Dracula is a cowboy

When I was a younger girl, I became friends with a soon-to-be world traveler. This girl traveled the globe and settled for a good deal of time in London. There, in the large city, she met a man from Romania and fell deeply in love. When the holidays rolled around, both of us found ourselves together once more in the small Texas town called San Antonio, where we met and grew up together. The stories she brought home in a rich southern accent told the remarkable praise of a man far from her own homeland, but one whose culture aligned in values almost to perfection.

He seemed to be the dream for any good, strong-valued, Southern woman: driven by high conviction to do good for himself and others, to be a leader of the family and provider for the household, and motivated to push for a high level of autonomy for each individual to stand up against tyranny. It seemed that Romania, according to this first impression, had created a perfect generation of men for the Texas-born-and-raised woman.

All photos by a member of our team

This was my first impression of Romanians, but my first impression of Romania still happened to be the infamous stories told in American history books. Among the great historical events such as the Roman Empire, the Renaissance, Napoleon’s army, and World War II, the story of the Romanian ruler Vlad “the Impaler” took its place for many people as a hyperfixation legend of old. Myself included—many people would read and watch documentaries as their interest in the subject grew.

“The audacity of an evil man,” I told myself over and over—that this was the legacy left by Vlad. How could anyone commit such horrors? No wonder the myths leaving such a town became bloody and murderous in nature. “They must be embarrassed about this history.”

The immature thoughts of my younger self always assumed that this person was the evil character whom all people could rise up against to destroy. The history books and articles all covering him alluded to his suffering, disillusions, and lack of restraint—much like the Dracula we think of from the books.

So then, how could a person with such a history, born into the world, be a man so aligned in values with the girl I grew up with? How could two worldviews, originating from far away, cross paths so much? Something was off in the story I’d been told, and this would really only make sense in none other than the city of Bruxelles, Belgium.

Spending some time in Bruxelles, I met many interesting characters who offered their valuable and precious time to me—some of whom came from a Romanian background, as my most recent research took me to the city to study the demographics of this specific diaspora. Sitting across from a wide variety of people and listening to their stories, soon my worldview began to expand until the little myths of home felt small and insignificant.

In one particular meeting, I met with a girl around my own age named Myria. She was Romanian, born and raised, but had lived in Bruxelles for seven full years. Blonde, dark-eyed, and unmistakably Romanian in her facial structure, we sat across from each other over cups of tea. In front of me, I balanced my hands between my notepad and the gift box full of Romanian snacks she had compiled to give me a “taste of Romania.”

“You said your family is very important to you and that Romanians prefer to stay close to each other, so what brought you here?” I asked her with gentleness, understanding that this question required careful treading.

“Well, I wasn’t always going to stay here. I came for university, but with life and health issues, my story could only lead me to stay. I travel home often for holidays or just to visit, but Bruxelles has something to it. It is a city that holds me. It is my home.” Myria spoke with such a tone of love and maturity, and it held a reverence for the country she left.

A hundred times over, my mind connected the dots from all the similar conversations. She was not alone in this sentiment—nearly all the people I spoke to who deemed it fit to leave Romania had left with a deep love, pride, and respect, even if they did not dream of returning.

“There is the presence of God in the hills,” I recall the words from another local Romanian who spoke so richly of his people. “There is life there, freedom there, and family whom we love deeply.”

“We do not neglect our homes. Romanians leave to send money home, they come back in the end, and they raise their young with the same values.” So went the words of yet another Romanian in Belgium.

And so, the final words clung to my soul as I imagined the persona of Vlad the Impaler: “We know each other, we look out for each other, we will never hesitate to help one another despite the cost. We are family.”

So goes the legend of Vlad in the Romanian story—he is a hero who stood for a people weakened and threatened by the Ottoman Empire. They were violent in their methods against the Romanian people, threatening them with the same impalement for which we now attribute to Vlad. It was a near-massacre of such a people, the wiping out of a nationality—if it were not for a man who stood upon his convictions. This was a man who led his family to victory. A man who provided for the house of Romania. A man who believed in the autonomy of his people against the reign of tyranny that was the Ottoman Empire, within their context.

It seemed to me, upon reflection, that Dracula was deeply and profoundly Romanian—a defender of men, whose legacy has raised generations of like-minded values, though perhaps with a much lesser degree of extreme means.

Something in a Texan can understand this—and deeply respect it.