Texas Feel

Just What Is It about Texas?
Author(s): Milton Ezrati

Source: The Antioch Review, Vol. 62, No. 4, The Writing Life (Autumn, 2004), pp. 754-773
Published by: Antioch Review Inc.
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Just What Is It about
Texas?
BY MILTON EZRATI
1No one, it seems, is ever neutral about Texas. Pro or co

inevitably evokes passion, all over the country, the world. I am a native
New Yorker, who lives contentedly, some might say smugly, in the city
of my birth, and yet I have long shared this widespread fascination with
the Lone Star State. And I ask, "Just what is it about Texas that arouses
such strong feelings?" Surely the gun-toting, Wild-West image counts
for something in the equation, but that answer is inadequate. Matters go
deeper. John Steinbeck hinted at the roots when he described Texas as
"a state of mind" and a "mystique closely approximating a religion." He
just failed to give the reasons.
I believe that more than anything else the allure of Texas stems
from the stark and intriguing contradictions in the state's character.
With Texans, there is always a surprising attitude juxtaposed to an
equally unexpected opinion, a remarkable mix of hard and soft, wel-
coming and demanding, braggadocio and humility, each in huge doses
seldom seen anywhere else. There, the outsider feels simultaneously
charmed and repelled, angered and delighted. Little wonder, then, the
place engenders so much feeling in so many unlikely places.
A little joke recently brought home to me the nature of these
remarkable Texas crosscurrents. I was visiting Fort Worth on business.
People took note of my New York accent and commented that Texas
must be a big change from home. I wanted to do more than simply agree,
so I played with a little irony. "Actually," I said, "New York and Texas
have two big things in common: Each thinks that it is the center of the
universe, and both are wrong." My hosts laughed, not hard but, I think,
sincerely. Then, in a good-natured tone, one added, "Only New York
Just What Is It about Texas? 755
is wrong." Heartier laughter followed. I smiled, winked, and we went

on to another subject. But as we did, I thought, "Now there is an
arrogance with which a New Yorker should feel right at home." But it
did not feel like home. On the contrary, something was very different.
I put my finger on that difference only a few weeks later when I told
the samejoke at aNew York dinnerparty. People were polite, of course,
but they clearly wondered why I bothered to make the comparison.
They looked at me as if I had three heads. True, it is not a good joke. But
the reaction in New York threw the unfamiliar nature of the Texas
response into sharp relief. Though the Texans asserted their promi-
nence explicitly, they were at least willing to entertain another point of
view. They conceded that the New Yorkers might consider themselves
central, albeit erroneously. My New York friends would not even think
about an alternative. They showed mild irritation at my asking them to
do so. The concession offered by the Texans revealed a broadmindedness
lurking behind the brag and a humility entirely absent among the New
Yorkers.
As these comparisons came home to me, I dropped out of the dinner
conversation briefly, looked down from the window at the bright lights
of Madison Avenue below, and strangely recalled the varied scenery of
Texas, both the physical and the social. I remembered attending a high
school football game in level Lubbock, where I saw an almost fright-
ening lust for victory joined to a soft sentimentality and an old-
fashioned spirituality rare elsewhere in the country. My mind went back
to Dallas dinner parties and a display of materialism that would shame
even the French. And yet, I could also recall there, under the big hair,
expressions of almost child-like faith in the future, attitudes that I
seldom hear in New York, much less in Paris. Texans, I recalled, can
show a remarkably intense pride in their state's heritage and yet give not
a hint of exclusiveness. Actually, a much longer list of intriguing
contradictions rushed to mind during those few moments when I
allowed myself that break from conversation. How remarkable, I
thought, to bring such contrary traits together. I realize, of course, that
all people carry such contradictions. It is just that in Texas they are so
stark, so, well, big.
Crockett at the Alamo, Again
I hate to admit it, but the archetype of much of this wonderfully

