When Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks told a London audience about her shame that George W. Bush is from Texas, I got upset. How dare she say that when, in fact, he’s from Connecticut? Contrary to the popular belief that has been largely fueled by his public persona, George W. Bush is not a Texan—or at least he wasn’t born one. Rather, throughout his life he worked to develop his “Texanness” through a hit or miss sort of process, adopting as his own a hodgepodge of the fine qualities that true Texans share, but also many of the stereotypes that make us both famous and infamous. Twang by twang and swagger by swagger he became less the New England blue blood, George, and more the cowboy, “Dubya.” As a Texan, myself, I can readily imagine young George’s first images of the state and how they have affected his politics. Here are a few imagined “Texas” entries in Little George’s diary:
When Dad drives through town, he waves at people and they wave back. They didn’t do that it Connecticut. When we moved in, all the neighbors stopped by with food, and when I stopped by Bubba’s house, his mom invited me to dinner. These Texans are really friendly.
Even those who hate his policies have to admit that Dubya is basically a good guy. If he still drank, I’d have him over for a beer. His smile and warm demeanor, the trademark pat on the back and verbal ribbing (the way that he calls journalists “stretch” and “little stretch,”) have helped him to paint over many of the black marks on his presidential record, for example, an unwinnable war in Iraq, or the unconstitutional detainment of “enemy combatants” in Guantanamo Bay. Who can focus on that trivial stuff when he’s serving up Thanksgiving Turkey to our troops or Top-Gunning onto an aircraft carrier to boost troop morale? A little Southern hospitality goes a long way.
Wow, there’s another church. You can’t throw a rock around here without hitting one. We said the Lord’s Prayer before the game today, and my teacher made us raise our hands if we went to church last Sunday. She said if we didn’t, we’d probably end up in Hell. Texans are really religious!
Texas remains a state still obstinately “under God,” and, outside of Austin, it’s best not to admit to any doubts as to the existence of “the Lord” in the Judeo-Christian sense. In Texas, churches tie communities together, and I double-dog dare you to drive down any main street without bumping into a couple of them. Of course, Dubya didn’t start out as the “born-again” that he is today. (That would contradict the concept of being “born again.”) Instead, he grew up like many other Texas boys his age – drinking and smoking, driving his truck, playing pick-up ball, and fishing. Not until after the drinking and drugging and hitting rock bottom did the prodigal son come home. After receiving a potentially career / life-ending D.U.I. in Maine after running his car into a bush (a bush, not another Bush) he returned “home” to Texas and got “saved.[i]” And just as those not born in Texas fall for it harder than those who were, born-again Christians are often more feverish than most other Christians. God now walks by his side and, in fact, the extra set of footprints in the Galveston sand leads all the way up the east coast to the White House. Now Dubya heads-up pre-meeting prayers. Attendees wear a tie (males only), just like in church. His faith has led him to ban stem-cell research, to crusade against abortion rights, to appoint an Attorney General so religiously conservative that he spent 8000 taxpayer dollars to cover the one bare breast on the Spirit of Justice statue, and to endorse faith-based social programs, a move that could tumble the already crumbling wall between church and state. [ii]
What a slow game of basketball! Guys kept calling their own fouls. I left my wallet in the park, and some guy brought it back -- cash and all! People always want to shake hands when we make a deal. These people are really honest.
Texans’ greatest strength can also be our greatest weakness. Because we are honest and expect honesty in others, we open ourselves up to deception. In a word: Enron. Enough said. Honesty, though prevalent in small towns and communities, doesn’t extend to the political arena or the “good ole boys” network (which are largely one and the same.)
The Florida recount provides a case in point. A true Texan, more honorable than power hungry, would have allowed the process to move forward, regardless of the outcome. Dubya, in a small-town sense, probably struggled with this one, but sadly, the scene was national and the prize political. Since another Bush just happened to be governor of the state, and the lady calling the punches, the Florida secretary of state, Katherine Harris, could be classified as a Republican pawn, perhaps the pressure to play dirty just became too great.
