On my way home to New Mexico after a long semester, I’ve finally had that experience shared by every resident of the state…

While finishing my breakfast at the Ramada Inn at Oklahoma City, an older cowboy type struts into the breakfast area, stares at me, and then sits down at my end of the table. He proceeds to spit the following dialogue out of the corner of his mouth, as if either he is honor bound to be stingy with his words or he enjoys a little chew with his croissant.

Cowboy: And Wht prt of the wrld you frm? [He did not see fit to use many vowels]

Me: New Mexico.

Cowboy: That right. You born there?

Me: Yes. [I lied. I’ve found that revealing your New Jersey origins in most of the United States has worse effects than revealing you are a U.S. citizen in snootier parts of the world].

Cowboy [eyes narrowing]: That right.

Me: Yes. Where are you from?

Cowboy [lips pursing]: Dntn. You goin bck there?

Me: Yes. It’s pretty country.

Cowboy: I was in your country 2 years ago. Might have been pretty once, but now its run by drug cartels. You planning on staying here?

Me: Um, yeah. I don’t need a green card though. Excuse me, but I need to go home to see my niňos tonight.

I hightailed it out of the Ramada Inn, wondering what this dude would have thought of my two blonde Spanish-speaking kids. To his credit, at least the cowboy wasn’t racially profiling me (or if he was, it was extremely unconventional). And thankfully, the passport and customs line on the Texas/New Mexico border was short. 

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