contradictory quality lies in the cliched story of Crockett at the Alamo.
756 The Antioch Review
I am not mystical enough to suggest that Crockett and his fellows have
somehow imposed their spirit on today's Texas. Rather, that too-often-
told story seems to set the state's tone, capture its essence. It functions
as the Greek myths did for the ancients, as an expression of the culture's
fundamental values, or at least those that it wants to cultivate. It is little
wonder, then, that Texans never seem to tire of the story. It is their great
metaphor.
Crockett' s tale, in many respects, is also classically American. Like
the forebears of all Americans, including the Indians, Crockett makes
a personal journey from an old, traditional world to a new one. There
he joins others from disparate places and backgrounds to begin
something new. He fails in his old world, the East, despite his native
intelligence, personal courage, decency, and drive. His style is too
homespun. He has the wrong accent. He rejects, explicitly or not, the
sophisticated deceptions so common to that society. He does not fit in
the East Coast's imitation of Europe's imitation of an aristocratic past
that never really was. He loses because this old world stresses ties of
class, family, and background over individual worth. Crockett also
loses because strong moral convictions put him directly at odds with the
establishment. The congressional record tells how Crockett, despite his
Tennessee constituency, took on Andrew Jackson to speak out against
the displacement of the eastern Indians, what has come to be called the
"Trail of Tears."
Disgusted with this duplicitous and biased world, he tells his fickle
supporters that they can go to hell and that he will go to Texas. He and
a small group appear at the beleaguered Alamo, where he finds a
welcome that was denied him in the old country. Those in charge at the
Alamo are desperate. They welcome all: New Yorkers, Pennsylva-
nians, Alabamans, Indians, Englishman, Tejanos, Mexicans, Europe-
ans, and Colonel Crockett. All can see the wide variety of names and
places of origin at the Alamo today. Like the American ideal (if not
necessarily practice), Travis and Bowie, those in charge at the Alamo,
ask no questions about class, ethnicity, race, and religion. They make
no distinctions according to nationality or native language. They do,
however, tie their welcome to harsh demands of a different sort. All
must commit to the cause. In the crucible of the Alamo, that commit-
ment constitutes a devotion unto death.
Some might say this is more a generally American story than a
particularly Texan one. America, traditionally at least, asks people to
cast aside their old ethnic, social, and national identities and the
prejudices that go with them. It asks them to replace those ties with a
personal commitment to this new world and its ideals of equality,
liberty, personal merit over class, and democracy. This broad American
interpretation of Crockett's story is entirely reasonable, but only up to
a point. The tale, after all, takes place in Texas. The setting reminds
everyone that the desperation in the Alamo sharpened the contours of
this American ethic. In doing so, it also points up the lead Texas has
taken in embracing these classically American values.
Texas today, of course, is less desperate than Travis and Bowie
were, but still, more than most of the rest of America, it seeks all sorts
of people, new people, to meet its ambitious growth agenda. And while
Texas extends a warmer welcome than most of the rest of the country,
like the Alamo, it is also more demanding. These days, most of America
increasingly compromises on the traditional demand that citizens reject
the old world in favor of a new personal American devotion. Texas will
not. To keep the Texas welcome, to be considered a full-fledged Texan,
the state demands that commitment. Traditional Texans brook no
ambiguity. They accept none of the hyphenated identities so popular in
California and the big Eastern and Midwestern cities, where Irish-
American, Italian-American, African-American, and others impossi-
bly claim two loyalties simultaneously, one to the ideals of this new
world and one to an old-world focus on ethnicity, race, or language.
An Almost Religious Conversion
It is little wonder, then, that Steinback saw something religious in what

he called the Texas mystique. This demand for a full personal
commitment, a new singular loyalty, does indeed look and feel like a
religious conversion. In all religions, converts cast away their old life
and are born again with a new set of values, new guiding lights. Some
religions give converts a new name to signify their new self. Texas does
not ask this, though the state's culture does have a penchant for
nicknames. Whether or not the name changes, however, this secular
Texas conversion has much of the power of the religious parallel and
also much of its mystique.
For those of us who sympathize with the classic American ethic, the
state's religious-like embrace of these values has a direct appeal. But
even for those who entertain skepticism about America's traditional
approach, the almost spiritual emphasis on personal commitment adds
other intriguing nuances to the Texas character. It surely encourages in
Texans a single-mindedness of purpose and strong notions about how

things ought to be, both of which are rare elsewhere today. I do not
always agree with those notions, but definite opinions, especially on
matters of good and bad, right and wrong, come as a balm in this post-
modem, relativistic world where such matters otherwise seem wrapped
in impenetrable ambiguity. Such strong feelings also infuse Texas life
with a current of passion, also rare elsewhere, an energy of almost
sexual intensity. That passion seems to impel Texans to value or at least
take an interest in any strong commitment in others, as an indicator, I
guess, that such a person is capable of the ultimate commitment
required to become a Texan. Although this package of passionate
interest can intimidate the retiring sort, it can fascinate others. After a
strong-minded, interested people are the most interesting.
Some of these qualities came home to me recently at, of all places,
the rodeo in Houston. Ijoined a group of local investment associates for
the outing. Everyone dressed for the occasion, and we settled into our
seats, four middle-aged men in a row, each in some variation of Western
garb, mine rather new-bought and jury-rigged. My friends were eager
to introduce me to Texas culture and showed disappointment when they
learned that I had seen many rodeos and knew the events. I tried to make
matters up to them by exclaiming that it was the largest rodeo I had ever
seen. Large counts for a lot in Texas. I added that this show had better
stock than I had seen before. As the conversation turned to stock, it
came out that I have worked with horses for years and done a lot of
training and riding. My hosts took an active interest in my interest. The
conversation became even more animated. In response to one of my
riding stories, about getting bucked into a bush, one of our group
exclaimed, "Hell, you're almost more Texan than I am!" Of course, he
did not mean it. Mostly, it was a successful effort to flatter. But, as he
verified later, it was also a way to tell me that, in his opinion at least, I
had moved down the road toward becoming at least an honorary Texan.
My horsemanship, I surmise, spoke to the kind of passion and commit-
ment that Texans might ultimately demand, and one that had a special
resonance at the rodeo. I could feel the welcome and the demands, the
beginnings of that Texas conversion.
Not too long after this Texas welcome, I got a reminder of how
different and sometimes frustrating are the compromises elsewhere in
the nation. I had business in Princeton, New Jersey. A new colleague at
my office suggested that we do the ninety-minute drive from New York
in his car. The conversation was good, as it had been in Houston. But
in other ways, the exchange with this fellow New Yorker had a very
different character. We talked about our respective careers on Wall
Street. I mentioned that when I worked for a Japanese broker the staff
in Tokyo considered me the representative American. "They called me
Mr. America"-I laughed-"and never knew the significance of the
title." But he was less interested in the humor than in drawing distinc-
tions. "Not often a guy like you gets called white bread, is it?" It was a
fair remark, I guess. I have an exotic name. Still it had a needlessly
exclusive tone. Of course, you need not be white bread to be an
American, but why draw the distinction at all? Later my friend added
an ethnic overlay to the effort. He told how, when living in Boston, he
felt right at home. His Irish face, he said, fit right in with the others. I
begrudge him none of his sense of belonging, but I could not help
noticing how his focus on facial features, effectively genes, drew a line
that no amount of commitment could ever overcome. Whether I wanted
to join his fold or not, this typical New Yorker certainly tried to deny
me the inclusiveness offered freely in Houston.
Prejudice and Diversity
Neither these examples nor my more general comments mean to

