Texas our Texas

I promised to write about repping Texas in ND so here goes nothin'.  

I was never really the kind of Texan to buy and display or wear very much Texas-themed merchandise. 

Because I lived in Texas my entire life (until recently), rarely left and almost always surrounded myself with fellow citizens, I didn't realize how much of my identity is rooted in the lone star state.

But now I get it. 

And it shows. From my first day at work when a stranger said "you're not from here," after I uttered about 4 words, I knew I couldn't hide my Texas roots even if I wanted to. 

And I don't. 

I proofread copy for an agriculture magazine, and it took two months for me to stop reading farmer's quotes in my dad's accent. 

I still do impressions of all older men with that accent. Because, where I'm from, that's just how they talk...

But I digress... After a few weeks, people seemed to be getting used to me saying y'all. 

Then came the day I said spu-uds. 

 

Allow me to set the scene: 

In ND, if your referring to potatoes casually, you use the term spuds. 

So that's what we call a chart in Agweek that tells about their prices. 

In a hurry one Friday, I was running down the list of charts with my editor, checking off each one as I went. 

"Grain futures, check. Livestock futures, check. ..."

Now, reflect back with me to the golden days of the Cosby show... Remember Rudy's neighbor friend? I never knew his name because she always just called him bud. 

Can you hear her say it? "bu-ud." 

That's pretty much exactly how I said spuds. With all the drawl and twang Loraine, TX could impart, I said it and never thought twice... 

Until my editor started giggling that is...

At first, I was embarrassed. The academic snob in me was taken back to that one time a professor at a conference called me a peasant when I told her I was raised on a farm. (That's a story for another day.) 

Then, I was kind of proud. This is who I am, drawl and all. 

I may not be a Texas resident anymore, but being from Texas is not something you can drop at the border. It's a nationality of sorts, an identity. It's me. 

And I'm glad. 

So... umm... remember the Alamo! (This may not be totally appropriate ending here. But I'm going with it...)