I’ve lived in West Texas for most of my life, and I’ve grown tired of people who sneer and call it “the armpit of Texas.” You don’t have to love it like I do—but if you’re going to mock it, don’t be surprised when I take it personally. My family moved from El Paso to Odessa on January 1, 1980. Dad came here to fly planes for oil companies. Aside from the missing El Paso mountains, Odessa felt similar—flat, hot, dry, and nearly treeless. Green grass? That was something you saw in magazines. And when it rained, you’d stop and stare like you were witnessing a miracle. That horizon stretched out like forever—wild, empty, and honest. It hooked me. For a long time, in my youth, the word “Odessa” almost felt like a cuss word. It tasted bitter—like something you didn’t want to admit out loud. But moving back and maturing changed that. I saw it for what it really is: grit, pride, character….a place unlike anywhere else. Sure, we’ve got oilfield traffic, dust storms that choke out the sun, and pumpjacks that dot the horizon. But this place holds something deeper than aesthetics. It holds home. When we left the DFW area to return to Odessa so I could take the orchestra director position at Permian High School, people reacted with disbelief. “You’re leaving North Texas for… West Texas?” Like we’d lost our minds—or worse, our standards. But what they didn’t get is this: West Texas isn’t for everyone. It’s not easy. It’s not polished. But it’s real. It’s built on hard-working families. It’s teachers, roughnecks, and student musicians who don’t need skyscrapers to feel tall. It’s Friday nights under the Ratliff lights. Sunrises and sunsets that set the sky on fire. And people who shake your hand and mean it. No, it’s not always pretty….but it’s ours. I don’t love West Texas because it’s perfect— I love it because it’s part of me. We’ve got pumpjacks instead of pine trees, caliche roads, and skies that go from blue to brown in five minutes flat. You definitely don’t move here for the view. You stay because it makes you tougher. And I’ll go to bat for her any day of the week. So the next time someone calls the Permian Basin the “armpit of Texas,” don’t be surprised if I take a step closer and ask them to say it again— slower this time