D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
May 2010
Don't Mess with Texas
A Lone Star State-basher repents. Sort of.
Not too many years ago, I may have possibly written a column in which I might have maybe unintentionally made comments that could have inadvertently given the impression that I am immune to the charms of Texas. Judging by the response that regrettable column elicited (including — but not limited to — 14 pounds of Lightcap hate mail, two threats on the publisher's dog, and an armadillo head in my bed), it was deemed wise to no longer malign the inherent greatness of the Lone Star State. I promised to be more respectful of our Eastern neighbors and agreed to seek counseling. As part of my court-ordered re-education, I must now make amends and apologies for any hurtful comment I've ever directed to or made about Texas, Sam Houston, the Dallas Cowboys or the Alamo. This could take a while.
I have often unfairly criticized Texans for taking so much pride in the creation of their little fiefdom, going so far as to treat their lore with casual indifference. For example, I used to think that a bunch of uneducated sodbusters deceitfully pledged their allegiance to Mexico in exchange for the opportunity to settle that nation's northern territories. After wisely leaving America before the recent health care package could be passed, these pioneers busted sod in Mexico for a few years until they decided that they could really spruce up the place if it wasn't for all the Mexicans. I may have actually criticized this population of disingenuous immigrants for rising up against their new government because it wasn't more like America. Now I see that these brave patriots needed to take it from Mexico because they didn't speak Spanish, and it was easier than pressing "1" for English.
I apologize for mocking the brave, can-do attitude of the fearless Texas troops sent by Texas President Lamar to "liberate" the territory of New Mexico from his friends, the Mexicans. That's when 341 men trooped westward in an effort to annex all of the land east of the Rio Grande into Texas. If you believe the history books, the expedition failed miserably, but the reality is that it was a glorious victory for the liberators. That's why they speak Texan even today in Roswell, Jal, Artesia and Clovis. I guess I am just a "freedom hater."
As such, I need to look up the address of every Texan in Midland, Odessa and El Paso. Before the oil bust of the late 1980s, I resented the swarms of jerks who used to occupy Ruidoso, one of my favorite little mountain towns. Flotillas of Suburbans with Texas plates would actually deflect the curvature of the earth under their combined weight as they headed up the mountain. Since there are no mountains in Texas, they needed one of ours, so all those pointy-booted, pressed-jean faux-boys would fly their flags, whoop it up and screw up all of our Mexican-food restaurants. I shouldn't get upset about the fact that I ordered huevos rancheros and got eggs with Wolf-brand chili dumped on top. I get weird about that kind of stuff. Now that they have retreated from Ruidoso because of the real-estate bust, I feel bad, and miss the joie de vivre they used to bring to us unwashed heathens.
When I worked in Alaska, I met a lot of people who had fond memories of Texans, mostly involving their departure when the Trans-Alaska Pipeline was finished. I was cowardly, and did not defend our neighboring state when the locals spat on the snow when remembering how the Texans comported themselves in the Great White North. I think that if the Alaskans had made more of an effort to get to know the visitors, they would have better understood their proclivity for drinking, bragging, shooting and punching things. Instead, I just nodded agreement like a stupid sheep. Sorry.
Just like listening to Celine Dion records, you don't know how bad off you are until somebody points it out to you. I was getting to the point that I disparaged Texas with the same juvenile satisfaction with which a kid tattles on his older brother. When I heard that Ozzy got busted for peeing on the Alamo, I laughed. When the Dixie Chicks were ashamed that George W. Bush was from Texas, I found we had some common ground. (Of course, I was ashamed that THEY were from Texas, too.) When I spat out my first drink of Pearl beer and compared its unique flavor to that of water that had stagnated for six months in a tractor tire, I didn't even reflect on how that made other people feel.
Only last month, when they blew up Texas Stadium in Dallas, I foolishly expressed disappointment that Jerry Jones and the Dallas Cowboys weren't inside. (Who appointed them "America's Team" anyway? Did you vote for that? I didn't!)
Finally, my family held an intervention for me, and sat me down in a big room. "Henry," Mama Lightcap said to me, tears rimming her sainted eyes, "I was born in El Paso, and your sister was born in San Antonio." Dad nodded affirmation, and offered me a tug from his scotch bottle. "In fact, the woman you love was born in Texas, too," she continued.
I looked around at the honest, open faces of all those people who love me so much, who cared enough to set me down and help me. I felt a lump swell up in my throat, and my eyes began to water. These wonderful people were talking to me in soft, comforting voices, explaining that Texans are just people, like me, but with bigger belt buckles and Willie Nelson T-shirts.
I hope that my apology is accepted by everyone, and I can get on with the next step in my program, which is where I have to learn to put gravy or barbecue sauce on everything I eat, and to acknowledge that in Texas, Bob Wills is still the king. This ain't gonna be easy
Henry Lightcap is in recovery in Las Cruces.