Whenever I meet someone from my hometown of Beyoncéland—or Houston, if ya formal—I typically greet that person with eagerness and the kind of warmth only a real southerner can understand. Then I ask a very important follow up question: What part of Houston are you from?
For those of you are unfamiliar, Houston is a mammoth of a city. In terms of size, Houston is like pre-workout regiment Rick Ross while the rest of the nation’s major cities are Jhené Aiko by comparison. For further clarity, Dan Solomon recently wrote in Texas Monthly, “A trip from Northwest Houston to Southwest Houston, in other words, is the equivalent of a trip from the Pacific Ocean into the middle of the San Francisco Bay.” So as large as the H is, if you tell me you’re from Houston and then when asked for specifics namedrop The Woodlands or League City, there is no other conclusion but this: Your ass is not from Houston. Trust me, other native Houstonians feel me on this.
I’ve been told I’m “rude” for pointing this out, but since my finger is already wagging, I may as well continue “The Mr. Waggering Finger World Tour” and air additional grievances.
I don’t have a problem with major city metropolitan residents. More times than not, you’ve probably lived the life Aunt Helen wanted for Will when she shipped him out of Philly, or at the very least, the kind of middle class home James Evan died trying to get for Thelma and his two annoying sons. Your parents should be applauded for that. Nonetheless, claim your actual city of residence as opposed to what’s 60-90 minutes away.
The same goes for people who say they’re from ATLANTA (very few of the actual residents of that city acknowledge the T’s existence) when it’s more like Alpharetta.
Now, the only thing worse than pretending to be from Houston when you’re really from Beaumont (an entirely different town over yonder on I-10) is to be from a nicer part of Houston, but try to front like you’re from the hood. God bless Beyoncé, but she is part of the reason why so many people want to act like they’re from Third Ward.
Do not claim a hood you know damn well you don’t belong to. I don’t care if your mama’s second cousin’s BFF has a house in the Tre, if you didn’t grow up there, don’t bother claiming it as an adult in a new town trying to impress a bunch of strangers who don’t know any better. You’ll only run into a person like me, who is from Hiram Clarke, who resents you for false claiming. I have no shame of where I’m from, but it’s irritating as hell to see people who you can tell grew up far easier than you try to attain some sort of hood validation pass via an impromptu address.
Speaking of that, the biggest offender of them all is the person from an entirely different town who suddenly decides to adopt another town’s culture as if they’ve been there forever. Hello, Drake, who despite being from Toronto, speaks like he grew up on the Southside of Houston and went to Madison, Yates, or Worthing High Schools like the rest of us. Houston appreciates you, too, Aubrey, but take it down a notch.
Oh, and shout out to Tyga, who claimed to be raised in Compton, but got aired out as being from the Valley. I wouldn’t want to be from the Valley either, but a cushy life makes things very different. Nicki Minaj may occasionally talk like a London native in need of speech therapy, but at least she never, ever stops repping Queens.
I swear, if I could, I would take the fly swatter I used to kill roaches to slap the lie out of each and every one of you hood hoppers.
Own where you’re actually from, kids. It’s not that hard. I promise it’s not.
Michael Arceneaux is from the land of Beyoncé, but now lives in the city of Master Splinter. Follow him at @youngsinick.
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