We moved to Texas in 1981. That is, we drove into Dallas just after sunset on October 31, 1981, then moved into our house on November 3. Since I’ve lived here for 30 of my 40 years, now, I think it is safe to call myself a Texan.
It’s funny because I still consider Georgia home. Georgia was where my mom’s parents lived. (This reminds me that I need to return my father’s call.) Dad’s parents lived in Alabama. Alabama is not home, though we lived there for a while, when Dad was in Okinawa. Virginia, where we lived for four years, is what I consider second home. Texas has always just been where I lived–it never became home. I think I kept expecting to move again.
30 years has blown by, with me answering, “Where are you from,” with, “Well, I’m sort of from all over, but I’ve been in Texas for most of my life, so I guess I’m from here?” Maybe it’s time to stop doing that.
When I was in NY, I spent a good ten minutes standing in the business center of the hotel, waiting for a gaggle of school-trip-traveling, Spanish, teenage girls to free up a computer so I could print my boarding passes for home. After a brief conversation with one of them, they picked up that my accent wasn’t local. “Where are you from?” One asked. “Dallas, Texas,” I said, without thinking.
They were impressed. I was proud. No one gets excited if you say, “I’m from Norfolk, Virginia!” Really no one gets excited if you say, “I’m from Columbus, Georgia!” Well, unless they are military or happen to be a Cousteau, then you have something to talk about.
So, yeah, I’m from Texas. Yeehaw!