suggest that Texans are without ethnic or other prejudices. On the
contrary, Texas has had its share of racial and national bigotry. Any
history of the Neuces Strip in the nineteenth and early part of the
twentieth centuries brings that point home in graphic, tragic, and, I
would add, ugly detail. There are innumerable other examples of racial
hatred in Texas, as there are just about everywhere on earth. Each
incident, wherever it occurs, imparts a deep shame on that place and its
history.
But while the shame is spread pretty evenly across the globe, Texas
does seem frequently singled out for more criticism on this score than
most. Ignoring their own transgressions, New Yorkers, Californians,
Europeans, and others heap scorn on Texas. It seems that all these post-
modern sophisticates can easily set aside their relativistic morality and
find absolute values when it serves their need to feel superior. Much of
this focus on Texas surely stems from others' vanities, hypocrisies, and
other vices. I cannot believe that Texans have more of this ugly but all
too human trait than others. Still, there might be reasons the state gets
so much criticism on this front.
Surely part of it stems from the state's ethic of openness. Having
vowed to value personal merit over the circumstance of birth, Texans'

racial and national prejudices might seem more hypocritical than
equally ugly traits in others. After all, those who owe their primary
allegiance to ties of race and ethnicity might deserve criticism for their
bigotry but not because they have violated their own fundamentally
exclusive ethic. But Texas, by opening to some, seems to owe an
explanation why it has not opened to all. Failing that, the Lone Star Stat
makes an easy target. It might also be that Texans, when they do react
on racial or ethnic grounds, are harsher than others. A strong reaction
would seem understandable in people who otherwise readily extend a
welcome. Having offered something precious, any subsequent rejec-
tion can hurt more severely than if the welcome had never been offered
in the first place. Texans can easily forget the demands that accompany
their embrace and see only that someone has spumed it. Affronted, they
can react disproportionately. In some instances, their hurt response can
turn pretty harsh, harsher perhaps than those who base their view on
language or race and reject outsiders as a matter of course, and certainly
harsh compared with the general welcoming ethic.
Outsiders might also see racial prejudice in Texas when it does not
exist. The state's emphasis on personal commitment above ethnicity
and race can make Texans seem insensitive to matters that in others'
eyes are paramount. Take, for example, questions of diversity. Diver-
sity seekers pay close attention to group affiliations and almost none to
individual beliefs. They try to create a mix of appearances and connec-
tions: European, African, Hispanic, old, middle-aged, young, male,
female, gay, domestic, foreign, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim,
and so forth. In contrast, the Texas focus on individual choice creates
a very different approach. When an individual has adopted Texas
values, other Texans can easily bridge ethnic differences and frequently
fail even to notice them. Take, for instance, the Egyptian-born Fayez
Sarofim, successful Houston investment manager and community
benefactor. Despite ethnic differences from the usual Texas main-
stream, most of the state still sees him as one of their own because he
shares well-known Texas values. In their eyes, he adds no diversity. At
the same time, the Texas approach can view Bill Clinton as exotic and
foreign, despite his more conventional ethnic affiliations, because of
his very different commitments. This failure to respond to group
classifications constitutes a terrible sin for those who carefully count
the members of each group.
A Passion for Greatness
While Texans chafe at the world's criticisms and on the surface dismiss
them, there is no denying that they seem to have much to prove, to others
and to themselves. They clearly share a passionate need for greatness,
for the admiration of others. That they do is understandable. Having
made a personal choice, they naturally strive to verify their decision and
seek affirmation by impressing others. Those bound by language or
birth need no such support. Having had no choice, they have nothing to
prove. But for Texans, there is something to gain, if they can get a New
Yorker or any outsider to become wide-eyed about things Texan, even
better if they can win a real convert to the Texas way. When these things
happen, all Texans can feel a little easier about their choice. Texans'
efforts at affirmation can prompt an irritating amount of boasting, one
of the things most disliked about the culture. But even as the frustrated
outsider begs his Texas host not to say another great thing about the
state, he feels a countervailing sympathy for that person's obvious need
and an equally powerful urge to offer the sought-after reassurance.
This almost desperate quest for affirmation has strength enough to
reach out of the present and creates in Texans a remarkable reliance on
the state's history and heritage. It is sometimes endearing and some-
times silly, but it is always abiding. If Texas has a glorious past, a
special place in history, then the decision to commit to it is well made.
Under the sway of this need, Texas has just about institutionalized a
reverence for the past. References to heritage appear in everyday life
much more frequently than just about anywhere else in the country.
Legitimate history is the least of it, of course, and is much rarer than the
passion for the legends and the lore. Many I meet seem more concerned
with the costuming or minor detail than with the fundamental historical
import of past events. Sometimes, the past appears purely in decor-an
oak rocking chair in an otherwise sleek law office, a prominently placed
bronze of a working cowboy as the centerpiece for a modern shopping
mall. Indeed, legend and the feeling of the past serve this need for
reassurance so much better than real history that it is hard to find a good
popular history of Texas. But however misplaced the emphasis and
comic some of the interpretations, the onlooker must feel some human
sympathy for the storyteller's, the decorator's, the builder's efforts at
personal reaffirmation and the shared feeling of belonging that grows
out of it.
The abiding nature of this passion came home to me recently while

