If it doesn't come from Texas, it ain't worth an armadillo.

"Texas is a state of mind. Texas is an obsession. Above all, Texas is a nation in every sense of the word" - John Steinbeck.

I don’t hate everything about Texas.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have one of those bumper stickers on my car that says “Not a native Texan, but got here as soon as I could.” (Yes, those exist.) Nor will I be getting a tattoo of the state of Texas, or the Texas flag, or the lyrics of the Texas state pledge. I do unfortunately know the lyrics of the pledge, however, thanks to several years of Texas public school and a Texas state law that required us to recite them during 2^nd period.  (“Honor the Texas flag, I pledge allegiance to the, one and indivisible.”) 

There are many things that really bother me about Texas. Mostly, I hate how it’s just so full of itself.  For many Texans, if it doesn’t come from Texas, it ain’t worth an armadillo. 

But Texans will complain about the heat in July and August (and for that matter, April, May, June, and September as well) as much as an outsider will, and they don’t look at you as any less human for struggling with it.  And there is certainly something to say about the way they make Mexican food (which is in no way the same way that Mexicans make Mexican food.).  And I’m known to indulge in a Shiner, and other great Texas beers.

I had a great moment of appreciation for Texas on a friend’s birthday.  We went to one of the local breweries, Rahr, in Ft. Worth.  I’ve toured breweries before, so I was expecting to go in, be shown the big machines where they process the hops and the malt, get a glass, and get a taste of each of their brews, before being herded into a gift shop. 

At Rahr, they check your ID, give you a wristband with 3 tickets attached, and tell you that each ticket can be redeemed for a beer of your choice.  Then you walk over to a table where you choose a glass with the names of one of their beers on the front, and you walk inside to where they have a band playing covers of the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and Johnny Cash.  The brewery is filled with people sitting at picnic tables drinking beer, listening to music, and watching the Olympics on a giant screen. 

As we stepped outside to let the boys smoke, I told Rose Tyler, “you know what, it’s moments like this I really do appreciate Texas.”  She seemed a little surprised to hear me say this, as most of the time I just talk about how homesick I am for the great white north. “You mean, you can’t do this kind of thing in Minnesota?” she replied.  “Not that I’ve ever been to.  Usually it’s just a standard tour.” 

On the drive back to our friend’s house, we rolled all of the windows down, despite the 104 degree weather and started with some gangster rap but ended up with Nancy Sinatra.  “Bang bang, he shot me down.  Bang bang, I hit the ground. Bang bang, that awful sound. Bang bang, my baby shot me down.”

This story is important not because I’ve decided to stay in Texas, or even because I need to admit that I didn’t give Texas a chance.  I’ve given Texas many chances and I haven’t decided to stay here.

This moment in time exposes one of the greatest advantages of leaving home. Of course leaving home means missing home.  I will always miss home. But I’m not certain I will ever move back home. Moving away from where your comfortable gives you experiences you can’t get at home.  You learn more about yourself and the world and your relationship with the world.   

I constantly crave moments like this. Moments unique to a space; moments illuminated in memory by a surreal luminous glow, characterized by elements of all of the senses. I can only gain these by forcing myself into a level of discomfort (Liminality, if you will.), and I fear soon Texas will be far too comfortable.

Some days I wonder if I were born in another time, in another place, what my profession would be.  A sailor, maybe?  A traveling salesmen? I hate selling stuff. A sophist perhaps.  I like the idea of a traveling teacher.