Iraq is another great example. Dubya made the case that Hussein had WMD’s either hidden or in the works and a hot line directly to Bin Laden’s secret bunker. Of course we weren’t interested in the oil. Pshaw, he told reporters. Why would we want the oil when the war is going to cost us more than we could ever recover in oil revenues? But any true Texan should have enough horse sense to see through those whoppers. Isn’t it more likely that Dubya just went after the man that tried to off his daddy? Wouldn’t you if you had the U.S. military in your holster? Sure, it’s costing us a fortune to be there, but it’s not the oil companies that pay. They’re just raking in billions off uncontested government contracts like the one that Halliburton got. The good ole boys strike again.
Unfortunately for him, one man saw a lie for what it was and blew the whistle. When former Ambassador Joseph Wilson nuked the idea that Saddam had tried to purchase Uranium in Niger, the good ole boys went after his wife, a CIA operative, ratting her out to the press, thereby endangering her and any other agent who might have been associated with her. While Dubya says that he wants to “find the leaker,” there’s been no news yet. So much for calling your own fouls[iii].
Everybody asks me if I’m George Senior’s son and then treat me like I’m their cousin or something. The guy at the store didn’t even make me pay for my Coke. Bubba let me into his tree-house gang even though I didn’t know the password. I bet I could work this angle.
Texans work hard and we admire the man (or woman) who lives large. We take pride in being self-made, in providing a good life for ourselves and our families. We’d all have a ranch if we could afford one. There remains in Texans something of the cowboy spirit—the urge to ramble, to be free and independent. And if a ranch is out of our price range, most of us can at least budget in an SUV.
Well, Dubya lives larger than most. Not being born a Texan, perhaps he felt that he had to make up for it by buying a ranch and a major league baseball team. He looks good chain-sawing cedar. Very Texan. In fact, more Texan than about the other 99% of us. See, most of us weren’t born into the kind of wealth that the Bush’s enjoy (and always will, thanks to Dubya killing the inheritance tax.) I feel that it’s important to note that while Dubya has garnered a modicum of success in the last few years, he’s had some advantages that most Texans don’t. For example, he didn’t attend Midland High. He attended Andover, an elite New England private school. Despite a mediocre performance there, he was, not altogether surprisingly, admitted to Yale (his father’s alma mater, go figure). Later, despite a score of 25% on the entrance exam, Dubya became a fighter pilot with the National Guard, thereby avoiding a stint in Vietnam. Yes, he owned (and bankrupted) some oil companies, but certainly hadn’t bought them with money he earned working summers. In fact, before becoming governor of Texas, he hadn’t done much besides run unsuccessfully for a congressional seat. So, while the ranch is nice, and I admire the sweat, I’ve got to remind myself that Dubya didn’t exactly pull himself up by his bootstraps.
Everybody around here wears boots, so I asked Dad for some today. They’re real nice. Make me look taller and walk a little different. (Is this what they mean by “moseying”?) The men don’t talk much unless it’s about huntin’ or fishin’ or fixin’ the car. Back home, we had people to fix the car for us, and wash it too and take care of the lawn. Everybody here takes care of his own business. These Texans like to go-it-alone.
Texas was a country before it was a state, by God. Nothing is as iconic in the Texas mentality as the lone wolf, the Texas Ranger, the desperado, the cowboy who rides in and fixes all the problems with a six-shooter and minimal chatter. In fact, one of my personal heroes is Augustus McCrae from Lonesome Dove. (I think that one of Bush’s personal heroes must be Col. Call.) Nothing irks a Texan like having to ask for help or admit defeat. Dubya really nailed this one . . . unfortunately. Finding himself in the seat of a superpower, he quickly decided that we didn’t need any friends. If you want something done right, do it yourself; everyone else will just screw it up. Why endorse the Kyoto Treaty just because the rest of civilization does? We don’t need them. I’ll bomb the hell outta’ global warming. Anti-Ballistic Missile pact with Russia? Why do we need that when we can pay my buddies a bundle for a Star Wars system that will (in theory, at least) protect us from Putin’s little red button? The United Nations? Bunch of French-smellin’ pansies. We’re going to Iraq whether they like it or not.
I’m starting to feel a little less homesick every day. I got my new buds to take care of me. I get free cokes. I’m in the tree-house club. Nobody makes fun of me for talkin’ slow anymore. I think I’m going to like this place. No more “George.” I’m a Texan now. Y’all can call me “Dubya.”
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