traveling in Houston with a good friend. Greg Mathis is presently of
Houston but late of the Dallas-Fort Worth area, actually that Las
Colinas place between those two remarkably different cities. Among
other things, he is a some-time real estate developer. Like many Texans
and unlike so many others, Greg has a number of business interests, real
estate among them. In the course of my visit, he took the time to show
me his latest effort, nothing grand, a two-story structure in an affluent
area of mixed residential and commercial properties. He had hopes, he
told me, of leasing the ground floor to a small caf6, a Starbucks or some
equivalent, and the second floor as office space to a local professional,
an accountant or lawyer, maybe even a dentist. But Greg did not bring
me to review his business plans. He wanted to show off the building
itself, especially its expression of the past of that part of his beloved
Texas.
He explained that zoning imposed little on his choices, hardly at all,
in fact. Still he wanted his structure to fit the tone of that old Houston
neighborhood, much, as I could see, other developers had. That style,
at least for the commercial structures, was a more or less utilitarian
arrangement of a late-nineteenth-, early-twentieth-century style. It
would suit the outpost Houston still was back then. The architecture is
common enough on the East Coast and other older parts of the country.
Usually in dark red brick, these effectively box-like structures make a
gesture in small brick designs toward the rich ornamentation that was
popular among the more significant buildings of that time. They are not
especially attractive. Greg's new, yellow brick structure was less
depressing in the Texas sun than its more truly antique cousins are in
Chicago, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. But it, too, is hardly great architec-
ture. Neither is it authentic, I realized on closer examination of its
details. But that hardly matters. The important thing was to reaffirm
Greg's personal choice by celebrating Texas heritage. By making his
gesture in brick, Greg did something even more. He created a physical
monument both to that commitment and to the state. Greg's effort has
a special charm, I think, in that his link brought him to a past that was
neither great nor glorious, at least not in the usual definitions of these
words.
As we drove away from the construction site, I could not help but
contrast his Texas approach with my own experience in real estate
development, years ago in New York. I was involved in renovating an
old building in the historic Gramercy Park area of Manhattan. Built in
the 1820s, it deserved special consideration. Our small group of

developers had every intention of keeping the original style. Of cours
we had little choice. New York has strict zoning rules and the Land-
marks Commission had veto power over any plans we made for the
building's faqade. There was little room for any personal decision or
gesture. I accepted that. Other developers might not show the consid-
eration our group did. What shocked me was the almost complete
ignorance of the historic period I discovered at the Landmarks Com-
mission. Our Landmarks representative suggested a wrought-iron gate
in a Spanish style, not only an exceedingly expensive item but also
something completely out of place in early-nineteenth-century New
York. When I argued against this idea on the grounds of authenticity
and more importantly the feeling of the historic period, the Landmarks
man stopped just short of asking me what the past had to do with it. The
whole emphasis was on taste and style. It had nothing to do with New
York's august history, and touched not at all on the deeper, more
nuanced qualities so common to such decisions in Texas.
Taste Is Beside the Point
Having flattered Texas motives, I confess, my sense of taste is often

offended by some misguided expressions of Texas heritage. Huge,
stainless steel lawn ornaments of rearing mustangs rush to mind, as do
clumsy handbags in the shape of ornate saddles or excessively tight
Wranglers (on the wrong person) or silky fringed shirts or many other
variations on such themes. Yet because Texas has a different point of
reference from my home state and most of the rest of the country, I
seldom let questions of taste get in the way. They are effectively beside
the point. This is not the case in New York, Ohio, California, anywhere
else in the country. People in these and other locations show no desire
to evoke a heritage or to make a physical expression of personal
commitment. Their ridiculous lawn ornaments, fagades, and fashio
statements speak almost purely to personal theatrics and a desire to call
attention to themselves. There is, of course, much of this vanity in
Texas, too. But there, mostly, I sense a sincere, if sometimes misguided
effort to evoke heritage, and that makes me less likely to judge.
I have the same indulgent response when Texans try in other ways
to live out this link to the past. One is the remarkable practice of
commissioning art for themselves. Texans are the only folks I know
who still indulge in this nineteenth-century practice. To be sure,
wealthy individuals, foundations, and corporations elsewhere occa-

