I sprinted up the stairs, turning on my outdated Dell laptop. I had to make a CD that would both entertain and impress all the guests coming over for our Friday night party in Suite 15. Out of the 4,500 songs on my computer, I had to find 20, enough to fill one blank CD. The songs had to be perfect – a wide range of genres and time periods. And people had to be able to sing along. But I also wanted it to be personal. I’d been spending the past five weeks at the Poynter Institute’s summer fellowship among people who may have heard about this bizarre Texas culture, but most didn’t know how to truly appreciate it.
So I picked a defining artist. A country artist. They were going to hate it. It wasn’t this George Strait or Garth Brooks crap. It was Texas country at its finest.
Kevin Fowler. And what better song than “100 % Texan.”
Well I love the sound of a rain on a tin roof
on a hot summer night
love to hear those hound dogs a-barkin’
Howlin’ at the full moon light
Love to see those fireflies a buzzin’
Lighting up the southern sky
Yeah I’m a hell-bent 100% Texan ’til I die
I sang it to myself as I searched for other songs.
Now I had to figure out where to put it on the CD. Hell, I was the one making it, so I’d put it wherever I wanted to. Track No. 1.
Texas music isn’t the only defining attribute that makes me who I am. I love Texas beer, Texas-shaped chips, Texas sports, Texas newspapers, Texas beaches, Texas cowboy hats, Texas’ neighbor Mexico, and Texas’ ridiculous state pride.
After my CD finished burning, I ran down the stairs and popped it in the stereo. Play.
The song didn’t even get into the first lyrics before I heard boos. They didn’t skip to the next songs, which were not even country; they ejected the CD from the player and tossed it away like a piece of trash.
I was heartbroken. Not so much because I wanted to hear that song � I could go to my room and listen to it. What upset me more was that these people didn’t want to give my music a chance.
Poynter isn’t the only place where people reject my music. Most foreigners refuse to give their ears a taste.
It was Saturday, April 17, 2004. I had almost finished my sophomore year of college in San Antonio and we had heard about this killer two-day party called Fiesta Oyster Bake. The media coordinators for the event sent our student newspaper two press passes, so my roommate and I jumped at the chance to go and headed across town.
After all, we heard there was a man walking around dressed as a giant oyster.
The annual event, marked by tons of food (not just oysters) and beer, also brought in a variety of musical artists. Rock, tejano, jazz, children’s, country. We had our choices.
John, the roommate, loved his rock music. He was from Colorado. We spent most of the day there, hearing bands like Default, the Burden Brothers and Pushmonkey. But I wanted more. I wanted to go see Kevin Fowler.
I finally got the roommate to check it out. So we hiked across the fairground to the “country area” and joined the crowd of cowboy hats, boots and belt buckles. John was pissed.
The band came on stage, complete with steel guitar and fiddle players. Fowler, in his cowboy hat and sleeveless plaid pearl-snap shirt, stomped in his boots to the front of the stage.
Again, John gave me this evil stare. I’m going to club you with my empty bottle, his eyes seemed to say. He did not approve.
But as the songs went on, he seemed to gradually lose the hatred and actually enjoyed the concert. We made our way back to the dorm, where John took my Fowler CD and burned it to his computer. The last track on the CD is “100 % Texan.”
Finally, I had converted someone. I left the concert in a small state of euphoria, not so much because I got to hear Fowler, but because someone gave my lifestyle a chance and came to appreciate it.
Poynter rejected my initial offer to introduce them to the greatness that is my culture. They should have been glad that I just tried to give them that one song and not the whole CD.
That next day, as Monique, Michelle and I headed to our usual Saturday hangout – Pass-a-Grille beach – I brought along my CD. We popped it in, and I fully expected them to skip past track No. 1.
But they didn’t.
We listened to that song. Not just on the way to the beach, but on the way back. At first, I was just glad to be hearing that song. But I soon realized these two girls – both from Illinois – were shouting out the lyrics. “I’m a hell-bent 100% Texan ’til I die.”
I couldn’t help but laugh from the backseat of Monique’s PT Cruiser. I loved this. People were actually enjoying my music.
That night, we played the CD again. And again, I couldn’t help but smile. I had showed up at Poynter, scared that I wouldn’t fit in with all these people from across the country. The apprehension intensified with my late arrival and “new kid” status. Great, a Texan new kid.
Walking back to my room on a Sunday afternoon, the stereo faced the window. In the clear CD player sat a silver disc. It was then I knew they began to understand who I am and what Texas means to me.
In pink writing, the disc was labeled “100 % Texan ’til I die.”
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