New Mexico History/Albuquerque Reminiscing

New Mexico History/Albuquerque Reminiscing Content includes not only historical content, current news, events and memes, so if you appreciate a good sense of humor, you'll feel right at home here.

If you prefer a serious tone & are quick to criticize non-history posts, this page is NOT for you.

Why do New Mexicans dislike Texans and Californians so much?The friction between locals in New Mexico and the influx of ...
06/05/2026

Why do New Mexicans dislike Texans and Californians so much?

The friction between locals in New Mexico and the influx of residents from Texas and California is a complex social dynamic that has been intensifying over the last few years. While it is often discussed in casual conversation or social media rants, the roots of this sentiment are grounded in very real economic, cultural, and environmental shifts that affect the daily lives of people living across the state.

At the heart of the tension is the housing market. As remote work became the new standard and housing costs became untenable in major metropolitan hubs like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Dallas, and Austin, a significant number of people moved to New Mexico. They were drawn by the beauty and the comparatively lower cost of living. For many lifelong New Mexicans, however, this migration has felt like a sudden, aggressive push out of their own neighborhoods. When out-of-state buyers arrive with higher purchasing power, they frequently pay above-asking prices, which has steadily driven up property values and rents. This makes it increasingly difficult for local families, who have called these towns home for generations, to secure housing in their own communities.

Beyond the numbers, there is a profound cultural disconnect. New Mexico has a unique identity, forged through a long, complex history of Hispanic, Indigenous, and Western influences. Life here has historically moved at a different pace—one that prioritizes community, tradition, and a deliberate, slower rhythm. Many locals feel that newcomers arrive with expectations shaped by the fast-paced, high-consumption environments they left behind. This can manifest in demands for different types of development, infrastructure, or service speeds that feel out of place or unwelcome. When newcomers advocate for changes that mirror the states they just exited, it is often interpreted by locals as a lack of respect for the existing character and culture of the region.

Resource management and environmental impact also play a significant role. New Mexico is a state that constantly grapples with water scarcity and the realities of a fragile climate. Residents often express frustration when they perceive that those moving here or visiting in high numbers do not fully grasp or respect the necessity of conservation. This is particularly evident during peak tourism seasons when public lands, recreational areas, and local businesses become crowded. Issues regarding littering, the strain on local infrastructure, and the general feeling that the state is being treated as an outdoor playground rather than a place where people actually live and work, fuel ongoing resentment.

The relationship with Texans specifically carries a long, distinct history. Sharing a massive border means the two states have been interacting for generations, creating a dynamic that is well-documented in regional folklore and humor. The trope of the "arrogant Texan" is a staple of local conversation, but it serves as a stand-in for deeper grievances. These include long-standing disputes over water rights and the pervasive feeling that New Mexico is often viewed by its eastern neighbor as merely an extension of Texas tourism interests rather than a state with a sovereign culture, unique values, and its own political agency.

Ultimately, the frustration is less about individual people and more about the feeling of losing ground. For many, it is a defensive reaction to protect the integrity of their homes and the heritage that defines them, in the face of rapid, and often uncontrollable, change.

*Sources:*
* *Albuquerque Journal, "Housing affordability and growth in the Middle Rio Grande Valley."*
* *Santa Fe New Mexican, "The impact of remote work on Northern New Mexico real estate."*
* *University of New Mexico Bureau of Business and Economic Research (BBER) reports on regional migration patterns.*

Credit: New Mexico History and Reminiscing

06/05/2026

What the biggest lie told about New Mexico?

06/05/2026

What does New Mexico need less of?

06/05/2026

My mom’s dog is the perfect example of our local roots—that pup absolutely refuses to listen to anything unless it is spoken in Spanish. It is funny to watch someone try to give commands in English, only for the dog to stare back completely confused. But as soon as you switch over to the language of our elders, it is like a lightbulb goes off and he obeys right away.

It makes me wonder, can a dog actually be bilingual, or are they just picking up on the specific tone and rhythm of our traditional dialect? Does anyone else have a pet that only responds to Spanish commands, or have you ever known a dog that could actually understand both languages? I would love to hear if your animals have strong opinions on what language they prefer to hear.

06/05/2026

Did your parents or grandparents hold on to our traditional way of speaking when you were growing up? I’m curious if you still hear older family members using words like *asina*, *vide*, or *truje* in their stories, or if those terms are becoming rare echoes in your daily life.
When you look back on conversations around the kitchen table, what specific expressions stick with you? Do you still catch folks using *tata* or *nana* when speaking to your elders, or calling someone *mano* or *mana* when sharing news? I would love to hear which of these traditional words still ring true in your home today.

