to West Odessa, but its reach is limited. The board serves properties by relying on existing water infrastructure, which does not run through every home. And the utility’s million-dollar budget has not been enough to feed every property.
Residents improvise.
Last year, Maria Miranda moved to West Odessa with her three children after her husband, Adrian, got a job working in the oil fields. After 17 years in the Chicago suburbs, West Odessa seemed like an alien planet.
She fits a family of six into a cramped RV, using every nook and cranny as either storage or a pantry. It’s affordable, she said, and the family gets by with little. It’s organized chaos. Every shelf in the trailer is reserved for the children’s most frequently worn clothing. The kitten’s litter and bed are in a small restroom. Outside, she keeps the items that don’t fit in the trailer’s interior in storage bins by category.
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Behind the trailer, she keeps a row of bins for the laundry next to the washing machine, as well as a clothesline for drying.
The washing machines are connected to a communal water system beneath the ground. It provides water to a row of 15 trailers in that park. It’s a hassle with so many loads, but it beats paying $70 at the laundromat each trip, she said.
Miranda said she didn’t know much about the county’s efforts to introduce more services. She barely has time to think about it, with everything she keeps up with. Still, she said, more services would be nice.
“It surprised me that a lot of people lived like this,” Miranda said.
Alexa Miranda hugs her mother, Maria, as she cleans dishes in their travel trailer. Maria, a native of Chicago, moved her family to West Odessa after her husband got a job as a driver in the oil fields.
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Samantha and Alexa Miranda stand in the doorway of their family’s trailer. The siblings live in the trailer with the four other members of their family, sharing a communal water supply with the other taps in the RV park.
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Eli Hartman/The Texas Tribune
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The couple applied for a house in Odessa proper, but their application had been denied because neither had strong enough credit, she said. But the RV is a temporary arrangement while they figure out what’s next.
Until then, the family likes to drive around, searching for vacant lots — not just any plot of land, she said, but the one they’ll own. One day, they’ll have enough savings to settle down in their corner of West Odessa. They’ll live in one of those big trailers she’s seen in the neighborhood, she said, and the kids will love all that freedom.
Texas Rangers rookie outfielder Wyatt Langford appeared on the GBag Nation show on 105.3 The Fan (KRLD-FM) to discuss his recent offensive surge, how he’s adjusting to the big leagues, and what kind of weight he can throw around in the weight room.
Here are some of the highlights, edited lightly for clarity.
What has been the biggest difference since you came off the IL? How eye-opening is it to get accustomed to major league pitching?
Wyatt Langford: I think a lot of it was just comfort, getting comfortable playing up here and getting accustomed to the pitching. Everyone throws hard nowadays, and they all know where to put it too.
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You’ve been very unlucky dealing with bad calls in the strike zone, how do you deal with that frustration?
Langford: It has been a little frustrating because of how frequently it has happened, but I mean it’s part of the game. I feel like I’ve handled it pretty well.
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What are the biggest differences between playing college baseball and playing in the major leagues?
Langford: I’d say the biggest difference is just playing every single day. College, you’re playing three to five days a week at the most. You’re just going about it every single day and getting your body ready to play every day.
Watch: Texas Rangers rookie Wyatt Langford blasts off with first career grand slam
How nice is it having veterans like Marcus Semien and Corey Seager and being able to see their example of dedication?
Langford: It’s been great. There’s so many guys on this team that have a lot of experience, a lot of success playing this game. Being able to talk to them and be around them helps a lot.
What’s the best advice you’ve gotten since getting to the big leagues?
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Langford: I wouldn’t say there’s really any best advice I’ve gotten. I’d say just in general, just make sure you be yourself and do what you need to do to get ready. You don’t don’t need to copy what other guys do to get ready. [Corey Seager] does his thing, [Marcus Semien] does his thing. You just got to figure out what works for you.
You’re very impressive physically, what’s the most impressive thing you could do in a weight room? Back squat?
