In this story, I try to imagine how an old school Texan might help some of our young, misguided youth see that there could be better way to make a point instead of hollering and screaming and being mad at the world all the time. I hope you enjoy the story.
Old School Texas Tough - Never Beaten
By: Larry B. Litton Jr.
Old school Texas tough. Never beaten. That’s the six-word story I wrote about my father during my freshman year at Harvard University. My green haired English professor told me it was good, but that she found southern men too parochial. I told her I found green haired women unreasonable and disagreeable. She changed my grade to a D- and filed a complaint against me to the office of Equity and Inclusion. I guess it’s ok for her to share her opinion but not for me to share mine. When my dad warned me that Ivy League schools were now toxic cesspools of evil little second graders trapped in twenty-year-old bodies who would hate every single thing I thought was good and right, I scoffed and said he was exaggerating. But as usual, he was exactly right. I was only one of a few Texans who got into Harvard last year and the only one who wore a cowboy hat around campus. On the third day of school someone filed a report against me complaining about my hat being offensive. When I asked the pink haired student resource counselor with a bone in her nose what could possibly be offensive about a cowboy hat, she said some students were triggered by it because it conjured visions of guns and shootouts and reminded them of southern racism and the patriarchy.
“Has anyone ever complained about men in double breasted suits?” I asked her.
“Of course not,” she said. “Why would you even ask such a stupid question.”
“Given the history of the mob up here, when I see a man in a suit, it conjures images of mob hits, and it reminds me of how poorly they treated women.” She filed a complaint against me for harassment the next day. I found the irony deliciously hilarious.
My dad told me that I may be smart enough to get into Harvard, but that I was way too smart to stay, and that the silliness of smart rich kids and new age, tenured professors would be more than I could stand. I went to Harvard wanting to become a lawyer and in the first year all I’ve learned is how evil and racist the patriarchy is, and that men can menstruate and have babies. I’ve personally never met a dude who could do that, but Harvard apparently has a bunch of them. When I asked my biology professor how it is that ten years ago there wasn’t a single menstruating man at Harvard and now there’s a couple dozen of them, he acted offended.
“Why would you ask such an offensive question Travis?” he asked.
“I would think this would be documented as a medical miracle” I said. “The fact a man can now have a baby ranks right up there with the virgin birth. Why hasn’t the scientist who accomplished this amazing feat gotten the Nobel prize?” It turns out of course that no scientist accomplished such a miraculous transformation and my professor admitted as much and then filed a complaint against me for daring to question this new biological reality. The dean put me on probation and said I’m the first student at Harvard to manage to get three complaints in his first semester. They said one more strike and I’d have to go before the review board. I’m on a roll – my father would be proud.
The political activists run this place. They are literally everywhere, whether they’re students or faculty, and the kids who just want to get an education are too afraid to speak out against all the silliness. What I’ve learned about activists is that they’re like vampires, only much worse. A vampire sucks your blood, but an activist sucks out your soul. They destroy everything, leaving only a miserable, joyless world in their wake. I think if you asked the average guy or gal if they’d rather have a one-hour meeting with a political activist or an hour-long anal exam, they’d all quickly bend over and spread their cheeks.
So, with Christmas break here, I’ve been looking forward to heading back to Texas with my girlfriend to see my mom and dad and to spend some time back in the world I grew up in. I managed to somehow find the most amazing girl up here at Harvard – she could very well be THE one. Who would have figured. Her name is Tanya and she’s from the upper west side of Manhattan, her father is a big-time corporate lawyer who works for Goldman Sachs, and she loves my accent, my boots, and my hat. She’s the most rational, sane person I’ve ever met and she’s sweet in a way that reminds me a little of my mom. I think I’m in love with her.
We booked the flight, and my parents were excited that we’re coming down for Christmas. I gave Tanya the rundown on my mom and dad. My mom is sixty years old; her name is Betty Lou and she came from a fourth generation blue collar Texas family and met my dad at a small Rodeo in Fort Worth. He was riding bulls she was barrel racing. She’s the iconic image of feminine Texas tough. She’s the ultimate lady, not afraid to speak her mind and utter the occasional curse word when she’s annoyed and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She carries herself with a degree of elegance and grace but without the airs. She makes the meanest brisket in the whole state and makes her own cornbread and she’s the deadliest shot with a rifle I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen her make a perfect six hundred yard shot with a rifle then she cleaned and quartered the deer herself. She is a badass.
