My roots stretch across the streets and suburbs of Trenton, NJ, and Philadelphia, PA.
Growing up, I was always on the move, bouncing between homes and schools, trying to find stability in a life that was anything but.
The city shaped me—teaching me the rules of survival, the need for resilience, and the comfort of solitude.
But now, I found myself leaving behind the familiar streets that had defined my youth, stepping into the wide-open spaces of Texas.
Meeting Texas Slim at Austin International, I was struck by more than just the man. His presence was a blend of rugged West Texas “Badlands” grit and a deeper wisdom that spoke of miles traveled and lives touched.
His vision—saving children, rekindling human connections, and breathing life back into forgotten towns—resonated with something deep inside me.
We were from different worlds, but I felt an immediate kinship. We were chasing the same thing: a chance to do something real, something that mattered.
Ramadan was in full swing as we embarked on this journey. My faith, as a Muslim, was something I was still learning to navigate.
Traveling during such a sacred time wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I turned to the Quran for guidance and found solace in its teachings on ease and compassion, particularly during travel.
Choosing to fast that first day felt like the right way to honor both my faith and the new path I was stepping onto.
Our first stop after the airport was the Texas State Capitol, where we met Justin Trammell. He was there alongside the Farm and Ranch Freedom Alliance (FARFA), advocating for local farm policy—a cause that’s about more than just land; it’s about preserving the soul of rural America.
Standing on those historic steps, watching Justin and FARFA push for the rights of local farmers, I began to see just how deep this journey would go. It wasn’t just about the miles we’d travel, but about the connections we’d make, the battles we’d witness, and the legacy we hoped to build.
The journey truly began with a stop at Black’s BBQ in Lockhart, TX. After a day filled with recordings and introductions at the State Capitol, Texas Slim and Justin Trammell joined me in breaking my fast.
It was one of the few times we dined out during the trip, which mostly consisted of us searching for our next steaks and cooking them on a camping burner in the back of Slim’s beat-up pickup truck.
We even made a habit of disabling motel fire alarms as we smoked out the rooms with burning butter and beef.
That meal at Black’s was more than just food; it was a symbol of the road ahead—one filled with shared experiences, meals, and stories waiting to unfold.
The next morning, I woke up in a Holiday Inn Express, a stark reminder of how far I was from the familiar. As we hit the road, Texas stretched out before us—vast, open, and full of possibilities.
Each mile carried me further from the urban landscapes I knew, into a world that felt like a distant echo of America’s past.
There was an unspoken understanding between Texas Slim and me as we drove. Despite our different backgrounds, we were united by a shared purpose, and that common goal made the miles feel less daunting.
This journey was deeply personal for me—driven by the memory of my mother and the weight of feeling like I had let her down. She passed away in the ghetto in Kensington about fifteen years ago.
For many years, I was her only line of support, the one she turned to when life became too much.
Texas Slim taught me about the history of rural life before the industrialization of farming, I discovered how tallow once played a central role in traditional diets, how the rise of industrialization brought with it a wave of divorce, broken families, and widespread ill health, and how corporate food and media began to dominate urban centers. This understanding ignited an obsession within me—the cow, I realized, held the key to not just nourishing the body, but to healing the fractures in both rural and urban America.
So, with every town we visited and every person we met, it felt like I was taking a step toward something bigger than myself.
This wasn’t just a road trip; it was a mission to restore something vital—market access to the cow, a lifeline of nutrition that both small towns and urban communities desperately needed.
Austin had its own urban challenges—homelessness, drug addiction, poverty—echoes of the streets I knew too well. But there was something different here, something waiting beyond the city limits.
It was in Austin that I first met Justin Trammell, a man whose quiet wisdom and deep connection to the land were clear from the start.
Justin wasn’t just a rancher; he was a grass farmer, someone who understood that the health of the land is the foundation of everything.
His knowledge of edible city plants like Yaupon Holly and Chickweed opened my eyes to the hidden resources thriving even in urban environments—a revelation that stuck with me long after we left the city behind.
As we ventured into East Texas, the landscape shifted. Concrete and steel gave way to rolling hills, dense forests, and grazing cattle—a world apart from the streets of Philadelphia.
The beauty of East Texas was overwhelming, not just in its physical form but in the spirit of the land and its people.
The ranchers we met had a quiet strength and unassuming nature that reminded me of the silent code of respect and dignity I grew up with on the East Coast.
But here, that code was lived out in a different way, one that was deeply rooted in the land and the animals that sustained them.
One of the most profound moments of this journey came during a conversation with Clyde Sommerlatte and Jason from 2 Bar C Ranch.
I found myself alone with them for a few minutes and took the chance to share my perspective on the struggles of city life, especially on the East Coast.
They listened—really listened—and in that moment, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I was part of their world.
That acknowledgment from men who embodied the essence of Texas ranching culture was a powerful affirmation that this journey was as much about belonging as it was about discovery.
In those first two weeks, I could feel myself changing. The serene beauty of East Texas and the quiet strength of its people were shaping me, molding me into something new.
The idea of the Modern-Day Cattleman was no longer just a concept—it was becoming a part of who I was, formed in the heart of Texas.
As the pickup truck wound through the lush landscapes of East Texas and Western Arkansas, I found myself surrounded by an environment that echoed the Quranic description of paradise—gardens beneath which rivers flow.
The verdant expanses, the tranquil rivers, and the vibrant layers of nature brought a sense of serenity that was both profound and humbling.
This feeling was deepened by the spiritual journey of Ramadan that I was undertaking. As I gazed out the window, tears welled up—not just from the overwhelming beauty of the landscape but from the realization of how far I had come from the struggles and turmoil of Philadelphia.
This journey through East Texas was more than just a physical one; it was a spiritual experience that touched the very core of my being.
In the midst of this spiritual awakening, I was also learning to listen and honor the space I was in. One vivid memory from those early weeks was my visit to Clyde Sommerlatte’s auction barn.
The sight of the bleachers, the staging area, and the large pen outside was entirely new to me. I could only imagine what it would be like to witness a live bull making its grand entrance, showing off its majestic presence in this unique setting.
The auction barn, a hub of rural life and activity, was a stark contrast to the urban landscapes I was used to. It was there that I met Jason, Clyde’s right-hand man on the ranch, whose positive energy was infectious.
His enthusiasm for just about anything was a refreshing contrast to Clyde’s more reserved demeanor. The dynamic between these two men, so different yet so deeply connected to the land and their work, was a fascinating study in human character and resilience.
This part of my journey wasn’t just about discovering new landscapes or meeting new people; it was about understanding and embracing the spirit of the land.
Acceptance was key. The vastness and beauty of East Texas and Western Arkansas, along with the warm, unassuming nature of its people, were guiding me toward a transformation.
The lessons I was learning were simple yet profound: respect the land, appreciate the quiet strength of those who work it, and find joy in the simple things—like watching a cow graze.
As the journey continued, I found myself increasingly connected to this new world. The days spent with cattlemen like Clyde and Justin, seeing their deep connection to the land and the animals, were reshaping my perspectives.
The quiet moments spent observing the landscape, feeling the breeze, and soaking in the tranquility became moments of introspection and growth.
I was no longer just a visitor in this world; I was becoming a part of it. The Modern-Day Cattleman within me was slowly emerging, nurtured by the land, the people, and the spirit of Texas.
This feels like as a good time as ever to say it: I am Texas Slim– are you?
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