The building was nondescript.
Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.
It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.
Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.
I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.
The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.
After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.
She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.
My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.
Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.
A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.
In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.
It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.
It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.
I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.
Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.
Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.
But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.
I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.
When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.
In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.
But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.
Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.
I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.
I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.
That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.
I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.
That was probably for the best.
“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush
Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.
My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.
So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.
Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.
Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.
I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.
As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.
Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.
Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.
After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.
I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.
But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.
Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland
About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.
I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.
I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.
Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.
But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.
Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.
And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.
The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.
As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.
I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.
The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.
I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.
But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.
I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.
I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.
Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.