Then I gave Tanya the rundown on my Dad. He’s a man of few words and when he speaks, he speaks slow and deliberate, as if every word is dripping with meaning. I know he gets angry, but the funny thing is I’ve rarely seen it. I asked him one time how he manages to control himself so well, and he said that men that act out of anger are fools. On the rodeo circuit he was known as ‘Ramblin’ Randy Chatham and he was a rodeo god. He’s sixty years old now, but in his day, he won eleven consecutive world bull riding championships. To see him ride a bull was truly something to behold. The image of him wearing his black, open crowned cowboy hat with black chaps and a red shirt with his name embroidered on the back is indelibly etched into my mind. He wore his hat low on his brow and his eyes were intense, like a storm was constantly raging in his mind. He walked with a gentle swagger, his shoulders back and head high and you could just tell he was cut from the granite that made a bull rider. Standing six foot two and about one hundred and eighty pounds, he was lean, with ropy muscles with large hands that were as strong as iron. He was a legend on the circuit and all the other cowboys would line the rail and never miss him ride. They’d hoot and holler and to see my dad on that bull was like watching raw poetry play out in real life. He didn’t just ride the bull – he danced with it. He rode with an elegant rhythm, always in perfect harmony with the bull. With one hand tucked firmly under the rope, and the other reaching out like he was waving to God, his rides were a creation of artistic perfection.
Tanya is excited to meet them.
We landed at Houston’s George Bush Airport around three o’clock on the twenty third and we rented a car and drove the hour and half over to Brenham where my family’s ranch is located. Tanya has never been to Texas and she’s already in love with the place. We stop at Buc-ees and get some fresh beef jerky and she’s mesmerized by the sheer size of the store and all the gas pumps and how nice the people are.
“Oh my God Travis,” she says to me. “There must be a hundred gas pumps here!” She gets some Beaver Nuggets and a coke and she’s in heaven. The lady at the register tells her that she loves Tanya’s accent and that she loves her boots and when Tanya told her this was her first time in Texas the lady gave her a hug.
“Is everybody here so friendly?” she asked me as we got in the car and started heading to the ranch.
“Most folks,” I said. “We’ve got our fair share of assholes, but they’re mainly in the cities.”
“How big is your parent’s ranch?” she asks.
“It’s small,” I say. “About seven hundred and fifty acres. Dad runs a couple hundred head of cattle.”
“Seven hundred and fifty acres is small?”
“By Texas standards it is,” I say.
“So, you grew up riding bulls?”
“I rode a few,” I said. “I wasn’t good at it like dad. I never got the feel for it. I was a better steer wrestler.”
We pass by some of the other ranches on the way to my dad’s place and she’s in awe of the rugged beauty of the landscape. The gentle rolling hills of the Brazos river valley are beautiful and covered with amber grass that has gone dormant for the winter. The cattle are grazing and many of the cows are pregnant and not too far from calving. Texas flags are everywhere, and she smiles when she sees barns painted to resemble the Texas flag.
“I’m surprised your dad let you even go up to Harvard,” she says.
“He didn’t love the idea,” I said. “But he was proud that I got in and he said I should give it a go. He said maybe a Texan can straighten out a thing or two up there.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes.
An hour later we make it to the ranch and drive up through the gate and up to the house. Mom and dad are sitting in rocking chairs out on the front porch, and they have a fire going in the outdoor fireplace. We park in the little gravel filled lot next to the driveway and mom comes down the steps. She’s dressed in a nice little red house dress with a shawl over her shoulders.
“Ya’ll made it,” she says, and she gives me a huge hug then immediately turns to Tanya as if she’s known her forever and embraces her.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says to Tanya. “Travis has told us so much about you.”
Tanya smiles and hugs my mom back and I can tell they are going to be thick as thieves. My dad comes down and he shakes my hand and embraces me in a bear hug then hugs Tanya and gives me the ok sign while he’s hugging her.