sionally commission art. But when the Guggenheims, for instance,
contracted with Jackson Pollack, it had less of the spirit of the past than
when individual Texans have painters do portraits of their family or,
more likely, a favorite spot on "the ranch." Good artists as well as the
second rate make fine livings by rendering in oils or watercolors a
favorite grove or creek, usually from a photograph. My real estate
developer friend married a woman who does a brisk business in such
commissions. To my eye, Andrea Mathis is a skillful and insightful
artist. She renders her work in a current, sophisticated style, despite the
nineteenth-century roots of her business. She respects her art and works
hard at it for that reason but also because she knows, intuitively at least,
that her work is an affirmation of her patrons' passion for the state, its
life, and their commitment to it. Even much lesser material than she
produces, even some pretty poor stuff still carries these admirable
sentiments, and so, as with rearing mustangs and tight jeans, once the
purpose becomes clear, even poor stuff can evoke a sympathetic, if not
quite an enthusiastic response.
The quintessential effort to connect to the state and its heritage
comes ultimately, of course, through the quintessential Texas activity,
ranching. And the impulse for Texans to make the connection is
widespread. Everyone in the state who can, it seems, buys enough land
at least to think of themselves as a rancher. Oil billionaires feel a need
to acquire the identity of cattleman and, if they can, cattle baron. It is not
just the very wealthy, either. I am amazed each time I go to Texas how
many people have ranches or country getaways. Some have time and
money to raise cattle. Others emphasize hunting or fishing. If they
cannot support a herd of their own, they lease their land for grazing so
that the critical cattle at least have a presence. Though on the surface this
common Texas picture might resemble the equally common American
practice of reinventing oneself, it is at base very different. Most in this
country who try to reinvent their personal image aim at some level to
deceive, to claim a heritage different from their own, a background or
a status that they really do not have. While some world-be Texas
ranchers do the same, most are happy to be the ex-oil man, lawyer, or
banker. Their focus is more on Texas than on themselves, and even for
those outsiders who hate ranching, that effort is much more attractive
and noble than the vain pose so common among the self-inventors.
Interest in the Wider World
Even as this passion for the state's heritage takes Texans up to the hills,
into the pine trees, and out on the prairies, it also inspires a greater
interest in the wider world than many Americans have. The difference
is evident even in the response to my poor joke. The Texans cared who
was central and who thought they were central, an interest that carried
their thoughts outside their state. The New Yorkers refused even to look
south and west. Most Americans, like my New York friends, tend to
keep their focus close to home. Either they believe, erroneously like the
New Yorkers, that they are the unquestioned center, or they just do not
care, believing that they should mind their own business in their corner
of the world. While there is a certain puritan charm to this rather humble
view, it hardly encourages an interest in things and opinions outside
people's immediate circle, much less outside their state. Not so in
Texas. I seldom have met an educated Texan who misses a broader
interest. His focus often skips art and literature, but it almost always
embraces politics, economics, and society. Occasionally, I meet Texans
who lack an interest in things outside their small circle, but much less
frequently than elsewhere. Even in some supposedly sophisticated
settings around the country, I often meet otherwise well-educated
people, professionals, who seem almost bored with such broader issues
and sometimes even are offended by such subjects. Quite the contrary
to popular belief, these folks are rarer in Texas than elsewhere, not more
common.
Of course, other factors contribute to this interest in the world.
Geography, climate, topography surely matter, too. Californians, sit-
ting amidst their perfect weather on the far side of the Sierra Madres,
must face a great temptation to banish the rest of the troubled world. So,
too, those who have found salvation in the unspoiled mountain fastness
of the Colorado Rockies might want to ignore the troubled flatland.
Less dramatic strongholds in the South, in Ohio, New Hampshire, and
elsewhere, also breed insular attitudes. But Texas has no natural barrier
to rest of the country, no high Sierras. Much is flat prairie. People there
can see others coming for a long way and also see no natural barrier to
their advance. California's coast faces the seemingly endless Pacific,
whereas the Texas coast faces the Gulf of Mexico in general and New
Orleans in particular. There is no hiding from the outside world in that
neighborhood. Neither can anyone ask for sanctuary in Texas weather.
Much as Texans love their state and praise its every feature, few can
deny that the breath of hell sweeps across the place in summer, or that
Texas is afflicted by dust storms, stifling humidity in the south and ea
and great winter cold in the north and west. In that harsh open space
there is little to tempt Texans to turn inward for sanctuary from the
world outside.
Economics surely plays a role as well. Texans know better than
most that their prosperity depends on events around the world. Though
the Lone Star State today enjoys commerce in diverse industries, its
heritage ties the state's prosperity to agriculture and oil, commodities
whose prices are set by a world market. Even the most remote commu-
nity has long had the sense that prosperity depends at least in part on the
decisions of the Saudi royal family, gas discoveries in Siberia, and the
next meeting in Vienna of the berobed members of the Organization of
Petroleum Exporting Countries. Texans know that the price of beef
hinges as much on what happens in Argentina and Australia as at home.
Other Americans have greater opportunities to hide from their inevi-
table and uncomfortable vulnerability to the world. California's iden-
tification with high technology surely leads its citizens to believe that
the state's fate lies in its ideas and innovations more than in outside
events. Hollywood can claim that success lies only in its talent. New
York's financial orientation prevents the same degree of self-deception
as California enjoys, but the fashion industry allows itself to believe
that taste and imagination alone will do the job. Of course, much
success does lie in the particular inventiveness of a firm or individual,
in Texas as well as other places. But nothing can fully insulate anyone
these days, and Texas's heritage drives that point home to its citizens
more thoroughly than do habits of thought in other regions of the
country. The interests of its citizens follow that insight.
For all the economics and geography, however, I find most inter-
esting the way the Texas sense of heritage opens people there to the
outside world. A keen need to assert their own unique legacy reminds
each Texan that others possess different legacies with their own,
alternative perspectives and values. Texans assume that others will see
things differently. Their search for these differences and ways to bridge
them keeps up their interest in outsiders. By contrast, people elsewhere
in the States, lacking such a keen sense of their own heritage, tend to see
people as pretty much the same the world over. Kidding themselves that
with little effort they could reach understanding with others, even in
distant places, they see little need to wonder what those people might
think, except, perhaps, to gratify a mild curiosity. While Texans
habitually press me on the perspective in New York or wherever else

