More About Professor Villarreal

I was born in Louisiana during the Civil Rights era, raised in New Orleans, and attended high school in the Houston metroplex during the oil boom. I played tennis in high school and college where I met my husband. We have a beautiful daughter, a loving son-in-law, and two doggies.

One of the highlights of my career at ACC occurred in 2003 when I spearheaded an effort at the Texas Legislature to allow adjunct faculty in community colleges to obtain health insurance by joining each college's group plan. After a grueling battle, I am pleased to say that today that bill is a state law. When the Affordable Care Act went into effect 10 years later, ACC students rallied on behalf of adjuncts and hundreds of adjuncts at ACC received paid (or partially paid) ERS health insurance and TRS retirement benefits because of our call to action in 2003.

About 15 years ago, ACC decided to cancel some classes due to budget concerns. I was devastated because I had just created American Lit II online, the first literature class taught online at ACC. In order to save that class, I offered to teach it for free. This created quite a controversy, but I did it for the students and I have never looked back.

In the summer of 2009, I took students to study abroad in England to study British literature. From 2009 to 2016, I traveled with ACC students to a total of five times to both England and Scotland.

In 2023, I began teaching a Service-Learning course at the college. Check out my Service-Learning Stars: Spring 2023; Fall 2023; Zoila Waltson, Winner of Fall 2023 Showcase: paper/audio; and Yakov Saburov, Third Place, Spring 2024.

I enjoy going to the theater, movies, and art galleries; traveling; reading; writing; playing pickleball; painting; swimming; and watching the Astros and college and NFL football. Within the community, I've raised money for both the ACC Foundation and the ACC Faculty, Staff, and Student Emergency funds; judged literary contests; helped with voter registration and parades to the polls; and supported the arts. Currently, I'm advocating against book banning and promoting gun safety, democracy, and Long Covid awareness. Although I have suffered from Long Covid, I'm in remission. Click here to learn more about my journey through art therapy.

My favorite book of all time would have to be a tie between George Eliot's Middlemarch, Kate Chopin's The Awakening, and Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. With my ties to New Orleans and my strong belief in equality of the sexes, Chopin's novel, revealing the harms of female suppression, speaks to me. I like Eliot's novel because it depicts human nature and the dynamics of Victorian society with grace and precision. On the other hand, Capote's novel is the quintessential true crime masterpiece. No other author in this genre can touch his artistic genius.

Study Abroad, England, 2009 (at Jane Austen's home in Chawton)

My Collection of Elegies

Dust in my Attic

Maw Maw left me her sewing machine.

She passed one sweltering Louisiana day

Twenty-five years ago.

Robert Kennedy

also died that day,

but we didn't know until later.

We grieved hard for Maw Maw.

At six I knew

the family would never be the same

when things disappeared.

First Mac--

that horse

old as Momma.

then the cows

the pigs

the chickens

one by one.

And while the crops shriveled

that sewing machine began collecting dust in my attic.

Grief was followed by blame--

Some for coming around too much

by those who rarely came

while Paw Paw just stared.

they said Maw Maw would roll in her grave

when Aunt Margie got pregnant

So she married that old man

who nearly destroyed that precious girl

who couldn't tell until later.

My momma's talents are limited

to tennis

and cooking Cajun cuisine

playing bridge.

So Maw Maw worried--

Someone's got to fix things in a family

in junior high

I made my first "C"

in home-ec

learned how to make

cheese straws

nachos

chocolate chip cookies

and quiche

but never mastered

fixing a hem

or a button

while that sewing machine collected dust in my attic.

Maw Maw cooked three meals a day

the dutiful wife

even when she was so sick

and so big

she could barely walk

WHERE'S MY SUPPER WOMAN?!!

he'd roar

as we stared at the floor.

She would have enjoyed eating out

just once

Momma sighs

but he wouldn't take her.

Last year Aunt Rosy passed

in an old folk's home

with eyes dulled with duller memories

she squeezed a strange hand

and inquired

about the grandchild her sister adored.

But Elizabeth never saw that girl

grow up

graduate and run

away to marry a man

she would have accepted

without an explanation.

never held

her great granddaughter

who carries her name

and still her legacy collects dust in my attic.

What would Maw Maw think?

Does outcome

cause her to thrash in a dark grave

or rejoice with angels?

I wonder

lounging on a quilt

she built

with her big aching heart

humming to the gentle whirring of a machine

that will forever collect dust in my attic.

Dedicated to the memory of Elizabeth Ray Strother (d. 1968)

Her Final Mission

Joined in grief

we clasp hands and encircle her

chanting Hail Marys foreign to my Protestant ears

now an odd comfort to my withering soul.

As the blessed words

permeate the dismal darkened atmosphere

heavenly lights seem to blaze from the ceiling

while flickering candles illuminate

our tear-streaked cheeks.

Abuelito breaks

to hold her still warm

forever forgiving hands

A portrait of despair.

While our weary eyes watch the dancing numbers

cruelly rekindling our vain hopes--Or is it a sign?

Alas we realize

her spirit must depart

still we squeeze estranged hands

sadly echoing the sacred words again

again and again

fulfilling her final mission--

A broken family

joined in prayer

one last time.

Dedicated to the memory of San Juana Valles Villarreal (1932-1994)

Becky S. Villarreal

The Middle of Seven

They say

Aunt Eleanor was born big

and mean

the meanest and the baddest of the bunch.

it's hard to believe.

I used to call her when loved ones were sick

or dying

and Aunt Eleanor prayed

and prayed and prayed and prayed.

And you know those people got better.

In old photos

she smiles at me

her dark eyes gleaming with mischief

(or is that something else?)

They say

when she was little

Thera would flee from her wrath

running deep into the woods

where she would kneel and pray:

"Oh Lord, please forgive my dear

sister Elner.

She does not really hate

us all

or mean those cruel things--

OUCH!

Elner let go of my hair!

You are hurting me!

I said YOU ARE HURTING ME!"

I have a nephew named John

He's got to be the baddest child ever born

nearly fell out of that boat

last May just to spite us all.

You should have seen Aunt Eleanor's dark eyes

sparkle

when he threw

a tantrum

decorated the walls

with crayons

or called someone

"stink-butt."

She liked 'em bad

My Aunt Elner.

Thera's kids

tried to tell me she was still mean

and ornery.

"No, she's not!"

I would shriek

with teeth and fists

clenching

yearning

to yank a few strands

to emphasize my point.

Don't you know that HER prayers

made my friend better?

That poor girl suffered

in that cold

sterile hospital

long enough

miles away

from two

precious boys

who wailed for the warmth

of their mother's arms

until I called Eleanor

who asked the Lord

to please send Kim home

And now she is.

Tears sting my eyes

when I remember how

poor Aunt Eleanor suffered

in another cold sterile hospital

where they poked and prod

"Ouch! You are hurting me!"

and they poked and prod

"I said, YOU ARE HURTING ME!"

So we prayed

and prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed

and we all asked the Lord

to please let Eleanor go home

And now she is.

Dedicated to the memory of Eleanor Faye Hatch (1935-1998)

Becky S. Villarreal

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