We had a wonderful evening. We ate dinner and mom showed Tanya the Christmas tree with all the personalized decorations she’s collected over the years and then we all get on the Polaris and dad tours her around the ranch showing off his prized bulls and the various pastures where we kept the horses and cattle. He tells Tanya all about the lifetime achievement award from the Texas Cattlemen’s Association he’s being given the next night in Houston. We stay up late drinking beer and mom shows Tanya a bunch of pictures from when I was a kid, and they are laughing and having a great time. Any doubts I have about Tanya are erased as I see how she interacts with my folks. They are as comfortable together as a pair of old shoes and I make the decision right there that I’m going to marry this girl someday.
The following evening, we drive into Houston to Texas Pride, the steakhouse where the Cattlemen event is being hosted near downtown Houston. It’s a sprawling building with a huge state of Texas sign on top lit up with green and red floodlights with a cowboy statue standing out in front carved from Bronze. The building is decorated in red Christmas lights and various elaborate Santa and reindeer displays are stationed out front and a beautiful nativity scene with life sized models are located near the door. Tanya’s mouth drops open with how stunning the building is decorated. There’s some kind of commotion near the front door. A group of about a dozen young people are gathered at the door and they’re holding various signs barring entry to the folks waiting to get in.
“What the hell is this?” my father mutters as we pull in.
Tanya looks over at me. We both know what’s going on. It’s a protest of some sort. We’ve seen plenty of them over the past year up in Boston. We don’t see near as many of these down in Texas.
Dad parks the car and we all get out and walk over to the front where all the folks are gathered. About a forty folks who are part of the Cattlemen association are waiting on the sidewalk. The protestors are chanting something about the evils of ranching, global warming, and the murder of livestock. A see a number of signs they’re holding; ‘Stop the murder of livestock,’ ‘I’m ME not MEAT’ with a picture of a cow, ‘Ranching is Evil.’
The protest is being led by a little fella dressed in jeans and a shirt that looks more like a blouse. He has a beard but looks like he’s wearing lipstick and maybe some rouge on his cheeks. A large, bald young man who has to be at least six foot six is standing next to him. He wears a muscle shirt and a scowl.
About twenty men in cowboy hats and their wives are waiting patiently on the sidewalk in front of the building. My dad walks up to a burly man with a long gray beard and a black hat.
“What’s all this Gerald?” my dad asks him.
“Seems like this PETA group don’t like us much,” Gerald said. “They ain’t letting us in and the staff inside is too afraid to come out. We called the cops but I doubt they’ll make it over here.”
“We’ll see about that,” my dad said. He walks over to the protestors, my mom tried to grab his hand but he gently brushed it away.
The large fella steps aggressively in front of my dad to stop him from reaching the door.
“What’s going on here?” my father asks.
The large guy doesn’t say anything but the little fella with the lipstick and beard steps forward.
“This place is closed this evening,” he says. “Your group needs to go somewhere else.”
My dad stays as calm as ever. Of course, there’s no police around, there never are when you think they might come in handy. The sad part is it’s unlikely they would have done anything even if they were there.
“I believe you’re mistaken son,” my dad says. “We have an event here this evening.”
The large young man barring the door steps towards my father.
“You just misgendered her,” the large fella screams.
Unfazed, my dad doesn’t move or even blink.
“Misgendered who?” my father asks.
“The woman standing in front of you.”
My dad looks at the little fella with the beard and the lipstick.
“I didn’t mean to,” my dad says just as calm as ever. “He’s got a beard.”
“You did it again,” and the big fella takes another aggressive step towards my father and Tanya grabs my hand and squeezes it.
The bearded guy puts a hand up to back the big fella off.
“Just go,” the little fella says. “We’re not letting anybody in. You’re going to have to go somewhere else tonight to eat.”
“I don’t think so,” my dad says. “I can appreciate that all you folks have something to say. But maybe you oughta find a way to say it that doesn’t inconvenience everybody else.”
The little fella with the beard looks around and for the first time it’s starting to dawn on him that maybe he picked the wrong place and wrong group for his protest. The group of cattlemen are standing patiently on the sidewalk behind my dad and his group has gathered closer to the door and all eyes are on the little guy and he shifts a little nervously on his feet.
