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Written wisdom: Don’t mess with Texas, because it is the Bestas (better than the Restas)!

“Look! Texas!” I exclaimed in Whole Foods, pointing at the poster in the local grocery store. “Emily,” my mother ever so gently reminded me, “you’re not from Texas.”

And this is true. In fact, with the exception of a brief stint in Canada, I’ve never been in anything but an Empire State of Mind (thanks, Jay-Z). But so help me, I love Texas. Or rather, I love Texans.

No, I do not live there, and no, I don’t think I ever could/would (um, you really really need to know how to drive there). But I get along freakishly well with Texans. Consider the evidence.

• The summer after sophomore year of high school, I went to a four week program at Columbia for high schoolers. And in my suite there lived a Texan. With whom I am still friends, four years later.
• My suite-mate/sistah from another mistah (strictly figuratively) at school? Texan. One of two on the opinion staff.
• That intern last summer who actually understood my obscure pop culture references? Texan (why he was working in a NYS Senator’s office, I’m still not sure). 
• The one person on my hall last summer I actually spoke to? Texan.
• The first female Supreme Court Justice? A Republican senator who actually supports Roe v. Wade and wrote a book on great women in history? Spec’s design editor? All. Texan.
• No, Bush doesn’t count. He went to prep school and college in Connecticut and was raised by Yankees, and why people weren’t able to see through that I’m not sure. Laura Bush, however, is Texan. And she’s pro-choice and pro gay marriage.

I’m not saying that all Texans are wonderful people. And this may only apply to Texans who make it out of Texas (though my Texan friends’ friends are quite lovely, too). And no, this doesn’t excuse the fact that the Texas Board of Education is banning textbooks/history/knowledge. But! Don’t let ‘em mess with you, Texas. You are the Lone Star in my heart.