Langford: I haven’t back squatted since my freshman year of college, so probably deadlift. The most I’ve ever done is 715 pounds over winter break at Florida. I was back home during my sophomore year.
Texas Rangers’ late-inning offensive woes persist, bats go quietly again vs. Brewers
Dane Dunning shifting to Texas Rangers bullpen with Max Scherzer back in rotation
Find more Rangers coverage from The Dallas Morning News here.
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Bridget Townsend was just getting her start in life as a young woman in the small Texas town of Bandera when Ramiro Gonzales raped and killed her. Her mom says she was ‘a beautiful person.’
Bridget Townsend was planning for the future. The Texas 18-year-old was working full-time at a resort and eagerly waiting to hear back about an application to get into nursing school.
But on Jan. 14, 2001, a man named Ramiro Gonzales stole all that away and all the other moments and milestones that make up a life when he kidnapped, raped and murdered Bridget.
“She was a beautiful person who loved life and loved people,” her mother, Patricia Townsend, told USA TODAY on Saturday. “Every time she was with somebody she hadn’t seen in a while, she had to hug ’em … She didn’t deserve what she got.”
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Now more than 23 years later, Gonzales is set to be executed for the crime in Texas on Wednesday, which would have been Bridget’s 41st birthday. Patricia Townsend said the execution will be a “joyful occasion” for her and her family, who have been waiting so long for justice.
As Gonzales’ execution approaches, USA TODAY is looking back at the tragic crime, who Bridget was what her family lost.
A terrible night
Bridget was at her boyfriend Joe Leal’s house that terrible night.
Leal dealt drugs and Gonzales went to his house to steal cocaine, finding Bridget there alone.
After Gonzales came in and stole some cash, Bridget started to call Leal. That’s when Gonzales overpowered her, tied her up and drove her to his grandfather’s ranch, where he raped and shot her before dumping her body in a field, according to court records.
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When Leal arrived home later that night, Bridget’s truck, purse and keys were their usual spots but he couldn’t find her anywhere and called police.
For nearly two years, no one but Gonzales knew what happened to Bridget. One day while he was serving a life sentence for the rape and kidnapping of another woman, Gonzales decided to confess to killing Bridget, leading authorities to her remains in a field in Bandera, a small town 40 miles northwest of San Antonio.
Gonzales was convicted of Bridget’s murder in September 2006.
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‘Thank God I got to see her’
Patricia Townsend last saw her daughter the same day she was killed. Townsend was working at a video store and had asked Bridget to drop by and return a video.
“Thank God I got to see her. And I told her I loved her. And I hugged her,” Townsend said.
Bridget left soon after, saying she was going to bed because she had to drive to work in the morning. Townsend told her daughter goodbye, reminding her that she loved her.
After Townsend closed the video store and went home for the night, she said she couldn’t shake the feeling that she heard Bridget call out to her: “Mom.” She tried to call Bridget but there was no answer.
“And I said, ‘Well don’t fret, Pat.’ She said she had to get up early and go to work so she’s probably sleeping,” Townsend said. “But I should have known better because always slept with her phone right next to her in case somebody called her.”
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She thought about going to check on Bridget but talked herself out of it.
“And to this day I regret not going out there,” she said. “Maybe I would have been there in time to stop him.”
Patricia Townsend gets worst news of her life
For nearly two years, Townsend spent most of her time putting up flyers about her daughter and chasing leads.
Until one night a Bandera County sheriff asked her to come to the station. Although she had been holding out hope that her daughter was alive despite the odds, she instead got the worst news of her life.
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The sheriff told Townsend that Gonzales had confessed to Bridget’s murder, had led police to her body and that he had some things he was hoping she might be able to identify.
“And I walked on down the street. I couldn’t hear it anymore,” she said.
Towsend says she didn’t even have a body to bury on Oct. 16, 2002 because Gonzales “wanted to see her body decay.”
