I've often wondered how long one must live a place before you feel like that's where you are from. I've spent three Christmases in Texas and welcomed another child. I have a library card, a voter registration and a drivers license that all say I'm a Texan. I rub my arms and make an effort to dig out socks when the temperature dips to only 65°. I like to let the ocean be my therapist, the briny water washing troubles from me with every visit. I use "ya'll". I know that brisket is more than something you corn on St. Patrick's Day and I've tried five different kinds of tamales and seven different bread puddings. But today, I sat down at my computer with a coffee, saw a post from a place I used to work, and heard my first Midwestern accent.
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