In fairness, Mr. Miller did get banged up as a rodeo cowboy before entering state government.

Still, these are the kinds of events that cause people from places like Massachusetts, Manhattan and California, not to mention England, France and Sweden, to ask us: “How can you stand to live in Texas?” Their tone usually suggests that any explanation that doesn’t involve our incarceration here is indefensible.

I admit that a more positive response to this inquiry has become more difficult over time, especially since 2000, when Mr. Perry ushered in an era of government by people who, well, hate government. And it’s true that occasionally my husband and I scan the local headlines — coverage of the relentless assault on Planned Parenthood comes to mind — and ask ourselves whether we should be packing up.

“Are we crazy?” is the way my husband, who is from Virginia, puts it.

There are stock responses to the criticism. Texas P.R. firms have tried them all: our amazing urban sophistication, our amazing urban diversity and let’s not forget our amazing economy — at least when the oil price is high. And though we can say that we introduced America to Ted Cruz, we’re not responsible for Mr. Trump.

Sticking around here was never even my plan. Growing up, I suffered with the other kids who were incapable of following a football game but had mastered “Oliver Twist” (the book, not the movie). My best friend in middle school despaired at my incompetence with hair and makeup. (“You could be so pretty if you tried.”)

So when I headed for college on the East Coast in 1972, I never intended to return. I would move to Greenwich Village after graduation, and grow red geraniums in window boxes.