Townsend rejected arguments from Gonzales that a childhood filled with trauma and neglect helped lead him down a path that ended in her daughter’s murder.
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“He doesn’t deserve mercy,” she said. “And his childhood should not have anything to do with it. I know a lot of people that had a hard childhood … He made his choice.”
It’s Gonzales’ own fault that he no longer has a life.
“He could be going to school or have a wife and kids,” she said. “I don’t feel sorry for him at all and I don’t want other people to feel sorry for him. Some people I feel sorry for are his grandma and grandpa that raised him.”
What has also brought comfort to Townsend amid the grief is that Gonzales is set to leave the world the same day Bridget came into it.
“When they told me June 26, I started crying, crying and crying,” she said. “That’s her birthday.”
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Instead of celebrating her daughter’s 41st birthday, she’ll drive four hours from her home in San Antonio to the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville and watch Gonzales die.
Silvia Hernandez, with her hair pulled back into a long ponytail, is visible from the kitchen only when she comes to the metal-framed pass, where the server grabs plated dishes to run to customers. Her glasses are precariously balanced on the lower bridge of her nose, but she snaps them back into place as she turns to attend to the cooking at her restaurant, Taqueria Gael, in Andrews.
Crossing north five years ago was the easy part of her life’s journey, Hernandez says. Growing up in El Salto, a small, quiet town in the northern Mexican state of Durango, she worked long hours hawking street food and cooking in her parents’ restaurant. She opened her own business, a hot dog cart, as a teenager, and got married at sixteen to a husband who eventually became abusive, she says. Moving to Texas was, Hernandez believed, her way out. Once she arrived in the Permian Basin town of Andrews, she began to work at local food trucks and would feed fellow food truck employees home-cooked meals of sopa de fideo, chicken, and caldo.
One Christmas, she brought the workers a holiday meal of lengua, fries, and soup. It wasn’t much, but the six young men who had no family to spend Christmas with were delighted and thankful. “It’s one of my favorite memories,” Hernandez says. So it’s no surprise that when Hernandez visited Mexico for fifteen days, the workers in Andrews messaged and called her, pleading with her to return. To their relief, she did. Then, a year ago, she opened Taqueria Gael.
Until my recent trip, my experience with tacos in West Texas had been disappointing at best. Tex-Mex in general, and the burrito in particular, was where restaurants in the area shone—that is, until my visit to Taqueria Gael, a bastion of Mexican home cooking that stands alongside the best of Texas’s Mexican restaurants.
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The same goes for the previous business that was located inside the yellow building that houses now Taqueria Gael, near the Andrews Highway. It was called La Morena and was owned by famed curmudgeon Greg Revelez. Back in 2020, the Tex-Mex joint was more of a community hub than a good restaurant. Not that it was bad—the Kitchen Sink Burrito, a smothered package of carnitas, refried beans, fries, and pearls of yellow rice topped with melted cheese and smothered in spicy brown gravy,was one of my favorite dishes of that year. Otherwise, the food was, with all due respect, forgettable. In other words, I didn’t expect such exciting and soothing comida casera (home cooking) in the oil patch town about 45 minutes north of Odessa, much less the matron behind the taqueria.
Taqueria Gael is a symbol of Hernandez’s resilience. Through her food, Hernandez shares with customers the traditions and craft passed down through the generations of women before her as well as through a life of extreme hardships.
Exterior of Taqueria Gael in Andrews.Photograph by José R. Ralat
Hernandez’s grandmother, Teresa, was a single mother of twelve children. To support her family, the matriarch, who could neither read nor write, sold menudo and other dishes she learned from her elders and passed on to her children and grandchildren. At twelve years old, Hernandez’s mother, Modesta, moved from Durango to Mexico City to work in a hospital. About a decade later, she returned to El Salto to work in Restaurante Anita. It was at the restaurant that she met her future husband. The two were immediately inseparable and married in eight days. To help provide for the growing household, Modesta opened a small restaurant, Comedor Valeria, in the family’s living room. She sold carnitas, chicharrones, gorditas, and, of course, the clan’s specialty, menudo.