Nuestra Plática en el NorteCuando uno da la vuelta por el camino y ve cómo se asienta el polvo (dust), sabe que ha llega...
06/05/2026

Nuestra Plática en el Norte
Cuando uno da la vuelta por el camino y ve cómo se asienta el polvo (dust), sabe que ha llegado a casa. Ese polvo no es cualquier cosa; es el mismo que nos sigue desde Alcalde y Velarde, bailando con el viento a través de Chimayó y Peñasco, subiendo hasta el Valle de San Luis. Esa tierra (land) guarda la memoria de todos los que caminaron por aquí antes que nosotros.

My abuelito (grandfather) used to sit in the shade, resting against the cool adobe that felt more like a living thing than just a wall. He’d watch the road, waiting for someone to pass by, and he’d tell me, “Mijo (son), fíjate en el polvo. Ese polvo tiene historia (Look at the dust. That dust has history).” He knew that every bit of that tierra held a piece of our people. He’d start humming those old songs, like the ones from the Blue Ventures, *Casa de Adobe* (Adobe House). When those lyrics hit the air, you could feel it in your chest—a connection to a life that wasn't built on rush or noise, but on the steady, quiet rhythm of our valley.

But the real strength wasn't just in the songs; it was in how we talked. We didn't just speak one language. We flowed between Spanish and English like it was the most natural thing in the world, switching back and forth mid-sentence depending on who we were talking to or what we were feeling. *Era lo más normal del mundo* (It was the most normal thing in the world). You’d be telling a story in English and then, when you needed to describe something deep—something that came from the gut—the Spanish just took over. It was a fluid, living bridge.
But I see it fading now. It scares me, *la verdad* (the truth). People look at our way of talking—this mix of 16th-century Spanish, the influence of our indigenous neighbors, and the English we picked up along the way—and they try to tell us it’s "broken." They don't understand that our dialect is a survivor. It’s a tapestry woven from necessity, shaped by the absolute isolation of these mountains. When we use words that you won't find in a textbook, we are speaking a history that was never written down, only passed from the abuelos (grandparents) to the children.

Abuelita (grandmother) would be there too, her hands never still, reminding us that we don't need to look for our worth anywhere else. She’d say, “Aquí en el norte, la vida se hace de otra manera (Here in the north, life is done in a different way).” She taught us that our language—our way of shaping the words—was the only way to speak the truth of these mountains. When we say asina (that way), it’s a promise that we are keeping things the way our ancestors taught us. And when she’d talk about being descalza (barefoot), she meant it as a way of life: staying grounded, keeping your spirit connected to the tierra of Chimayó or the fields of Velarde.

To speak asina is to honor the centuries of history that kept our language pure from outside dilution. While the rest of the world moved on to modern, flattened speech, we kept the rough edges, the specific pronunciations, and the vocabulary that smells like the high mountain sagebrush. But the code-switching—that beautiful, rhythmic dance between two worlds—is what’s disappearing the fastest. It’s being replaced by something colder, something less connected to the tierra.

*Ellos me enseñaron que el portal es nuestro santuario. No es solo un lugar para ver cómo baja el sol; es donde guardamos nuestra cultura. Si dejas que el portal se quede vacío, si dejas de sentarte ahí para saludar a los vecinos o para compartir una plática, estás dejando que se escape nuestra conexión. Mi abuelito me decía: “No dejes que se apague el recuerdo.” (They taught me that the portal is our sanctuary. It is not just a place to watch how the sun goes down; it is where we guard our culture. If you let the portal go empty, if you stop sitting there to greet the neighbors or to share a conversation, you are letting our connection escape. My grandfather would tell me: "Do not let the memory go out.")*

When you hear those songs, you’re hearing the language of the valley. It’s a language that wasn't meant for books; it was meant for the portal and for the kitchen table. It’s for the people who know what it means to work the tierra and to love it. So keep your chair out there, keep the door open to the road, and never let anyone tell you that our way of speaking is fading. It’s alive as long as we keep telling our stories asina, right here in the heart of our own country.

Credit: La Hija Descalza

06/04/2026

Vintage Santo Domingo Battery Back jewelry. Earrings have been converted to hooks.

Rodeo Rd., Santa Fe, NM📸 Credit: Bernd Krause
06/04/2026

Rodeo Rd., Santa Fe, NM

📸 Credit: Bernd Krause

Why wasn't this taught in schools?
06/04/2026

Why wasn't this taught in schools?

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