I travel, others seem not to care. Of course there is nothing inherently
wrong with insularity. Neither does decency require an interest in
foreign affairs or larger issues. As Milton said, "They also serve who
only stand and wait." But when I look for appealing people, I find
interest to be interesting, and I find such people generally more
common in Texas than elsewhere.
An Aggressive Faith in the Future
All this passion and interest comes with the aggressive, almost
domineering personality for which Texans, both the men and the
women, are famous. The Texas style can come across not just as strong
and opinionated but also as loud and vulgar, even for New Yorkers, for
whom loud and vulgar is a way of life. Even Las Vegas, where vulgarity
is an art form, cannot always stand up to Texas. Once in Vegas, I saw
a group of Texans get so loud and rambunctious that the casino
management asked them to either quiet down or leave. I have never seen
anyone in Vegas ever ask anyone to be quiet. I would have thought no
noise too loud, no action too gross for a casino management. But the
Texans found it. That kind of volume can certainly irritate outsiders, as
can the domineering personality that goes with it, but, as with so many
other Texas vices, I find myself smiling and cutting the Texans more
slack than I would another, than I would a fellow New Yorker.
Part of my willingness to set irritation aside comes, I am sure, from
what I see as the reasons behind the loudness. With New Yorkers, and
I guess others, I associate volume and vulgarity with bullying. I sense
a malicious quality, a desire to humiliate, to assert that their group is
more important than others. With loud Texans, there is, of course, a
disregard of others, but their loudness, even the domineering seems to
lack that element of bullying, much less the malice or desire to
humiliate that I see elsewhere. Instead, I sense an almost boyish
exuberance, a willingness to take on the world, to make a difference,
even if it means inconveniencing and irritating a few people. My
predisposition about Texas vulgarity surely stems from the many
instances when Texans have shown a blithe willingness, even an
eagerness to take on the sometimes impressive risks associated with
their exuberance and aggressiveness, something I do not see so fre-
quently in my fellow New Yorkers, especially the louder, more vulgar
ones.
Of course, there is little risk to whooping in a Vegas casino, but the

business equivalent of that brashness, the enthusiasm for new and
sometimes outlandish ventures, does often involve considerable risk,
one that Texans seem to shoulder more readily than most others. Tom
Wolfe, author of Bonfire ofthe Vanities andA Man in Full, captured this
quality in some remarks he made recently about people and money. He
contrasted New Yorkers with Atlanta developers, but his remarks could
as easily apply to Texans. Give a New Yorker $3 million, he said, and
he will think about putting much of it into municipal bonds in order to
secure a tax-free income for life. Give $3 million to a developer, he
said-and I would insist this applies to Texans in spades-and he
dreams of borrowing $40 million against it to do something really
This kind confidence, self-assurance, and, yes, guts has to inspire
admiration on at least some levels, positive feelings that wipe away
much of the surface irritation with the brash and domineering manner.
Against this Texas reputation, those loud fellows in Vegas seem to lose
their vulgarity and take in its place the character of men who dare do
what others will not. They probably deserved to get put out of the
casino, but this lover of quiet could only smile.
Even the Anglo-Indian poet Rudyard Kipling paid homage to this
irritating and positive quality. His poem "If' does not mention Texas,
but it does in its third and fourth stanzas say in part:
If you can make a heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.
And which is more-you'll be a man, my son!
Perhaps only those of us with vestiges of Kipling's Victorian ideals

can appreciate such qualities. But then perhaps, like so much in Texas,
this strange mix of qualities also finds its roots in the state's nineteenth-
century founding. After all, those founding settlers, cattlemen, and
cowboys showed in the extreme the same willingness to stake all on a
single round. By comparison to the pioneers, of course, even the most
daring of today's businessmen and women take hardly any risk at all.
But within this admittedly limited modem context, Texans behave
more like those historic characters than do most others. Take the Hunt
brothers, for example. Fabulously wealthy, they staked all or a good

