Lest you come away thinking it was just the racial divide that precipitated my escape, there was much more. “Yankees,” meaning anyone who was from a state further north than Oklahoma, were not welcome. My grandfather’s sister, poor Aunt Eunice, was forever designated the family “Yankee” because she married my Uncle George and he was from Omaha. This was much more a stain on the family than her brother, J.W.’s, suicide. George was always spoken of with contempt, but J.W.’s suicide more as just a matter of fact. That disturbs me just a bit. Education was also viewed with suspicion. While the bright kids were expected to go to college and my own family did indeed encourage this, too much education earned you the label of “weirdo.” Aunt Eunice and Uncle George’s son earned a PhD when I was in middle school. My mother welcomed this news with something to the effect of “I always knew he was a little weird.” Even at the age of twelve or thirteen, I found it hysterical as well as ironic that the most educated person in our family’s Y chromosome was contributed by a “Yankee.”
OK, so there is the Reader’s Digest version of why I left East Texas for Dallas and its suburbs. Here are the positive things about growing up there that are bittersweet. Bitter because the experiences are tinged with the claustrophobia of my small town, sweet because these memories are the bright spots of my youth and the parts of my childhood I freely share with my children.
1) I know what grass burrs and bull nettles are. To this day I think twice before walking across my manicured and weed-free suburban lawn without flip flops for fear of getting a grass burr stuck in the bottom of my foot. I also know that if I were to ever get stung by a bull nettle again, there are two things readily available that will make the stinging stop. One is household bleach and the other is pee (yes, as in urine and preferably my own). I’m quite confident I am the only person in my eleven story office building that possess this information.
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