O’Connor Daniel | Reporter
If someone told me several years ago that I was going to move 850 miles away from my hometown to attend college in Texas, I wouldn’t have thought them crazy, necessarily. But if they had told me I would come to see Waco, a town in Central Texas, as home, that would’ve taken some convincing.
Papa Jack’s Barbecue was the first restaurant I ever visited in Waco, and that trip alone was enough to put my parents at ease. The owner, Mrs. Kim, sat down at our table, typed her number into my phone and said to call if I ever ran into trouble — “because I’ve got three grown boys who’ll come straighten things out,” she said.
There it is. That’s Waco.
Situated by the Brazos River, Waco is the kind of town where locals extend hospitality as if it’s their second nature. Gas station attendants mean it when they say, “Have a good day.” Fellow students’ families have you over for Sunday dinner and send you home with leftovers, knowing college kids don’t cook for themselves.
From modest Texas bungalows to takeout-only breakfast tacos, Waco doesn’t put on airs. Reflecting on my past four years here, I’ve examined the small-town charms, people, history and culture.
It’s Waco in the conversations at George’s with someone who’s lived in town for 50 years and insists on paying for your meal. It’s Waco in the inability to walk for exercise because you pass by too many friends sitting on their porches. Waco is sitting at a picnic table with my roommates, ruining other folks’ exercise. Pretty much everyone I know lives within a three-mile radius of each other. It’s the lady at the thrift store who will help people put outfits together with the enthusiasm of a Hollywood costume designer.
My neighbor, Mr. Leo, resonates with Waco as he takes care of his 90-year-old mother in the home where he grew up, mowing our lawn every week and installing security lights to ward off intruders. He worries about us.
Waco is walking to the pizza restaurant down the street every Thursday or driving to Cinemark for $5 movies on Tuesdays. It’s in the randomness of a birthday camp out at the Llama Ranch and jumping off a cliff at Lake Whitney into the Brazos.
People say Waco can feel isolated. Dallas traffic is isolation. I’d rather hit every pothole on 11th Street. I’ve realized that Waco is humble — not flashy. Waco is authentic.
As graduation approaches, I have to ask myself what’s next. Here I am, a senior, standing on the edge of the next chapter. In the spring, I’ll graduate.
It feels like yesterday I was in Athens, Ga., writing my college essay: “Now I’m standing on the line separating childhood from adulthood, with high school almost in my rear view mirror and college, that GREAT BEYOND, looming ahead.”
And now, somehow, I’m back on that line again. But this time, I don’t want to leave the place I’m writing from, unlike the hometown I was dying to escape. Waco’s people, its pace and its weirdness have become part of me.
Sure, Dallas-Fort Worth — where around 35,000 Baylor Bears live — is only 90 miles up I-35. And if I end up there, it won’t be completely unfamiliar territory. But cities like Dallas or Nashville, Tenn., come with their own kind of pressure. They’re fast, polished and career-driven. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, that’s probably where the jobs will take me.
But wherever I land, leaving Waco won’t be easy. Mr. Leo told me how sad he’ll be when my roommates and I move out.
“The cycle keeps on going,” he said. “Girls move in, stay three years, then they leave.”
I can only hope I’ll carry with me what Waco taught me to appreciate: what’s real and what doesn’t try to sell itself as more than it is. I hope I don’t lose that, even if I trade potholes for rush-hour.
