The Small, Armored Mariachi Band and the Backyard Saga: A Personal Account, by Angela Valenzuela, Ph.D. May 30, 2026

The Small, Armored Mariachi Band and the Backyard Saga: A Personal Account

by

Angela Valenzuela, Ph.D.

May 30, 2026

I’m going to share an experience I just had in the best West Texas vernacular I can fashion. Truth be told, that voice is a quick go-to for me—my immediate response, my first sentiment, my instinctive way of reacting when life catches me off guard. It is the voice of talking to my friends back home in West Texas and saying, with all the force and feeling the moment requires, “Dang!”

Those are my origins. That is part of my identity.

All of us carry complex identities—some we share openly, others we hold close. We move through different worlds with different registers, tones, languages, and ways of being. Sometimes we speak as scholars, sometimes as teachers, sometimes as relatives, neighbors, advocates, or old friends. 

And sometimes, when four armadillos unexpectedly appear in your backyard, you discover that the voice that rises up first is pure West Texas.

So tighten your belt buckle, friends, and watch the video of today’s backyard

Video

armadillo saga.

You can go straight to the video if you like. Or if you think you might be triggered for any reason, just turn it off immediately, get your sweet tea, and read along with me.

***

I had a wild experience just now.

Literally.

Well, y’all, I was just mindin’ my own business in the backyard today, sittin’ there peaceful as can be, when I heard a rustlin’ sound that caught my attention.

So I did what any calm, mature adult would do: I started recording.

At first, I spotted one little armadillo. Cute enough. Then there were two. Then three. And before I knew it, there were four of them—like some neatly coiffed, armored mariachi band had wandered onto the property, polished up and ready to perform.

Without a booking!

Now, I began this episode calm and collected, but let the record show that my composure left the premises before the armadillos did. 

I went from “Isn’t nature beautiful?” to “Absolutely not, tiny prehistoric possums,” in about three seconds flat.

That’s when I reached for a small metal chair. Not a broom. Not a rake. A chair. Because apparently, when the spirit of self-defense takes hold, you don’t choose the weapon—the patio furniture chooses you.

So there I was, shushing four armadillos off like I was directing livestock traffic at a county fair: “Git now! Go on! This ain’t your Airbnb!” (Okay, I added this part 'cause it's funny!)

And they just moseyed along like they had all the time in the world—we’re talking seconds here. It's all recorded. 

And I'm the dramatic one in this picture.

***

Geez, what do moments like these mean? Well, among other things, they remind us that humor is part of memory. Voice is part of place. 

It is a treat traveling back to my childhood and imagining just how much play a story like this would get—and in these truly, wonderful, undervalued, forms of expression in a society where "network English" is the norm.

That we are expected to suppress the dialects that we speak alongside our language or languages, is a matter for another time, but speaks to real power shaping everyday experiences.

Another lesson is that the language we reach for when startled, delighted, or emotionally disarrayed often tells us something about where we come from.

Today, the backyard gave me armadillos.

And West Texas, the Twang to tell it. 

It's no wonder I became a sociolinguist.

A former life.

I hope I'm not freaking anyone out too much! 😱😱😱