The Stranger

Editors’ note: The opinions and ideas expressed in The Accidental Gentrifist are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook and belief of anyone else in the Ist network.
It happened again last night. A new acquaintance practically bent over backwards to relate that she’s one of the few people in Austin who’re actually ‘from’ here. As if to differentiate some difference in status, some kind of otherness. Specifically, that the otherness ...is me.
Sorry. Sorry I’ve only lived here for a decade. Sorry I was born in Houston. Sorry I grew up in the chilly afternoons and fog-swept hills of Northern California. Don’t blame me, blame the U.S. Navy. After all, it was the Navy that had the distinct lack of decency to deposit my father, a native Texan newly loosed from Vietnam, on the godforsaken shores of California. In the same city, it turned out, as a pizza waitress who would become my mom. (I know, I know. And you thought they were only cruel in Cambodia.)
Only on this, the twelfth or thirteenth occasion of coming face to face with this a priori postulation, does it occur to that there’s some kind of breakdown in logic going on here. As in, I made an effort to move here, whereas the people who claim to be native—well, they just fell out of their moms’ vaginas. Now, I realize the tech industry and a large university have helped attract a large and most welcome influx from the subcontinent, but I’m just not willing to adopt a caste system, not yet. Not even one that keeps it weird, or clarifies seating arrangements on the hypothetical light rail. So, again: Sorry. Unless you’re Lipan Apache, or a grackle, you really can’t claim birthright.
And I’ve heard your stories about Liberty Lunch and Janis Joplin and when the cops used to be cool… they’re just as boring as when they were about Berkeley Square, or Haight-Ashbury, or when a lid of Chico sticky was $10. I’ll recognize that you had a great time in a place that no longer exists, if you’ll please recognize that what you’re nostalgic for isn’t a venue, but your youth. Sometimes, sadly, you just can’t go home again. Austin will get bigger. Strangers will move here. There will be a building named ‘Austonian’. Life, including the parts you truly love, is fleeting. Maybe el Niño or a few earthquakes would help drive this point home.
I’ll admit it, I used to play ball. My great-grandparents owned the old hardware store in downtown Austin, since before the First Boer War, appropriately enough. They had one of the city’s first telephones and lived katty-corner from the Hoggs. So when some native used to try to punk me, I’d trot that little factoid out. To curry favor and a sense of fraternity, I suppose. But no longer. Now, when people ask me where I’m from, I’ll obviate some of the truth, and truncate the rest: I’ll say, “California!” like, totally super loud!
Ironically, some of these same Texan ancestors of mine left to start a new city in California, one they named after themselves. You may know of the Circle Jerks’ song “Firebaugh.” As in, “If your car breaks down, don't take a tow to Firebaugh” … because it’s a dystopian wasteland of violence, racism, alcoholism—and yet—boredom. Oh, what hath Texas wrought?
And sure, since you mention it, I am a little sensitive to the whole ‘Californians are flocking here, buying up real estate and homogenizing local culture’ ideology. Because it’s just not true. It’s a generalization. A stereotype that’s more reflective of your own fear and ignorance than any actual phenomenon. About as on-beam as saying gypsies steal children, or that Jews need the blood of Christian virgins, otherwise the matzoh comes out all doughy. Or that Mexicans are leprocidal wage invaders. Or maybe you’re right-on. Maybe we’re on the verge of a massive wave of people uprooting from Santa Cruz and Marin and Santa Barbara, spontaneously deciding to give up six-figure jobs, valley produce, seven months of skiing, and an Eden-like coastline—in order to live in a hot-as-seven-hells, ocean-less city surrounded by Republicans, with scant options for decent Italian food, and where the word queso doesn’t actually mean ‘cheese.’ But Lord, do we have football. And music. And healthy, pretty, friendly people... rare enough for a place with both good football and good music. My point is, you're not going to get on the boat unless you're already on board, so to speak.
And, like Haley Joel Osment, I see dead people. I see them queuing up at The Oasis instead of Dry Creek Saloon. I see them in burnt-orange knit shirts tucked into Dockers, I see them with cell phones clipped to woven leather belts like flaccid pistols. I see them drinking Shiner and Ziegenbock instead of Live Oak. I hear them blasting the ‘new’ Metallica album instead of Doug Sahm, Scott Biram, or even Spoon, as they pilot their Mercedes convertible… down the bike lane. I see them backing their Chevy Tahoes into the fenders of bumper-stickered old Volvos. I see them not tipping in coffee shops. I see them vote for The Hair in lieu of Kinky. (I see myself now engaging in the same native Culture Police snobbery I’ve come to miss when I go home for the holidays.) These people … are from Texas. While not everyone who emigrated from California is cool, most of us came here to embrace local customs and eschew homogenous national culture. We want to buy local. We want to drink beer in a movie theatre. Basically, we want to be here, because we want to be here. So back off if we want to own instead of rent. Nobody who really likes Austin wants it to slip through their fingers, and there is no newspaper quiz or birth certificate or genetic strain that can determine who actually appreciates this city. My oldest Austin roots are now tombstones and dust, a quality we'll all share soon enough.
So please, Austinites native and non, realize that your xenophobia is beneath you. Besides, discriminating against someone because of where they’re from hasn’t worked out so well for us as a species. Let’s truly embrace all forms of diversity, and give émigré Californians the benefit of the doubt… unless of course they’re from Southern California, in which case I advise you to burn them at the stake.
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