Facebook Is Offline In West Texas (Short Story)
Tesla: Three Weeks From Zero (Short Story)
I arrived in West Texas armed with exactly two reference points:
I had lived in Kentucky for a few years.
I thought I knew what racism looked like.
This turned out to be like saying you’ve swum in a hotel pool and therefore understand the Pacific Ocean.
1. The Welcome Committee
The first man I met shook my hand for so long I began to suspect he was testing my grip strength for livestock purposes.
“So where you from?” he asked.
“Kentucky.”
He nodded slowly, as if filing paperwork in his soul.
“And before that?”
“New Jersey.”
He nodded faster now.
“And before that?”
I realized West Texas did not believe in origin stories that stopped at the state level. This was genealogy with a lie detector.
“Well,” I said, “my parents—”
He interrupted. “No, no. I mean… originally.”
This was my first lesson: in West Texas, everyone believes they are asking a neutral question while holding a loaded one behind their back.
2. Church: Where Jesus Loves Everyone (Terms and Conditions Apply)
Church was friendly. Excessively friendly. The kind of friendly where people smile with their mouths but squint with their ancestry.
A woman hugged me like I was a long-lost cousin and said,
“We’re so glad you’re here. We don’t see many… new faces.”
Another leaned in during prayer time and whispered,
“Don’t worry, honey. We don’t see color.”
This was said loudly. During prayer. While directly seeing color.
The pastor preached about love, unity, and how Jesus welcomed everyone—then seamlessly transitioned into a sermon about “protecting our way of life” from “outside influences,” which apparently included:
immigrants
cities
colleges
tofu
and something called “coastal thinking,” which I assume is when thoughts come with an ocean breeze.
After service, a man clapped me on the back.
“You’re one of the good ones,” he said warmly, like he’d just awarded me Employee of the Month for my entire race.
3. The Park: Diversity, But Only Accidentally
At the park, parents watched their kids like hawks trained specifically to spot difference.
One woman smiled at me nervously while her child played near mine.
“So… what do you do?”
“I work in tech.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Oh! I thought you were—well. Never mind.”
A man jogging past nodded and said,
“Great day, huh?”
I nodded back.
He slowed down.
“Just curious—what do you think about all this stuff going on in the country?”
“What stuff?”
He squinted.
“You know. Stuff.”
In West Texas, “stuff” is a personality test.
4. The Golf Club: Polite Segregation with Collared Shirts
At the golf club, racism wore khakis and spoke in indoor voices.
A man complimented my swing and said,
“You play real well. Didn’t expect that.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, you know.” He laughed. “Just didn’t.”
Another guy asked where I learned to golf.
“Public course.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Well, you’re doing great considering.”
Considering what was left hanging in the air like a Confederate ghost.
The clubhouse TV played sports, then news, then suddenly everyone remembered they had opinions.
One man said,
“I’m not racist, but—”
Everyone leaned in. This was the keynote address.
5. The Party Invitation (or: The Soft Disqualification)
The party invite came with enthusiasm.
“You should come! We’d love to have you.”
Pause.
“I mean, it’s mostly family.”
Pause.
“And church folks.”
Pause.
“And, uh… you might feel more comfortable bringing someone… like you.”
I thanked him for his concern about my comfort while marveling at how uncomfortable he was.
Another invitation included helpful guidance:
“Just a heads up, some people might ask questions. They don’t mean anything by it.”
In West Texas, this translates to: Brace yourself.
6. Kentucky vs. West Texas: A Scientific Comparison
Kentucky racism had been subtle. Quiet. Like a dog that growls but stays on the porch.
West Texas racism was a marching band. Loud. Cheerful. Convinced it was being hospitable.
Kentucky would whisper,
“Well, bless your heart.”
West Texas would grin and say,
“We love everybody—long as they know how things work around here.”
7. The Final Realization
Eventually, I understood: this wasn’t hatred so much as certainty.
Certainty that the world had a proper order.
Certainty that deviation required explanation.
Certainty that curiosity was kindness.
They weren’t trying to exclude me.
They were trying to locate me.
And when they couldn’t quite figure out where I fit, they smiled politely, invited me to church, and waited patiently for me to become easier to understand.
Which, in West Texas, is the funniest joke of all.
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