Larry McMurtry wrote the novels “The Last Picture Show” and the Pulitzer-winning “Lonesome Dove,” along with the screenplay for “Brokeback Mountain” and numerous other books and essays. Much of his work is inspired by Archer City, his small hometown in West Texas, where, fittingly, a small group of storytellers gather for a writers’ retreat each year, hoping to establish their place in the literary world. Along the dusty trails of this forgotten hamlet, they work to find their voices, confront their fears and find home in the backyard of strangers. For the three writers below, their stories may have started at the Archer City Writers Workshop, but their experience in West Texas changed something deep within them.
Jumping off the Truck
By Madiha K
The chill of the winter night air cut through my thin black pashmina shawl as I walked from the car park toward the international departure terminal of the Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore. At the counter I handed over my passport and an admission letter from the Frank W. & Sue Mayborn School of Journalism in Denton, Texas.
The immigration officer looked at my ticket. “Aamreeka?” he asked gleefully. “Un huh” I said. Pakistanis have this fascination with America that borders on obsession. It’s America’s affluence and the attainment of “the American dream” that Pakistanis hope to achieve some day.
“Thomp! Click!” The officer banged the pre-inked stamp against my passport.
A dotted red rectangle surrounded the text:
23 Dec 2009
After a twenty-three-hour flight, I landed at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. My parents had moved to America three months earlier. As members of the minority Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, they had faced years of state-sanctioned persecution. Death threats and political instability were always a looming threat. My watch was still set to Pakistani time; I didn’t have the heart to change it. It felt like the only link I had to home. Changing the time would somehow mean I had abandoned home.
On a dorm room door a paper cutout of my name greeted me. As I began to unpack, tears rolled down my cheeks. So this is the American dream? Downsizing from the family home? Living out of five boxes? My house in Pakistan was an old Army garrison built by the British before the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947. Vivid and painfully tender memories of my mother and home filled my empty room.
I opened the first box and picked up the mattress pad. I struggled to put it on the twin size mattress. Standing on top of the bed frame, I stretched the white mesh, tussled with the elastic but it quickly scrunched back. My hands gave way and the mattress flopped on the bed frame.
I repeated the process.
Frustrated at my inability to do something as simple as putting on a mattress pad, I realized how ill prepared I was for life, how dependent I’d been on other people for my existence. It was my first understanding that life here will never be like Pakistan. No one will make the bed for me, cook for me or clean after me. I will have to leave my upper class Pakistani habits at the door.
On lonely evenings, the beauty of the sinking Texas sun sprinkling crimson dust into the vast skies made me think of Lahore and of all the times I had chai in the garden. We would sit barefoot in our lush side garden around a low table on white lounge chairs. The setting sun signaled the call of the Maghrib prayer. Loudspeakers punctured the serenity of dusk as nearby imams competed against each other in out-of-tune voices calling the faithful for prayers.
“Haya alas Salah.” Come to prayer.
“Haya alal falah.” Come to success.
I had not come to success. A friend told me what one of our professors thought about me: I would start projects but never finish them. I would plunge into a project with great zeal only to abandon my drafts. I always felt my work wasn’t good enough or at least not as good as my peers. Am I kidding myself? I wondered. Do I really have what it takes to be a writer?
A few days before the semester ended, a professor asked me to take a class in Archer City. “You need it,” he said. I quizzed former students on what to expect. “It’s a life-changing experience,” they told me. “It will help you find your place in the world.” I agreed with my professor. I did need it. After coming to America, I felt “my place in the world” was disappearing faster than dust in a windstorm. Would Archer City really be the life-changing experience students had assured me of? All I knew was that I had to go and find out.
So the journey began on a scorching July afternoon in Texas, with a full tank of gas in a 2004 butter yellow convertible Volkswagen Beetle, a roll-on hand baggage, and an empty navy blue journal bought minutes before the journey.
I had considered driving solo but had never driven alone anywhere more than half an hour from home. What if the car broke down? What if I had a punctured tire? What if I got lost and no one could find me? A part of me wanted to get lost, forcing me to take control of my life and find my way back. Taking a solo road trip had lingered in my imagination ever since I had learned to drive. In my imagination, I would drive solo in my yellow convertible on Route 66, one of the most famous roads in America that had been a symbol of freedom and independence in popular movies and songs. But a bigger part lacked the gumption and courage to make even the two-hour drive to Archer City alone.
I tuned up the radio to drown my discordant thoughts. But the radio couldn’t suppress the memories of friends I had lost contact with and dashed hopes of becoming the writer I dreamed of becoming. All my failures – as a person, as a writer – stirred in my head, competing with the voices on the radio. When the afternoon stock report blasted through my speakers “The Dow Jones…..” I abruptly turned off the radio.
My sobs punctured the silence. Somewhere along the double-lane road, I confronted my biggest fear: America might be home. My parents made an abrupt decision: to choose life over home. They chose life, and moved to America while I was still clinging to memories of home. Yet over time I began awakening to a harsh reality: my home no longer existed. Lahore, Pakistan: the flimsy brown gate of my house, the Neem tree that bent over the verandah, white chairs in the backyard, the orange wall in my room. That house was empty now. Everything packed and taped, sealed with ropes and plastic for a who-knows-when time in an uncertain future.
I parked my car outside the Spur Hotel in Archer City. Eight strangers had signed up for a writers workshop designed to bore deeply into the lives of the locals, unearthing the stories that spoke to them. Just before sunset, about the same time the students finished unloading their suitcases and filling the refrigerator with basic supplies for the week, my professor showed up. “We’ll go to the dirt roads tonight,” he said. “We’ll follow Crystal.”
Crystal was a tomboy and a cowgirl who lived with a pretty blond named Fonda. That made them outcasts in Archer City. As in Larry McMurtry’s screenplay, “Brokeback Mountain,” gay relationships are not accepted in the cowboy culture of Archer City. Maybe that’s why Fonda and Crystal loved hanging out with “the writers,” as they called them.
Crystal wore a big smile and a messy, wavy bob. She had no makeup and it was hard to understand her through her thick Texan twang. But she and Fonda opened their heart and home for us strangers as if we were longtime friends.
We separated into two groups: One group rode in Crystal’s truck while the other climbed into the bed of my professor’s silver Ford Ranger. No streetlights lined the roads. Only the headlights of the trucks offered limited visibility as we moved off the paved streets of Archer City onto the dusty back roads. Loose gravel crunching beneath the tires, the truck caravan navigated the chalky trails surrounding Archer City. Dust blew, making it hard to breathe.
I thought of my childhood in Lahore; a seven-year-old me, chasing lightning bugs. I wished I could see them now. But the darkness was absolute. Crickets sang their song and the night sky twinkled with constellations. We slowed down and came to a stop. In the darkness, only our silhouettes were visible.