America is a pretty big place, and every corner of this big place has staked out its identity. Sometimes, being from Texas on the East Coast feels like a burden. There is a hint of the self-righteous in New England liberalism: at the same time it condemns death penalties, it also, by implication, condemns the people of a state that makes use of the death penalty seemingly without care. A classmate once told me that Texas is an awful place, and he doesn't need to visit it to know this certainty.
A whole place (and all its people) written off because of ideology that isn't even shared by all? Laaaaaaame. It disappoints me that my peer would say such a thing; it seems so contrary to the spirit of inquiry that brought us here in the first place.
The longer I am away from home, the more I miss it. Texas is a contrast to New England in many ways. The weather is certainly less moody; the people are incredibly friendly and warm. Doors are consistently held open for me; men address me as "ma'am" (which makes me giggle a little), and women call me "hun." Here, I sometimes get doors that shut in my face, and pedestrians passing each other avoid making eye contact.
I realize that I am making sweeping generalizations, but I would like to say that there is much about my home that is valuable. To this end, I am appending a post I wrote for the 60th JASC AEC blog earlier in the year:
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I feel that Texas has an undeservedly bad rap. I'm not saying that Texas is a money-bush or something equally awesome. It's just that people think it's really, really awful. To wit: I was at my professor's, feeling full of nerves and trying to impress Her Highness. Her guests ask me where I'm from, and when I reply "Texas", they start laughing! When I failed to join in their laughter ("Yeah, you're right, it IS funny that I'm from the ass-end of America!"), they reluctantly stopped.
I'm very fond of Texas, though. I like the overabundance of Ford F-150s on the road. I like the generous cordiality that is so very much a part of the place. And I like that the "In Texas, we like it BIG" joke refers to everything from steaks to anatomical parts. The list goes on. More specifically, however, the Texas landscape can be breathtaking.
Over winter break, we packed ourselves up into an SUV and went down to Big Bend National Park, perched on Texas' southwestern border with Mexico. And this is what we saw:
I felt oddly inspired. It's difficult to feel unhappy or deeply burdened in a place that exited long before me and will continue to be here, unchanged, long after. Encounters with nature on a grand scale always leave me with a diminished sense of self-importance.
On this glorious camping trip, I also:
1) slept in a tent in below-freezing weather. My god I haven't gone to sleep whimpering and full of tears since I was sixteen, when my life was powered by teenage angst.
2) called 911 because we were followed by an aggressive man, who kept up an utterly unnecessary commentary on his ability to "kick ass" as he tailed us in his truck. A breathtakingly frightful span of time later, we lost him. I was gratified to note that he had a California license plate. Not Texan, then.
3) drove for hours and hours on a road that doesn't end. Kerouac, you crazy drug fiend, I get you.
