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      In his 2011 book, American Nations, Colin Woodard

      makes the case that America's political and cultural

      landscape is not divided along red-state/blue-state or

      even regional geographic lines, but along generations-

      old cultural boundaries that can be traced to

      migration patterns and belief systems dating to the

      colonial era. Within those boundaries lie eleven

      "nations," each with its own distinctive set of values

      and political leanings. Out East you've got the cosmo-

      politan mercantile culture of the New Netherlands

      (originating with the Dutch settlements that would

      become New York City) and the Calvinist civic-mind-

      edness of Yankeedom. Farther down, you've got the

      caste-oriented plantation culture of the Deep South;

      out in the Rockies and beyond you've got the hard-

      bitten, government-wary culture of the Far West; and

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      so on. The frontiers where these nations meet can be

      fault lines that breed sectarian division. They can also

      make for dynamic convergences. Take a look at where

      Texas is on that map. Here, the brawling, independent-

      minded Scots-Irish of Greater Appalachia come up

      against the Quaker-influenced apple-pie Americanism

      of the Midlands and the deep-rooted democratizing

      forces of El Norte, a region of Spanish heritage rooted

      in the earliest missionary adventures in the New

      World. Encroaching from the southeast are the aristo-

      cratic ideals of the Deep South. It all makes for a

      heady mix—progressivism and libertarianism min-

      gling with old-school conservatism and even

      revolutionary sentiment—that has no equal in North

      America. Here, America’s old fiefdoms blend to

      become something new, something purely Texan.

      The history of the early settlement of

      Texas is more a tale of migration than

      immigration—specifically the epic west-

      ward movement of Scots-Irish families from

      their beachheads in Appalachia. “They arrived in

      great numbers,” wrote James Michener of these

      Borderer clans, in his book Texas, “filtering down the

      famed Natchez Trace from Pennsylvania, Ohio,

      Kentucky, and Tennessee. They were a resolute, cou-

      rageous, self-driven, arrogant lot.” The Scots-Irish set

      the feisty character of the republic and of the state

      that followed, but they were not the only European

      national group to shape the destiny of Texas. Starting

      in the 1840s, Germans came in droves too, establish-

      ing the town of Fredericksburg and creating a

      German-speaking belt that stretched across much of

      the state. Czechs and Poles soon fol-

      lowed. Those peoples managed to

      preserve their language and folkways

      for a generation or two, but soon enough

      Texas would change them. Carved from the

      bosom of Mexico, Texas gave rise to a hybrid culture

      like no other. That culture was self-selecting, draw-

      ing out the best traits of each group that settled

      here: the tolerant pluralism of northern European

      immigrants, the scrappy individualism of the

      Scots-Irish, the reformist drive of Hispanic Texans,

      and so on. The story continues today, as new

      groups, many from traditional immigrant hubs like

      California and New York, are absorbed into Texas’s

      welcoming fold.

      Fourth of July parade on Main Street, Fredericksburg, 1905.

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      In the hours and days after Hurricane Katrina, as buses

      from New Orleans started rolling into Houston—which

      eventually took in some 240,000 people fleeing the

      storm’s aftermath—word went out among staff at the

      city’s hospitals and shelters that they should stop call-

      ing the newcomers “refugees” or even “evacuees,” but

      rather “guest citizens.” It was a quintessentially Texan

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      gesture, and it grew from the understanding that

      extending hospitality means more than an offer of food

      and shelter. It means honoring the innate human

      dignity of those you’re helping. Is it any wonder

      that 150,000 of those former Louisianans eventually

      decided to lay down roots and become Texans?

      And proud, productive Texans at that. You could say

      that this kind of hospitality is just in our DNA,

      and you’d be right, but Texans’ attitude toward out-

      siders and newcomers goes even deeper than good

      manners and good works. Really, it comes down to a

      basic belief shared by millions of Texans that a big

      tent and open arms make for a more dynamic and

      prosperous place.

      Left: After Hurricane Katrina, the Houston Astrodome was a

      haven for those

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