Growing up on the outskirts of Elk City, America, I was encircled by cowboy and so-called “western” culture. I was raised by a father who was a retired rodeo clown. I spent my childhood weekends out on my grandparents’ dairy farm. My best friend living two houses down was a champion barrel racer. I even worked for 7 years at my mom’s western wear store located on Main Street right off of Route 66.
But for someone who was surrounded by the boots, grit, and (for some damn reason) rhinestones so associated with the cowboy way, I never immersed myself in it. Instead, I spent the first 22 years of my life quietly observing the culture from within as if I were a tourist in my own homeland. When in reality I was just an angsty know-it-all kid who thought Green Day was punk rock. And though I have since come to understand how the culture I so avoided still managed to shape me into who I am today, there is one thing I will never comprehend: