Deep in the Heart

Being here in New Mexico continually reminds me that I am proud of my Texas roots. This came home to me a few weeks ago when a friend who apparently considers herself an expatriate, announced in the company of a third person, “I am an ex-Texan”.

“No way!” I protested. “I’m proud of my Texas heritage.”

Fully aware of the sad reputation that new-moneyed folks from the Lone Star State have built for themselves in both New Mexico and Colorado, I of humble means go out of my way not to call attention to myself. That’s my way, regardless of where I find myself. If the question of point of origin comes up, I make no bones about my Texas home. My official residence is still in rural Leon County, even though I have no interest in continuing to be a landowner there. I went there by choice—another story—and now I’m trying to exercise the choice to leave. To where I can’t say because I don't know.

Even though I bought a tiny, tiny patch of real estate here in Santa Fe—on the very brink of the market “adjustment” last fall—to locals, whoever and whatever they may be or claim to be, my TEXAS license plates are testimony to my official residence. And at times I wish those plates said something else.

In spite of our best intentions—and I’m honoring the notion that most of us have good intentions—we sometimes get caught in the crosshairs of someone else’s baggage. Here, your chosen mode of transportation is an easy path to aggressive driving and people with a chip on their shoulders, sometimes the very same people.

Last Sunday, just as I was on my way to church, I stopped by Wild Oats Market. Always super conscious of the difficulty of maneuvering most parking situations here, I tried to park out of harm’s way. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I looked around the lot before climbing into my truck to leave, and as I shifted to reverse to back out of my spot, an old, spent-looking white coupe was at my bumper—butt to butt—from out of nowhere it seemed. I stepped on the brakes instinctively, avoided a collision, but only to hear the cries of a group of foot travelers, waiting for the city bus, “Go back to Texas…You’re in Santa Fe….”

I told this story to a neighbor over coffee one morning last week. My remorse at the time of the incident centered on how easily accidents happen and on my TEXAS plates. And though I automatically thought once again of relinquishing these emblems of my origins, I just as quickly thought, “Hell no!” And I say, “Hell no!” again. I won’t let someone else’s bullshit decide where I claim to be from. Truth is, if it weren’t my plates, it would be my V-8 Ford crew cab truck, or my haircut, or my gender.

A few weeks ago an even more insane incident occurred as I sat at a light on the highway that runs north and south through Santa Fe. I understand that a city ordinance exacts a fine on people who talk on their hand-hell cell phones while behind the wheel. Yet, everywhere you look, people are busily, distractedly on their phones. As I talked to my sister Joan in Texas, a crazed-acting woman pulled up beside me and started railing at me for being on my phone. “You’re breaking the law,” etc. etc. etc. She bird dogged me at every light and along the road as we both traveled south. And of course, it all finally settled on Texas. Exasperated, I bought in to her crazy insistence, indeed, her stalking, and cried, “Fuck you!”. I know, I should have let her vent her spleen without allowing her to take me to and over the edge. “I expect better than that from Texas men,” she crooned sarcastically. “Uhh-uhh,” I shook my head in disbelief. There’s no winner here. I just need to get the hell away from her.

Although I shouldn’t let the behavior of people whose company I wouldn’t seek out shape my own behavior—I shouldn’t take it personally—alas, I fall prey to my own human frailty, my ego, my sense of right, and wrong, in a world turned upside down. Who am I to dismiss those whose lives are not as blessed as mine, those who are marginalized for whatever reason? In this land of contrasts—from the moneyed interlopers living in million dollar plus homes to those barely keeping body and soul together, many failing at this most basic of life transactions—this place where people come to find themselves, to heal, to get lost in beauty, or just to get lost, to be left alone—I see turmoil on this high desert. Having been here much of the last year, at times this place feels like home. At other times, though, I feel like a complete stranger, like one lost and left alone, but not by conscious choice. A friend reminded me recently that happiness is not a matter of geography, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I already know that.

A couple of weeks ago I was a guest for drinks and dinner at the home here of a couple from south Texas. The setting was beautiful, this second home far better than most Americans enjoy daily, the hospitality and company welcoming, generous, and gracious. Everyone present at this celebration of friendship is a Texan, although two have lived here for most of three decades. How nice it was to bask in the spirit of this night. How nice it was to drive up to this place in the mountains and see all of those TEXAS license plates.

Deep in the Heart—Santa Fe, New Mexico (August 10, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis