There is no greater love than the one that exists between a woman and her ass.
And there is no greater ass than one from Texas. Yes, I know Georgia is infamous for their peaches, but take one look at Megan Thee Stallion. And let’s not forget Beyoncé. I come from a state of women with phenomenal asses, mine included.
Now, that is not to say mine is up to par with a stallion or thique like jelly, but it does contain the fiery spirit that is synonymous with Black Texan womanhood. Not only are we brisket fed, rodeo going, whisky drinking, sweet tea sipping, praying women. We are responsible for the majority of economic, social, and political movements in a state laden and down trodden by men who are the benefactors and inheritors of decades long anti-Black legislation and politics. It is these men and their politics that make my Texas ass look bad. In fact, there was a period in my late teens and early 20s where I was ashamed to be from Texas, and so I left.
Like many African Americans who have preceded me, I left for the coasts. First, East. Then, West. In search of a place where I, a young Black Queer woman — who was interested in politics and social change through direct service and action — could meet and convene with like-minded people. To this day, I have a soft spot for the city and county of Philadelphia, where I attended graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania. It was a love that directly conflicted with my love of the Dallas Cowboys, and it was the first place where my Texas ass stood out.
I would grow angry when I heard snide remarks about Texas. My eyes would dart. My ears would perk up. And my mouth would be on fire. It was there where I learned how much people hated the South, but, in particular, Texas. Upon graduation, I moved in with my father to accept a job in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I heard it again, but even louder and more spirited among the Silicon Valley elite. It was clear that my Texas ass was a joke to them. An improper and antiquated joke, if we take into consideration the migration of Southern African Americans to the coastal areas of the United States. But, I digress.
For years, anger had been bubbling in my belly. And oftentimes, after a margarita or two or three or four, I would tell people to kiss my Texas ass. It became my catchphrase on a night out. And a pick up line on others. However, it quickly became a weapon in my arsenal. This led to the idea of getting Texas tattooed on my ass.
The shape of Texas is unique. It’s sharp. It’s jagged. It’s vast. It is a state that once was Indigenous (and still is), that once was Spain, that once was France, that once was Mexico, that once was its own Republic. It is Southern. It is Midwestern. And each and every border is shaped by colonization, slavery, and the stakeholders who drew those maps.
But it is also me.
It is my mother. It is her mother. And her mother before her. So it is Black, and Queer, and country. And that is why it is tattooed on my ass. The story goes as all great Texan stories go with a margarita. Particularly, a pitcher of frozen margaritas at a Tex-Mex restaurant in Deep Ellum. I was home from the Bay Area for the holidays, and, over brunch with my childhood best friends, expressed to them my deep frustration with the Silicon Valley elite. I joked about the desire to get Texas tattooed on my ass during our first pitcher of margaritas. And by the second pitcher, my friends had found a tattoo shop within walking distance of the restaurant.
Now, I do not advise getting a tattoo under the influence of drugs and alcohol. However, I am not the first nor will I be the last to do so. After we closed out our bill, the three of us walked over to the tattoo shop, shared our story with the artist, and signed off on the paperwork to start my appointment. As a symbol of our love for each other, my best friends paid for my tattoo as a Christmas present. The tattoo was fairly quick and painless. Like the millennials we are, my best friends documented the entire process via iPhone. I laugh when the image of me — pants down, ass up at the tattoo parlor — comes up on my Apple Photos to this day.
Since then, my ass has refrained from any additional tattoos. Like the Republic she once was, Texas is the only tattoo on my derriere, but my lineage of Texas-themed tattoos continues. A year after I received my Texas ass tattoo, my maternal grandmother passed away.
Helen Marie White Jones was born in Minvera — a small, rural town in Milam County — and she was the love of my life.
The last memory I have of her in this world was watching a Western as she played in my teal-dyed natural hair and told stories about her childhood as a little girl in the Texas countryside. After her funeral, I got a Texas cowgirl tattoo — a stallion, if you will — with bamboo earrings in ode to her. Although her husband, Ollie Jones, had died years before her, I also got a cowboy boot tattooed on my ankle in remembrance of him shortly after my 27th birthday.
His final request was to be buried in his cowboy boots like a true Texan.
Unlike those maternal grandparents, who were born and raised in Central Texas, I’m from Dallas. When I moved back home during the pandemic, I took a position as the Online Arts Editor at D Magazine. It was my responsibility to highlight the city’s arts and culture scenes and economy through our editorial pages. However, it was also my responsibility — as the first Black woman to hold the position — to use my platform to uplift Dallasites of color and the things we hold dear, our traditions, that had not received their just due recognition. One of those being 214 Day.
To most of the world, February 14 is Valentine’s Day. To the citizens of Dallas, it is a day to pay homage to our area code, 214. It is on this day that local tattoo shops run discounted specials on Dallas-themed tattoos for citizens to acquire. And I, like the Dallas bird I am, got 214 tattooed in the middle of my chest. Meaning one of the earliest memories my future children will have is seeing 214 in the middle of their mother’s chest. Regardless of whether my future children are born and raised in Dallas, they will always have a part of the city with them.
Many years have passed since my Texas ass tattoo, and since then I have left the state again, this time for Chicago. I’ve since come to learn that my paternal ancestors from Mississippi migrated here too. I joke that when my paternal grandmother passes, and a Mississippi Delta woman who has a Texas-themed bathroom leaves this earth, I’ll get a Magnolia tattooed on me. It’s the state flower of Mississippi. But, in true Good Christian fashion, she thinks I’m dishonoring the Lord by marking my skin. She’ll deal.
Texas is in a constant state of change. Some good, some bad.
It is a state shaped by historic evils and the innocent blood of many but it is also a state of revolutionary change and innovation, and I hold space for both of those realities within me.
But most importantly, my ass.
Who knows how the state will evolve, I do not possess the ability to predict the future.
The only thing I know for sure is that I love Texas and Texas loves me.