I’ll admit that adjusting to life on the hilltop has been something of a challenge for me. I know you may be thinking, “don’t worry, everyone goes through the trials and tribulations of leaving home for the first time, making new friends, adjusting to a roommate, et cetera.” But before you brush aside my plea for help, consider that my experience may be a little different from yours. Did you have to learn a whole new way of speaking? Did you have to deal with a whole new way of dressing? Were you a thousand miles away from home? Even my old music had to go as I entered GU for the first time. Holding a basic conversation with another first-year became an impossible challenge. I’m sure many potential friends were driven away in those first few crucial days, as my conversations began something like this:
“Hi my name’s Heather, and I’m from Iowa!”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Heather. My name’s Bridget, and I’m from Texas.”
Yes, that’s right. I’m from Texas. I’m one of those proud citizens of the Republic of Texas who just won’t shut up about the obvious reasons that Texas is, in fact, the greatest 268,601 square miles in the world. I’m sure the Great Lakes are wonderful, and the New Jersey Turnpike really is quite useful, but behind every “So how many guns do you have?” I believe there is a slight twinge of jealousy. Who hasn’t, at least once in their life, secretly aspired to spout off “Don’t mess with Texas!” or pull on a pair of scuffed-up cowboy boots, or know just what exactly an Aggie is.
It didn’t really hit me how much I love and miss my home state until exactly Oct. 11, 2003 at 2:14 pm. I was fixin’, yes, fixin’ to cheer on Georgetown at Homecoming with some friends when I casually asked, “so where’s the game?” With a puzzled look, my friend pointed straight ahead at what I had previously assumed was a practice field. Where were the concession stands? Where were the ubiquitous mums? Where were the football players? You can’t fool me, I’m from Texas, and I know football when I see it. Thoroughly disheartened, I began to realize just how different D.C. is from home.
I must confess, my culture shock was a little stronger than I had expected. Indeed, as a Texan expatriate, I am finding more in common with the international students than I am with my fellow Americans. The Canadians and I bond over being blamed for everything, the Mexicans and I bond over not finding a decent margarita, the Australians and I bond over trying to find more to life than being ridiculously good looking.
That fact became increasingly apparent as my “Texanisms” were met with blank stares, and my accent was met with downright laughter. Down there, you’re not pro- or anti-war, you’re pro- or anti-Dixie Chicks (and just for the record, we’re mighty proud of Dubya, too). A Coke is any carbonated beverage, and y’all can be used in any social situation. Shopping carts are buggies, Frito-Pie is a delicacy, and Dr Pepper is nothing short of the nectar of the gods.
On the other hand, life without my pickup is getting easier, and I’m finding “sketchy” very useful in everyday conversation. Less than a month ago, my mantra had been “It’s a Texas thing; you wouldn’t understand.” Now, however, I am beginning to appreciate some of the perks of stepping outside the Lone Star State. I have to admit that Crawford does pale a bit in comparison to the White House, aspiring to be a diplomat perhaps is a higher ambition than aspiring to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, the Potomac is Brita water compared to the Rio Grande, and when my hallmates begin to argue over who is going to the Super Bowl, the Chiefs or the Panthers, I no longer add in a hopeful, “how ‘bout them Cowboys?”
I was not prepared, however, to turn on the TV last night and find my own Pudge Rodriguez wearing a Marlins jersey. Though I may not be an avid baseball fan, this act by my favorite Rangers catcher seemed nothing short of betrayal. Then I realized maybe Pudge and I have more in common than I thought. Maybe you don’t have to be in Texas to be a true Texan. Maybe Texas is a state of mind, an outlook on life. So, even though I now proudly blast my Pat Green and conspicuously fly my Lone Star flag in this sub-zero weather, I know when I finally get on the plane back home, a little part of me will miss Georgetown.
Bridget Lines is a first-year in the School of Foreign Service. Her pick-up doesn’t have a gun rack, yet.