deal of their huge fortune on a failed attempt some years ago to corner
the silver market. Their plan was so greedy that it offended even Wall
Street. Yet at the same time, the boldness of the scheme, the Hunts'
willingness to put so much on the line, also evoked awe and admiration.
That eagerness to plunge forward seemingly heedless of risk is espe-
cially unusual in the wealthy. In most other places, they prefer to protect
the bulk of what they have, even if it means missing a chance to do
something big.
The popularity of the character J. R. Ewing in the 1980s soap opera
Dallas speaks loudly to the widespread attractiveness of this otherwise
repulsive quality. Larry Hagman did an exquisite job of playing an
aggressive man, selfish, domineering, headstrong, vulgar, not at all
likable, and yet somehow admirable, at least on some levels. The
show' s viewers considered J. R. attractive despite all his vices. Accord-
ing to the popular surveys of the time, the character exuded sex appeal,
not for his looks or his money, but for his personal power and the
willingness to bet big on his ideas (and, yes, his appetites.) He may not
have been a nice guy. He certainly was not kind or refined. But no one
would fault Ewing for a lack of courage or vision. No one could call him
weak or vacillating. The show' s remarkable success around the county,
indeed the world, spoke loudly to the vast numbers who appreciated the
quintessential Texas qualities built into this character.
More than just guts and vision, something else makes all that
otherwise offensive aggressiveness tolerable and even appealing: good
or bad, tasteful or not, the outrageous scope and size of these Texas
schemes and their associated risks embody an admirable and remark-
able faith in the future. Only a wildly more prosperous future can
deliver the payoffs necessary to justify Texas-sized gambles. New
Yorkers and others tend to take a conservative view of the future,
especially where money is concerned. They assess whether more
moderate returns warrant taking the regrettable but unavoidable risks.
Texans, by contrast, seem to fix on the huge potential returns and
embrace the risk eagerly as a means to them. Even cynics, who might
describe the optimistic Texas attitudes as naive, must envy the confi-
dence behind their huge gambles, though I doubt the New York cynics,
at least, would openly admit to their admiration. What is more, all those
more cautious people must suspect that the Texas willingness to take
huge risks has helped create the great wealth for which the state is
famous. Even J. R. Ewing's mercenary schemes spoke to his faith in a
more prosperous future, while his willingness to take huge risks helped
bring that bigger future into being.
Maybe this aggressive faith also explains the incongruous Texas
passion for high school football. Of course, America generally loves
football. Places as different as Denver, Tampa, New York, Boston, and
San Francisco all produce loyal and, at times, fanatical fans. Texans
enjoy their professional and college teams as much as any. But only
Texans extend this football passion to the high school game. They
lavish love, money, and lots of time on it. Only Texas televises high
school games and writes about them outside the local newspaper. It
seems strange in a place that otherwise prefers the large and well
financed over the small and poorly financed. The only explanation is
this other Texas passion, which impels an aggressive (which high
school football surely is) pursuit of the future; the future is what high
school players, good as they may be for high school kids, are really all
about. As much as Texans love their big professional and college teams,
the high school game glimpses this other important element of their
essential character.
Religion Texas Style
This aggressive faith in the future has a parallel in the state's robust and
open religious life. It takes no more than casual observation to see the
prominent role of religion in Texas. Most of the rest of the nation,
outside the deep South, tends to associate religion in Texas with
fundamentalist Christianity. Their assessment is much too narrow.
Texas has plenty of fundamentalists, to be sure, but there are also many
Evangelicals, Roman Catholics, Orthodox, main-line Protestants, the
list goes on. Each has a prominent place in its adherents' lives and
minds, more visible if not more treasured than is generally the case
elsewhere in the county, except perhaps the deep South. Texans claim
an active religious affiliation much more frequently than Americans in
general, and especially those on the West Coast and in the Northeast
(some surveys suggest three or five times more frequently). In Texas,
God, Jesus, and the church extend outside the confines of their sometimes
huge buildings. It is no coincidence, surely, that Texas has given the
nation its most explicitly religious president in many years. Most
Americans try to avoid the topic of religion in everyday life. Especially
in the Northeast and California, people speak of religious matters in
guarded tones, as if they were walking on eggs. In Texas, people will
allude to church the way their New York and California counterparts
talk about home-improvement projects, little league, and their vacation
plans. They will point out their church building to you, if you happen
to drive by it.
I cannot help but believe that this forceful religious life feeds into
and is fed by the state's remarkable secular faith in the future. In saying
this, I do not suggest in any way that Texas religious faith is false. On
the contrary, to my experience it is fervent and genuine. My point is
simply that the predisposition toward hope in the future fits well with
the Christian belief in a benevolent providence. When these beliefs
exist together, as they do in Texas, they surely reinforce each other.
That was certainly the case in nineteenth-century America, where a
strong secular faith in the future and a fervent Christianity fed off each
other, fostering a remarkable willingness among the population to work
hard for that future. Perhaps, as in nineteenth-century America, the
obvious Texas faith in the future grows out of the deep religious
convictions of the state's citizens. Maybe the causality runs the other
way. It is pointless to try to guess which came first, for Texas today or
for historic America. The point is that the parallel strengths of these
convictions help distinguish Texas character from the rest of the
country in yet another remarkable way.
Surely the strong religious nature also warms the state's welcoming
nature. If one is religious, especially Christian, as the vast majority of
Texans are, then one's own creed demands a consideration of God's
other creatures. Add this Christian respect for community to the already
extreme Texas embrace of the classic American ethic, and you have a
tremendous force to pull in outsiders, and yes, convert them, not to
Christianity but to Texas values. Today's Texans, most of them at least,
are too sophisticated to press a religious conversion on outsiders. But
the impulse is there in their beliefs nonetheless. Gaining some positive
response for the secular aspects of the state and its way of life gratifies
some of this religious impulse, albeit in an oblique way, even as it
provides a welcome verification of its parallel secular faith in Texas
values. Of course, an embrace of otherwise welcoming religious beliefs
is no assurance that a society will actually practice them. In many places
and many eras, benevolent religious rhetoric has coexisted with great
bigotry and cruelty. But that does not seem to be the case in the state
today. On the contrary, the adoption of a welcoming Christian creed
seems to reinforce the already great secular predisposition to bring
outsiders into the fold.
Just as surely as a common belief in Christian brotherhood and

