The Wilderness Between

9/22/09 10:34 pm

I decided to mix things up a bit by coming to the steps at night. They are different in the dark, and the wilderness feels more ominous, more dangerous. Anything could be hiding in the shadows. The night air is thick with humidity, and cicadas and grasshoppers sing from the dark. It makes me think of my home in St. Louis, where it is always humid. Where the air is always syrupy with adolescent rain.

On such a night as tonight, in the dark of my wilderness, however, I feel I must admit to myself, and you, that I am not actually from the muggy shores of St. Louis. That’s only what I tell people, and it’s true that I did spend most of my life there. However, in complete honesty, I am really from Dallas, Texas. I was born there and spent the first five years of my life on its dry, red earth. I don’t often admit this to people though because of the stigma Texas now carries.

Texas is the land of gun toting, extreme religious and political conservatives who want to take the valuable bits of earth from the rest of the world and squeeze them for every drop of oil. Everything’s bigger in Texas, but it wants even more. Texas doesn’t care about tomorrow, or you; who are you? Fill’er up, and don’t stop til you get the worm at the bottom of the bottle. Texas wants to bear arms and use them to praise to God. Hallelujah. Texas builds walls. Texas, the ultimate cowboy, looks out for Texas.

At least, that’s what my liberal friends think. And I would be lying if I said I completely disagreed with them. I know some good people down there, and they are some of the friendliest, most hospitable and giving people I know. Still the stereotype persists even in my own mind. It’s true that Texans are a proud and independent people, tending toward the conservative. But they are good people and their name should not be twined with the oil companies.

Of course, none of this is really even mine. Here is what I remember from Texas:

I remember the dry, red soil covered by green grass. I remember the pecan tree in our backyard. I remember the dry heat that rose from the black asphalt. I remember getting my mouth washed out with soap for using curse words at the age of four. I remember sneaking a piece of watermelon into the house during a barbeque. But most of all, I remember the fire ants.

It’s one of my earliest memories. I had been playing Ninja Turtles with my best friend, Jeremy, out in his backyard while our parents sat on the porch sipping beer and talking. In our game, I got shot, so I fell to the ground and played dead. Immediately, Jeremy ran to my side. “Are you all right?” he asked. I remember laughing at his concern. “Of course,” I replied looking up at him. “I’m just playing.”

That’s when I felt it. I had forgotten about the mound of fire ants that Jeremy had pointed out to me before we started playing. It was the biggest mound we had ever seen, and now, I was lying right on top of it. I must have screamed because the next thing I remember is running toward the house, covered in thousands of fire ants, while my dad and Jeremy’s dad ran toward me at a dead sprint.

After that, my memory finds me being stripped of all my clothes and thrown into a bathtub where I floated in the water, watching all of the fire ants float with me.

For me, Texas is the land of fire ants. Don’t mess with Texas.