Hernandez joined the family business as a teenager when she opened a hot dog cart, which she later expanded to sell carnitas. Soon after, her troubles with her husband started. Hernandez hadn’t known the kind of man he would become: a womanizing and abusive drug addict and alcoholic, as she describes him. She dealt with it as best she could, through work. “I promised myself that my children would never know cold or poverty,” Hernandez says.
Their first child, daughter Valeria, was diagnosed with epilepsy at three months old. To pay for Valeria’s treatment, Hernandez added tamales and buñelos to her street cart’s menu. Her daughter’s epilepsy disappeared at the age of four. Four years after that, Hernandez says her husband raped and impregnated her. She gave birth to a boy, Adrian. “My son is the product of abuse, but he is a blessing. He’s my baby,” Hernandez says with joy and pride in her voice. The young man is now studying information engineering, a field that blends computer science with math. “He is a man in every sense of the word. He is responsible. He is a man of his word. He isn’t lazy, nor does he drink or smoke,” Hernandez says.
In April 1998, Hernandez’s father passed away. At this time, violence was at a disastrously high level in Mexico. Her brother was kidnapped and eventually released. On another day, her husband said he was going to work and never returned. “I was left alone to raise my kids and work harder,” she says. Hernandez continued to add dishes to her cart’s menu. She did whatever she needed to do to provide for her family. She was also once more pregnant. To her anguish, the baby was stillborn.
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As soon as she could, Hernandez began the paperwork for a visa to come to the United States. She knew however hard she worked in Mexico, it wouldn’t be enough to give her children the educations and futures she dreamed they deserved. The only option was to find work north of the Rio Grande. Finally, five years ago, she was able to settle in Andrews, where she eventually opened Taqueria Gael, named after her supportive, caring partner, whom she met while working at various food trucks in Andrews. Love and the gratitude for a better life are evident in every dish.
The tacos she serves are all tacos de guisado wrapped in soft, nixtamalized-corn tortillas that are made in-house. The green picadillo, stewed with tiny potato cubes, translucent chopped onion, and invisible but fiery chiles, was a delight. The asado verde—rough-chopped chicken blanketed in a dark green salsa—was even better and hotter. The asado rojo, plump with pork obscured by an inky red sauce, left me silent. My eyes closed, and I smiled. The barbacoa was a dark bramble peeking out from below freshly grated queso blanco. For the quesadilla, queso blanco is enveloped in a corn tortilla and cooked on the flattop until the cheese melts into a milky, stretchy consistency. It only took one bite for me to feel at home.
The pozole—deep red, almost clay-colored—was a bowl of guajillo chile–punctuated stew bobbing with tender, juicy bits of pork chop. It was a hot day when I visited Taqueria Gael, but as I recalled the voices of many women in my life, I remembered hot days are made for hot food. The small, round, Nutella-filled doughnuts, glazed and shiny in the midday sun coming through one of the restaurant’s windows, were so good. I wanted to eat them all lest I offend Hernandez, who brought them to the table herself. Alas, the stop at Taqueria Gael was one of several I had planned en route to the Panhandle. Otherwise, I would’ve lingered, asked for coffee to wash down the dessert, and likely consumed the whole plate of doughnuts.
The worst of Hernandez’s life is behind her. She has made peace with the past and how it has formed her, thanks to her children and her partner. She welcomes every customer like she’s welcoming her own children to eat. As trite as that sounds, the proof is in the amazing pozole. Eating it, I felt like I belonged in Taqueria Gael, like Hernandez was happy to see me enjoy her food. Hernandez expresses it better: “I have been able to overcome obstacles with food. Everything I cook, everything I do, I do with all my heart and with love.”