Out here on the California coast, we drive whatever we want, and let others do the same without impediment. But, closer to the heart of our nation (or even 20 miles from any major freeway), automotive brand clashes rage hotter than ever. The big question is this: why? I journeyed to the heart of Texas, where truck brand loyalty is a way of life, to gain some understanding.

Standing in the sweltering, wet-wool-blanket air of DFW on a Friday morning in July, I began to panic at the mostly empty state of my pockets. Fearing that my car keys were wedged in a grimy seatback pocket or nestled in a weathered bowl next to some security checkpoint, I started to scramble. Some of my forehead sweat had nothing to do with the 90%+ humidity. Relief set in when I remembered that I had left my keys at home on purpose. The H on my security remote could have gotten me lynched here.

Among the sea of Ford, Dodge and Chevy rigs, I managed to flag-down my cousin in his GMC. See, the “professional grade” version of a regular-old Chevy truck is somewhat of a smart alternative brand here—like a Saab might be where I’m from. Feeling the full-blast relief of triple AC vents blasting my face, I began to examine the truck brand hostility by digging for my cousin’s perspective. He dropped a wad of brown spit into the empty Big Gulp in one cup holder and set his beer into the other. He had what he considered an outsider’s perspective on the biggest conflict of all: Ford versus Chevy. He was an outcast from the Ford circles, and a somewhat-acceptable outsider who could enter the Chevy clans on a temporary guest pass only. He said the two groups rarely knowingly mixed, and when they did knowingly mix, they either ignored the white elephant on the barbecue or picked fights. To get a first-hand look at the clash, we’d have to get in on a neighborhood gathering where the meat and the Marlboros were both being chain smoked. We needed to get into someone’s backyard barbecue.

Luckily, 5:00 was approaching on a Friday in Texas. BBQ was immanent; four yards were linking up for a huge one at 6. People from up to 5 or so blocks would be on the way. Since most of the all-American truck owners coming have their eyes set on 20 or so beers, they’d be leaving their trucks at home and hoofing it. Unless somebody rolled up a sleeve, Ford and Chevy owners would be mingling and either not know it, or know it and just internalize it. Perfect—a hotbed for studying the hostility between fans of the two automakers.

Talking to one of these guys was like talking to a hundred. I didn’t know this until I had talked to a hundred, though. You see, (fill in short name starting with a J here) works 12-hour days as a (fill in construction or trade job you can do without a license for cash under the table) to pay for his (Ford or Chevy), new gear for his (Ford or Chevy), and a case of (Bud, Miller or Coors), even though his (wife or girlfriend or mom) gives him crap about getting his act together. He was raised to love (Ford or Chevy) from the beginning and to hate (Ford or Chevy), because (Fords or Chevys) break down all the time and have less power. Besides (Ford or Chevy) is the real all-American brand—not (Ford or Chevy). His dad and his dad’s dad and his dad’s dad’s dad drove a (Ford or Chevy), which is the way it’s always been and it’s never changing.

A fascinating pattern developed. Within the narrow scope of acceptable brands, the Ford guys gravitated toward the same beers, the same grocery stores, the same restaurants with goofy crap on the walls. Same with the Chevy guys. While the F-Series crew swigged Coors, took a drag off a Winston and picked a little pork out of their teeth before packing a pinch of Cope, the Silverado gang chucked their Bud can in the bushes and snuffed-out their Marlboro before creating an indistinguishable mix of rib sauce and Kodiak spit on their lower lip. The guys at the Bud bucket were talking about watching the race at Hooter’s the next day; the clan around the Coors cooler was just finishing their plans for the TGI Friday’s gathering.

Have these massive bodies of truck owners been dancing around each other for years? Or, had they picked the rest of their brands around staying as segregated as possible from the loathsome morons driving the other brand of truck? What must an entire life spent making so many choices from so few options, locked into a life course based on the path of 4 generations of men before you, be like? Not a man questioned it. Not a one wondered what the inside of a Toyota was like, or how their tongues would handle a Heineken, or if a few drags of Turkish Gold would produce a level of nicotine nirvana that changes one’s view of the world. Heck, these brands aren’t even reaching very far at all, and they’d be enough to set millions of worlds on tilt.

Just as I was on the brink of a sociological breakthrough, a big bastard named BJ wandered in wearing a way-too-tight black shirt with the genius slogan “I’d Rather Be Cummin’ Than Strokin’” in bright white letters stretched across his belly. A Dodge man was in the yard now. Allegiances were about to be declared. Let the red-faced drunken yelling and fist throwing begin. Then, the answer was so clear: all of the Chevy and Ford and Dodge hostility was fueled by blind hate and fear. These goons needed something to belong to—something that couldn’t tell them they couldn’t belong to it—so they felt some sense of identity though their souls were mostly voids with cancer stick residue and macro-brew foam as a slick lining. They lacked the mental capacity to accept things that are different. Not to do different things, but just to accept them. So they stacked their trucks with Chevy accessories and Ford accessories like the silver hairs on a Gorilla, wildly screamed at each other on the highways or the local Sonic, and came to blows any time they got close enough to do so. They’d never branch out or calm down, because they’d have nothing left if they did. They’d have to get to know themselves, which is the last person they’d ever want to hang out with. And, they could never admit this brand-loyalist BS has been a wasted life path for four generations now, so they push the fifth one right into the same thing. That way, they can at least relate.

Having finally found my answer, I made my next move by harnessing the same sensibility I learned in, oh, elementary school or so: I fled for the airport as fast as I could.