As I look out my window on the barren Indiana tundra, I can just barely make out the trees through the blowing snow. I know it's just another winter night in South Bend, but I can't help but think of a few little words:

I miss Texas.

That's right, I'm from Texas. I say things like"y'all" and "dadgum," and I call carbonated beverages "cokes." I learned how to drive in a big ol' Suburban and I know that the Astrodome really is the eighth Wonder of the World. I listen to country music, I love hot peppers and I voted for George Dubya Bush.

I like to think my folks raised me to deal with whatever comes my way, but it's not easy being a Texas exile up here. When I wear my cowboy boots, I get funny looks, and a certain friend of mine says I "look like a four-year-old kid." When someone comes into my room, I cringe and wait for the inevitable question: "Why do all you people have Texas flags?" And God forbid I should cheer for my hometown Houston Texans. There are just too many Yankees around for any of that stuff.

Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Yankees personally, it's just that there's a lot they don't know. They don't know how to make a Frito Pie. They don't know the lyrics to "Me and Billy the Kid" by Pat Green. They don't know how much fun it is to see a rodeo with 55,000 of your closest friends.

But as much as it pains me to write this, some Yankee mannerisms are beginning to rub off on me. After two and a half years at Notre Dame, I fear I'm becoming a pseudo-Yankee. It occurred to me over Christmas break. My little sister was all bundled up and shivering in the 60-degree "cold," while I was in a T-shirt, scoffing. If I'm offered a beer at home, I have to pause for a second, torn between a Shiner Bock and a Guinness. I've even noticed my "y'all" occasionally degenerate into "you guys." Let's just pray I don't stop missing the Texas blondes I've come to know and love.

All in all, I'm developing a split geographical personality. I've learned to deal with the bitter cold, the bland food, the generic music, the perpetually pajama-clad women. But every once in a while, worlds collide. When I'm in Houston, wearing my Notre Dame hat, I can feel the occasional evil eye. They're sniffing out a yankee. But I know that at some point this summer, when I go out to my car and the steering wheel is too hot to touch, I'll think of a few little words:

I miss Notre Dame.

• Lone star Yankee misses Texas