sisterhood helps make Texas more welcoming, the active religious life
in Texas also moderates the state's other more aggressive and abrasive
traits, especially that domineering spirit and will to win that could
otherwise turn Texas sports and Texas business unbearably harsh.
Earlier I gave the example of high school football. Surely Texas
religiosity does much to inject a noble purpose there and moderate the
harsher aspects of the lust for victory. In business, this spirit of
benevolence turns what could be a vicious world into one of the most
cordial and pleasant commercial environments I have ever experi-
enced. The secular faith in a brighter future helps here, too. After all, if
the pie is growing, business competitors need not destroy each other to
get more.
Only through these larger religious and secular influences can I
explain some remarkable Texas business customs, in particular, the
tendency for competitors to socialize with one another. They gather not
just at the golf club or such spots. That happens all over the country. In
Texas, competitors actually gather in business settings. Even some-
thing as nationally organized as the investment business, where I make
my living, adopts this unique quality in Texas. Only there, for instance,
will brokers from Merrill Lynch, Smith Barney, UBS, A.G. Edwards,
and others go out as a group to interact, say, with an independent
researcher. My Houston rodeo outing included representatives from
several competing firms. I have never seen this kind of behavior
anywhere else, and I have done business all over the world. In New
York, California, Europe, Asia, anywhere else, such mixes as I enjoyed
that evening in Houston would be impossible. The Merrill boys would
meet with the researcher, then the UBS guys, and so on, each gathering
arranged separately. Each group justifies the separation on the grounds
that the competition ought not see its insight. But really, it is just that
competitors are uncomfortable with each other in such a setting. I have
to believe that it is the Texas sense of community-both religious and
secular-that allows the easy mixing and that creates yet another
marvelous crosscurrent in the already heavily nuanced Texas character.
Texas is a highly popular target for stereotyping, though it should be

clear by now that few places are less susceptible in reality to such two-
dimensional characterizations. For every impulse pulling one way,
the Texas character offers a counterforce pulling another. For every
aggressive drive, there is something equally powerful to temporize.

The seemingly contradictory mix exists not just among the citizens of
the state, but, it seems, within each of them. As stated at the start of this
essay, such contradictions arise in all peoples, living in all places. The
fascination with Texas comes from their sheer number and intensity. A
balance emerges in most Texans, not from indecision or a lack of caring
but through the interplay of powerful opposing passions. Little wonder
so many Asians, Europeans, New Yorkers, and other Americans,
though perhaps content with their own lives and cultures, still cannot
resist the allure, the fascination of the Lone Star State.

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Just What Is It about Texas?

Author(s): Milton Ezrati

1No one, it seems, is ever neutral about Texas. Pro or co

is wrong." Heartier laughter followed. I smiled, winked, and we went

Crockett at the Alamo, Again

I hate to admit it, but the archetype of much of this wonderfully

An Almost Religious Conversion

It is little wonder, then, that Steinback saw something religious in what

Texans a single-mindedness of purpose and strong notions about how

Prejudice and Diversity

Neither these examples nor my more general comments mean to

vowed to value personal merit over the circumstance of birth, Texans'

A Passion for Greatness

The abiding nature of this passion came home to me recently while

the 1820s, it deserved special consideration. Our small group of

Taste Is Beside the Point

Having flattered Texas motives, I confess, my sense of taste is often

wealthy individuals, foundations, and corporations elsewhere occa-

Interest in the Wider World

habitually press me on the perspective in New York or wherever else

An Aggressive Faith in the Future

Of course, there is little risk to whooping in a Vegas casino, but the

If you can make a heap of all your winnings

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

Perhaps only those of us with vestiges of Kipling's Victorian ideals

brothers, for example. Fabulously wealthy, they staked all or a good

Religion Texas Style

Just as surely as a common belief in Christian brotherhood and

Texas is a highly popular target for stereotyping, though it should be

aggressive drive, there is something equally powerful to temporize.

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