From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
Last week Texans celebrated our Independence Day – or did we? I am a true Texan, with the roots of my family tree running deep through the limestone and sandy loam of this great state, and I’m sad to say I did not participate in the celebration.
Heck, I wasn’t even aware March 2 is Texas Independence Day until I read it in the paper. I reckon all the hoopla about the state elections stole the attention of Texans, but only a small percentage of us even voted. I did vote on that day for a true Texan, one with roots intertwined with the ones from my family tree, so I guess I did celebrate in a way.
You may have noticed in the above paragraph that I used the term “True Texan,” and some of you folks who are recent immigrants to our fine state might be a bit confused at the nomenclature. I consider myself as one of the lucky folks who can truthfully call themselves “True Texans” since both sides of my family have lived in Texas for nearly two centuries, raising crops, cattle and children. There were a few kinsmen who were also known to raise a little hell, but let’s not go there.
There’s been a big influx recently of folks from beyond our borders, and I don’t mean the Rio Grande. Lots of Californians and countless natives from other states that must not be as attractive as Texas have migrated into our area. I don’t mind this too terribly; some Californians have turned out to be quite tolerable, and I still get a kick out of hearing funny accents from gals from Georgia and Alabama. Folks sure talk funny once you cross the Red River. What chaps my hide is when people from out yonder relocate into our state and start referring to themselves as “Texans.”
I suppose if someone from another state lives here long enough, adapts to our language and our lifestyle, he can call himself a Texan. But being a Texan is more than being a resident of the Lone Star State. Being a Texan is a birthright. I lived in Kentucky for a year, and I sure as heck didn’t claim I was a Kentuckian. Shoot, I told relatives I was working overseas for the CIA instead of telling them I was living in Kentucky. They might’ve disowned me if they’d known.
If a fella from Bucksnort, Tennessee moves to Tokyo, does he become Japanese? If a cowpoke from West Texas moves to Manhattan, do we consider him a New Yorker? Insane, maybe, but definitely not a New Yorker. So why do folks from Portland, Oregon move into Austin and immediately call themselves Texans? They are no more a Texan than I’d be a Frenchman walking the streets of gay Paris, wearing a beret and not looking for a fight.
I understand lots of boys living in foreign lands like Pennsylvania and Michigan want to be Texans when they grow up, and since we are friendly down here, we should let them folks live among us, but they should be called something besides Texans. Maybe “Texas resident” or “Texan Wannabe”. Or how ‘bout “Texan*” or “Wish-I-Was-A-Texan?”
Let’s get back to the term “True Texan,” shall we? I seem to ramble on when my dander’s up. A “True Texan” is a resident of Texas who was born and raised in this great state, and continues to live by our standards. He must be knowledgeable of our heritage and history, and he should carry on Texas traditions, passing them on to the little pards along the way. As a “True Texan,” I have come up with some guidelines to help you Texans stay true to our heritage.
A “True Texan” knows Crockett, Travis and Bowie ain’t the name of a law firm in Austin. A “True Texan” will stop and bow his head at the mention of the name Tom Landry. One should be able to name at least half the starting line-up of the original “Doomsday Defense.” If you don’t know what the “Doomsday Defense” was, then pack up your stuff and move to Oklahoma before I sic Jethro Pugh on your sorry butt.
A “True Texan” owns at least two pairs of cowboy boots, one for work and one for fancy affairs like church or rodeos. And if one or both pairs have three layers of dried cow manure caked on them, then move yourself to the head of the class.
A “True Texan” never curses the rain but can cuss a drought all he wants. A “True Texan” might buy a Japanese-made car but can’t correctly pronounce the name of it. A “True Texan” loves barbecue and beans, and gets real perturbed at restaurants that can’t fix either to his liking. A “True Texan” loves cold beer and would never be seen sipping martinis or fruity cocktails. The only time you’d hear the words “mai tai” coming from my parched lips would be in a sentence like this: “Let me loosen my tie while you pour me a cold beer.”
A “True Texan” would quit his job if he had to transfer to Chicago. If he were to win an all-expense paid trip to New York City, a “True Texan” would trade it for a used bass boat. A “True Texan” playing football at a Texas university would rather join the Peace Corps than get drafted by the Washington Redskins.
A “True Texan” would know who Sam Houston was and that his birthday is the same day as Texas Independence Day. I bet you didn’t know that fact, did ya? Neither did I until a few minutes ago, but at least I know John Wayne didn’t actually fight at the Alamo. And next March 2, you can expect to see a Texas flag flying high out at the Crow’s Nest.
