Bulls n' Blood, Dust n' Mud, Roar of a Sunday Crowd...

Picture this, the year was 1992. I was a young, vivacious senior eager to make it through the final months of school to begin college. Highschool had been quite a challenge for me. After all, I was one of only two Indians in a predominately white school. Not just predominately white, my friends...predominately "hick." They wore Wrangles (tight jeans), ropers (cowboy boots), and cowboy hats. Throught my three years at the school, I had endured many a racist prank. Not so much because people hated me, but because my dumb arss never got mad or fought back, so I was just an easy target. The "cowboys" knew they could get away with it. In tenth grade, they waited for my teacher to leave the class and then proceeded to dot my forehead with a red, permanent marker as the whole class watched in horror. In eleventh grade, they stold my picture from the year book room and posted signs around the building that said "camel jockey wanted for oil guzzling, double parking her elephant, and flying her majic carpet with out a permit." I tried to explain that half of those things were more middle eastern than India, but to them...I was brown and so I represented South Asia and the Middle East. (they almost got suspended for that prank) My senior year, I was walking towards the school, trudging through the snow...and I see a line of cowboys standing in front of me with their arms crossed. They saw me and my friend Sherry (who was guilty by association) and pummeled us to the ground in the COLD, ICY SNOW!

Yes, by Senior year, I abhored the cowboys. My patience had been worn thin. I soon hated everything that represented them. Hated the hats...the boots...the jeans...the chewing tobacco...and ESPECIALLY the music. I will never forget sitting in a school bus seat with a coat on top of my head and my fingers in my ear trying to block out the sound of Garth Brooks as he sang for hours and hours on repeat when we would go to away football games and band contests. It was then that my hatred for country music began.

Now, nearly 13 years later (God, I feel old)...all of the cowboys have apologized to me in one way or another. Most of them told me it was all in good fun and I was a great sport. If I knew that then...I woulda been a biyatch! Recently, I've been listening to the country station on the way to work. At first, I hesitantly turned the dial and waited for the memories to hit me, but they didn't. And, I really enjoyed the music...much better than the rap crap I hear on the other stations. Country music usually has a great message. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me these days. I realize that as I get older, I get stranger. But, I guess it's good that I've let go of the past and have been able to appreciate my surroundings a bit...I guess this makes me a lil bit country and a lil bit rock n' roll!