> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.thebarbedwire.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # 281 or 287 - URL: https://www.thebarbedwire.com/281-or-287/ - Published: 2026-10-05T12:34:51.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-05T12:34:51.000Z - Description: Going back to the place I spent my life trying to leave. - Author: Brian Gaar Every trip I take back to Wichita Falls is met with the same question: Did you take 281 or 287? It’s an important question, because it tells the inquirer what kind of person you are. Do you want to get there as quickly as possible, taking 287 through Fort Worth? Or do you appreciate the natural beauty of Texas enough to take the slower 281 through Mineral Wells and Jacksboro, where you can enjoy the scenery and, very possibly, a speeding ticket? I’m a 287 person. Get there fast, or die trying. And by “die,” I mean “sit in DFW traffic.” I have never been particularly fond of the city I grew up in. So I perpetually want to get there and get it over with. Recently, I went back to deal with a family matter, and I was reminded of exactly why I felt that way. Wichita Falls is not lovely, by any means. Its main claims to fame are tornadoes, hosting the Cowboys’ training camp 30 years ago, and the band Bowling for Soup, whose song “My Hometown” contains the rousing chorus: “I hope you got the fuck out of our hometown.” There is an actual waterfall, which was built in the ’80s and sometimes it [turns brown](https://www.tiktok.com/@christiday/video/7104507570852760878?ref=thebarbedwire.com) with sediment, calling to mind scenes from *Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory*. Wichita Falls knows the rest of Texas thinks it sucks. *Texas Monthly* once ranked “[full time resident of Wichita Falls](https://www.texasmonthly.com/news-politics/bad-jobs/?ref=thebarbedwire.com)” among the worst jobs in the state. That was in the ‘70s, but we still haven’t gotten over it. The result is a city that exists in a kind of sullen, defensive crouch: You don’t like us? We don’t like you either. It’s also deeply conservative and rabidly anti-government, despite the government being [its biggest employer](https://www.huduser.gov/portal/periodicals/USHMC/reg/WichitaFallsTX-HMP-April2024.pdf?ref=thebarbedwire.com). And for most of my life, I have been happy to declare war on Wichita Falls. It’s an easy battle. Wichita Falls is the early-season opponent your powerhouse college football team schedules when it needs a confidence boost. When I visited recently, I was wearing a cap with the logo of my alma mater, the University of Texas. In Wichita Falls, this is basically like announcing you’re visiting from Iran and have a few notes. I’m sure I was happy to thumb my nose. But something weird happened. People were nice. The Whataburger had some of the best customer service I’ve ever experienced. Everywhere I went, people were chatty in that lovely small town way. Was I ... enjoying myself? Memories started coming back. Movies at Sikes Center Mall with friends. The arcade, where you could spend an entire afternoon for a few bucks. Watching my friends’ bands play at Iron Horse and The Refuge. Stanley’s Beanie Burgers. Casa Mañana. Buying comics at Kouri’s. Blood feuds with Rider High, our eternal rival. Still, I never felt like I belonged. My family were economic immigrants from Louisiana who moved us there when I was 9, and I was a smallish nerd who liked comedy and video games. I knew Wichita Falls wasn’t going to be my forever home. But I *did* make friends there. Good ones to this day, even if one of our main bonding points was wanting to get out. Eventually, I went to college in Austin, which was the opposite of Wichita Falls in all the ways that mattered to me. There were weirdos everywhere. Artists and musicians and comedians. People who could spend an afternoon arguing about *The Simpsons* and then go watch a football game. Nobody was particularly interested in making you pick a side. I could be a nerd, a writer, a comedian, a sports fan, whatever the hell I wanted to be, and nobody found the combination especially strange. But leaving Wichita Falls also meant leaving behind some things I didn't realize I would miss. In Austin, I had more possibilities, but I didn't have the same history. Nobody there knew me when I was 10, or 15, or 17\. Nobody remembered the bands, the stupid haircuts, the first jobs. Austin gave me room to become somebody else. Wichita Falls was where I'd already been somebody. I thought leaving meant leaving Wichita Falls behind. It didn’t. It’s where I first saw Willie Nelson perform, back when he was paying off his tax bill. I had my first kiss there. My [best Christmas ever](https://www.thebarbedwire.com/the-best-christmas-ever-and-the-gift-of-a-lifetime/) happened there. Wichita Falls isn’t part of my everyday life anymore. But it’s still in me, in the way I talk and the way I’ll roll my eyes whenever an Austin liberal gets a little too high off the smell of their own farts. And even if it takes five or six hours to drive back, there’s something comforting about knowing it’s still there. Still pretty much the same. (Although I swear I noticed fewer Trump signs, this time. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. Because if any blue wave reaches the shores of Wichita Falls, MAGA is well and truly fucked.) At 50, I’ve got less piss and vinegar than I used to. I don’t feel like I’m better than where I grew up anymore. Sure, I’ve had opportunities that took me further away. I don’t share most of the politics or attitudes that dominate the place. But does that make me a better person? Nah. I’m just like everyone else back in Wichita Falls: trying to get through life in whatever language makes sense to me. And while writing this, I realized something. When I’m writing about Wichita Falls, I keep using the word “we.”