Cowboyz
I'm from Lubbock Texas. I was raised around a special brand of urban cowboy. You could always spot the "cowboys" by the ubiquitous accoutrement such as boots, buckles, tight wranglers, colorful brush popper shirts, and 10 gallon Stetson hats. These folks were usually varying levels of good old boy to straight redneck. There was a huge vogue in the 80's whereby if you were a member of this strata of society and you drove a pickup truck it was necessary to drive with your truck's tailgate in the down position. The thinking was "I git much better gas mileage with it down like that, less wind drag you know." 'Course that doesn't really work as any engineer will tell you by lowering your tailgate you actually ruin the aerodynamics of your truck. That's a different story, let me get back to the point. I always tried to distance myself from any of that shit-kicker bullshit. To me the whole scene smacked of conservatism, ignorance, and as a result institutionalized racism. If not those things it at least reeked of tribalism. Not to mention the fact that most of these folks were kinda city folks and their cowboy garb was wholly symbolic. And the music they listened to didn't appeal to me in the least. Hot Country, bleech. All this added up to a feeling of being a little embarrassed by my heritage. 'Course my ancestors were real cowboys not urban shit kickers.Now let's flash forward to my 25th year on this earth. I had up until this point managed to identify with other, maybe slightly more enlightened, segments of the populace. I had never in fact owned a cowboy hat. I was living in San Francisco in the great state of California. Now whenever I would tell someone where I was from...well, let's just say that certain world events had recently rendered Texas one of the more unpopular places in the world in the year 2001. I wasn't really prepared for the force of anti-Texas sentiment that I encountered in Cali. I of all people understood this prejudice. It was the same sort of judgment that had always made me feel a little humiliated about being a Texan. At this stage in life I understood that Texas represented the biggest and the worst of all that's bad and wrong with America. However, in meeting someone it is generally best not to judge and especially not to pre judge based on the place on the planet where that person's peephole opened, in this case Lubbock Texas. That renders the person doing the judging a big ole hypocrite. But that's the kind of ugly stuff that makes the world go round.
Anywho, I decided that since folks in San Fran were gonna judge me anyway based on my regional roots that I might as well get me a cowboy hat so I could look the part. The better to shatter your preconceived notions and expectations with my dear. So... down in the heart of the Castro, that's right my narrow-minded brethren, Homo-Ville, I found me a cowboy hat that was a perfect secondhand fit. It was purchased by someone special to me, we'll call her Ms Mariposa, cause that's her name, and bestowed upon me as a gift. It was a beautiful suede model that was light tan in color and like I mentioned before fit me like one sequined glove. When I got used to it and the reaction it raised in people it helped me to finally feel liberated. For the first time I felt like I could embrace my own culture yet not act like the stereotypes within that culture. That hat made me feel free. Soon after that I got a couple of hand me down belt buckles from my Grandfather and way out there in Californey I became The Deputy. I became a parody of a small town law enforcement officer who gave up the law and was destined to make the rudest deep night dub tracks the sticks has ever 'erd. Now my selection COME NOW. I was also one high as hell, hippied out cowpoke.
I wish that I hadn't had to go so far to find myself. But I am glad that even though it was hard and confusing I was able to recognize the shabbier traits of my West Texas culture and stand my ground through my childhood and early adulthood. I am also glad that there came a time when I was no longer ashamed of my culture and had the resolve to show each new person that I met that all Texans ain't the same. I miss that hat. It died in the fire of '01. I guess I only had it for about 6 months. I learned a lot from that hat. One thing that I learned was that far a field from my home state the cowboy hat is as effective a costume as say a clown costume. People didn't treat me like a person when I was wearing that hat they treated my like a clown, uh I mean cowboy. I have tried to replace that first hat. I have a fine one now that's well worn but nothing can replace your first.
Gotta go now, I gotta fetch my horse from the hitching post and amble off down to the stock tank so Old Zulu can get a drank of water. Psyche.
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