The Europeans on this train are scoffing at the conductor who can barely read the historical blurbs.
"Sound it out," I whisper over my plastic cup as he struggles with the word, 'exportation' referring to Sanderson, Texas's former wool trade.
I can hear the nervousness in his voice, the intimidation of such a long word.
"Expor--Expor--Exportion," he says, causing the tallest of the Europeans to slap his knee.
No small part of me wants to get up and drive these guys’ perfectly white teeth down their throats.
But I'm trying to change.
So I turn from their smug, angular faces to the window full of rusty cars and dusty streets.
A man is yelling at a dog that will not stop barking.
This is my country, for better or worse.