My Brackettville is showing...

-->

I woke up Saturday melancholy. My body heavy, my limbs dead weight, my mind in a grey place I prefer to be a stranger in when visiting. I was homesick. It wasn’t my childhood home I missed but a small sense of self that had escaped me. My morning routine carried out without pause yet my mind called for action.

I found myself driving to what Austinites affectionally call the “East side” of town. Directly across the giant disconnector we know as I-35. It used to be another world. Gentrification has set in the area. Condo developments scraping the sky sit on busy corners and popular eateries have displaced their predecessors, also popular but less “cool” shops and restaurants, that once thrived in their walls. Among the developing and mismatched scene is a restaurant that reminds me of my childhood home, and I found myself headed in that direction.

The heavy wooden doors carved by a Mexican craftsman opened to a world I once knew. The TV was on and showed hype for the day’s upcoming football game although no one watched the screen. Vintage Garth Brooks was streaming followed by a cumbia and I smiled. I remembered her, my tall, white girl frame shuffling my feet, following a train of people making a circle around our small town civic center. My elbows bent and arms alternating up and down while a twisting my waist with each move. White girls can dance but maybe not to cumbias without practice or my friend Mary Falcon to emulate when dancing.

I ordered migas, a change from my usual carne guisada. I thought of Mrs. Samaniego. Nice woman, good mother and, for a time, our high school janitor. She placed warm foil wrapped tortillas in my locker once a week my senior year and once brought me a carne guisada plate to a basketball tournament. She said I needed to eat and felt sorry for me that I did not get homemade tortillas at home. Sweet memory.

My foot tapped the Saltillo tile floor to the beat of Wild Horses; I looked up and smiled at the shiny, metallic stars hanging next to the humming Bud Light sign just above my table. The owner delivered my drink and generally asked if I was ok. He is a large, dark skinned Hispanic man with a straw cowboy hat and a shiny silver chain and cross around his neck. I lied, said yes, then I thanked him for the inquiry. It is nice to be asked, “are you ok?” especially when we are not. Sometimes knowing we are not alone is all we need.  I saw his wife for whom the restaurant is named seated several tables in front of me. She and her daughter were rolling silverware in paper napkins. They were talking in Spanish and laughing. At times their voices overpowered the music keeping us solo diners company. It was its own kind of music and I thought how nice it was to be part of their world.

My food came, “careful, it’s a hot plate,” the waitress said as she sat it down in front of me. I ate each carb filled bite without thought. I smothered the slightly burnt tortilla with refried beans, added the migas and potatoes and devoured it after adding their homemade hot sauce that made me cry a different kind of tear. This south Texas girl was happy again.

Mister Rogers used to ask his viewers to take one minute and think of everyone who loved you into being. It is an important practice to incorporate in our lives. The life I have made for myself in Austin is a good one. I am blessed with family, friends, my health and opportunity. So many are surprised to hear where I am from originally. One friend called me “cosmopolitan Kinney County” that made me smile and hurt my heart. He meant it as a compliment; but it did not feel like one.

I felt like an imposter who shininess was brighter than her grit. And maybe that is ok, but only when I feel like it is and on that day I did not know. Years ago, someone disagreed with me and said, “Your Brackettville is showing.” I responded along the lines of “Good. You can learn from it.” But lately who I was, who I am and who I want to be are wrestling amongst themselves in my mind. I believe identity not unlike friendships are not based on a zip code but rather in people.  Some days, like Saturday, I realign myself, remember myself and find my center. Faith keeps me grounded but at times my sense of self needs some added support. 

I am thankful for this time of transition and will continue to embrace it and all its quirks. My Miss Kinney County days are well behind me; I am not a child anymore. So, I accept that I am now a city girl that craves starry nights and pick up tailgates; a cold beer instead of a strong Cabernet every now and then. I will wear my designer boots and my red lipstick with full knowledge that I can pull it off just as sure as I can drive a stick. Mary Falcon is a phone call away and Mrs. Samaniego would make me tortillas if I asked nicely. I haven’t seen either of them in years but that’s the thing about home: it never leaves us if we don’t want to be lost. It is a beautiful thing that no matter where you are from in the world the experiences, the people and the love you carry for home will not leave you. For better or worse, I hope my Brackettville is always on show for the world to see.