March 2, 2011

Today, in places like Austin, the state capitol, and Washington-on-the-Brazos, the site of the signing of the Texas Declaration of Independence from Mexico on March 2, 1836, thousands of Texans will at least give some thought to the meaning of Texas Independence. “You can go to hell—I’m going to Texas.” So said Davy Crockett (1786-1836), one of the heroes of the Alamo. At least that’s what they say. And the same spirit that led so many brave (and perhaps foolhardy) men to give their lives in the battle at the Alamo, the now-long historic shrine to the spirit of independence, is still on the hearts of lots of people. Here on the plaza in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the back of the t-shirt sported by one of the people gathered there on an early evening to hear the music that is part of a Santa Fe summer, was Crockett’s proud, brave (and perhaps foolhardy) words. As they also say, you can take the Texan out of Texas, but you can’t Texas out of the Texan.

Although I still own a home in Texas, on land my sisters and I inherited from our parents (granted in spirit before them by our grandmother and before her our great-grandmother), I am away from Texas for much of each year. For 3-1/2 years I vacillated between giving up my Texas automobile license plates for New Mexico ones. And finally, just recently for practical reasons, I made the swap. First, it was the driver’s license. I’ve never had a driver’s license from any place other than Texas. And finally, after a process that required the better part of two months, the old front-and-rear Texas plates came off and the new rear plate went on. Ironically, the clerk who waited on me at the motor vehicle department had become a transplant to New Mexico at least 20 years earlier, and before that she had lived in New Mexico as a child. “We’ll be going back to Texas after my husband retires,” she told me. I thought about what that means to her, but I didn’t ask.

Virtually everyone I count among my friends in New Mexico has come here from some other place—among them, (New York, by way of Houston, Chicago and New Orleans; Wisconsin by way of Arizona; Ohio by way of Wyoming and Arizona; Illinois by way of Louisiana and Colorado; California; Puerto Rico by a route that I frankly can’t recall in the correct order). We’re all in motion. Among this group, I’m unaware if any one of these friends plans to be here for the duration. I don’t think about it, to be honest. I have a home in Texas on family land—a choice that I tried to change. But things have a way of working out differently sometimes, in spite of what we think we want.

One thing I know for sure. Regardless of where I am, and what license plates are on my car, I am a Texan, proud of my Texas roots. And even though I still prefer the sunshine and dry air of living in the high desert at close to 6000 feet, I don’t flinch when someone comments on Texas and Texans. You see, to a lot of people with strong roots in New Mexico, Texas and Texans do not and historically have not enjoyed a favorable reputation here in the land of enchantment. As the saying goes, we create our own bed, even though we might think at times that we are not the ones who made that bed—but yes, we have to sleep in it. Anyway, it’s a battle of perception and attitude that won’t be won, given the thousands of Texans who live or have second homes (does that give you an inkling of wherein the source of the problem might lie?) in New Mexico. Like it or not, for good or for worse, we are here. And of course, most of us defy the stereotypes that exist. Not all of us have lots of disposable and discretionary income, and most of us don’t spend our time shopping on the plaza in Santa Fe. I’ve spent my share of time on the plaza, but I realized a long time ago how much I just like to sit, enjoy the sites and sounds, and read a book. And yes, many of the museums are within a block.

I’ve just enjoyed a 30-minute round trip walk to the park in the Albuquerque neighborhood where I hang my hat these days. It’s a sunny and cool March 2 in the Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico. While on this walk, I remembered that this is a special day for Texans—especially for those of us who are born and bred, and especially for those of us who can trace our family’s Texas history back a couple of generations. As a child in the 1940s, I remember there were about five residences with the surname Hollis in the Houston directory. All of these Hollises were from our clan—which migrated from east Texas to Houston during the Depression. From England, through North Carolina and Alabama, these Hollises made their way to the Lone Star State. A good while ago, that number of Hollises in the Houston directory changed to hundreds, but now only a couple of them are related to me. The roots of my maternal German ancestors in the greater Houston area go back to time of the American War Between the States. Yes, I embrace this heritage.

Now today I’m not saying, you can go to hell—I’m going to Texas. I like my life here in New Mexico. With the backdoor open to this glorious day outside, I hear traffic, the noise of road construction nearby, and the “kwaak-kwaak” of one of the neighborhood ravens, flying or perched somewhere nearby. Ravens like to be near people, I’m told. In a couple of weeks I will, however, be making a bit of a spring migration to my home in Texas. It’s time to tend to some business, take care of my place, and see my family and some friends. This day, especially, I am remembering where I began this journey, and I embrace this beginning and where and how it has allowed me to be. God bless Texas! And so it is.

March 2, 2011—Albuquerque, NM (March 2, 2011)
R. Harold Hollis