Just when I thought that maybe the little fella had concluded that it might be best to just drop this little protest, he decides to draw a line in the sand, and he doubles down.
“We’re not backing down to a bunch of cisgendered white men,” he says. “You all need to leave now.”
The little crew with him erupts in cheers and they begin chanting something about the right of cows to live and the big fella glares at my father, trying to intimidate him.
My dad smiles.
“That may not be the most wise of decisions son,” my dad says.
The big fella erupts.
“That’s the third time!” he screams and lunges at my dad while throwing a wild roundhouse punch and the folks around the bearded fella gasp.
My dad sees the punch coming and deftly takes a small step back and the punch misses him by six inches. The big fella is off balance and has a surprised look on his face while wondering how the old man dodged him, leaving him punching nothing but air and his face is even more surprised when may dad kicks out his right boot connecting with his knee and the big guy falls to the pavement grimacing in pain.
My dad calmly kneels besides him, taking the time to straighten his cowboy hat.
“The problem with you young folks these days is you get all spun up about this or that cause, and you don’t give a thought as to what other people might think,” my dad says. He helps the big fella to his feet. “If you don’t want to eat meat, then don’t. But you can’t make other people stop just because you don’t like it.”
The bearded little fella is wide eyed and the others in his group look to be scared, not expecting a group of old boomers to put up any resistance. The big guy is staring at my dad with hate in his eyes.
“Why don’t you fellas go stand over there with your signs,” my dad says pointing to area on the side of the door. “Protest away. Just don’t interfere with those of us who want to go in.”
The big fella charges at my dad again when my dad turned slightly towards the door, and he gets in a sucker punch that lands on my dad’s jaw up near his lip. I start to step towards the big guy, but my mom holds me back. My dad smiles and he spits out a bit of blood. Everybody watches him in silence as he slowly removes his jacket.
“I guess you want to be ornery,” my dad says to the big fella. His voice is steady and calm as if he’s having a conversation with a child on a park bench. “I’ve got a bull that acts like that sometimes.”
He turns to the big guy and the big guy lunges at dad again throwing a wild punch and my dad again steps away at the last second and the punch misses by a mile.
“Your problem is you’ve never been properly disciplined,” my dad says.
The big guy throws another punch and this one also misses when dad ducks to the left.
“You all think what you have to say is so important that you have to shout at folks,” my dad says, slowly turning to follow the big guy as he continues to stalk around my dad. “Maybe if you tried being a gentleman, and being nice to people you’d get further. Why is it ya’ll seem so angry all the damn time?”
The guy comes in for another punch and my dad again anticipates it and the punch misses and my dad kicks him in the ass with his boot. The cattlemen all laugh, and the little fella is looking like he’s about to throw up.
The big guy charges my dad one final time throwing another roundhouse and my dad easily ducks and the punch misses and my dad jams his knee again with his boot and the big guy falls to the ground with a grunt.
My dad kneels next to him. The little bearded fella rushes over and kneels down as well to check on the bigger guy.
“It’s time you grow up,” my dad says. “You’ve had your mom and dad kissing your asses all your life and apparently nobody ever told you can’t always have what you want. Say what it is you have to say to the world – but don’t act surprised if not everybody agrees with you. Being a bully ain’t no way to get stuff done. All it does is piss people off.”
My dad again helps the big guy up. He looks at the little fella.
“And if you want to call yourself a woman, that’s great,” my dad says. “I’ll go along with it and most folks will as well. But don’t get so mad if someone who doesn’t know you misgenders you. Cut folks a break. Shaving the beard might help a bit.”
The big fella looks like he doesn’t want any more to do with my dad and the group of protestors has opened a path to the door.
“Now,” may dad says. “We’re going in for my party. You fellas are welcome to join us if you like as long as you can behave. We have free beer and wine and plenty of stuff to eat that ain’t got meat in it. I’ll even give you a listen if you can talk without yelling and carrying on.”
And with that, we went into the restaurant and had a party. My dad got us in without ever even throwing a punch and we were joined by a half dozen activists who took my dad up on his offer. Like I said. Old School Texas Tough – Never Beaten. That’s my old man.
Thanks for the comment Mike - I'm working on it!
All I gotta say is, "More!"