Utterances of racism 52 years ago persist indelibly in memory

Holy Week, 1967. I was on my six-month active duty obligation at Laredo Air Force Base, assigned to the 3640th USAF Hospital, serving in the 474th Medical Service Flight (USAF Reserve). I’d gotten there on Jan. 15, at 146 pounds,16 pounds heavier than six weeks earlier, thanks to Uncle Sam’s basic training at Lackland AFB in San Antonio.

I made good friends at LAFB’s hospital. My work companion, Airman 1st Class Tommy Scott asked if I would take one week leave and fly to Georgia to retrieve his 1964 Ford Galaxy XL (390 cubic inches of Thunderbird V8) and drive it back from Vidalia, GA. Interstate 10 didn’t exist yet, so the trip back promised adventure.

Tommy decided to party with friends in Atlanta before returning to Texas. Why not? Party hardy, I was 21 years old, after all. We started back Easter weekend. 

We left Atlanta on Good Friday. The Galaxy’s transmission went bad, I was driving that night, so I pulled over, opened the door and peeked under the car while sitting in the driver’s seat. Orange flames were shooting out, Scotty opened his door and started running from the car. I got out and started throwing dirt up under the car and managed to extinguish the fire. Scotty came back. It was after 11 p.m., so he suggested we spend the night on the road’s shoulder. I tried to sleep across the two bucket seats. Scotty was in back. Our AF Blue uniforms hung on the rear hooks.

Within a few minutes there was rapping on my window. It was raining, but Scotty told me to roll my window down and find out who was there. I rolled the window about two inches. It was a county deputy. I’d just seen In the Heat of the Night with Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger, and this is what the officer reminded me of when I heard his voice. Once we showed our leave forms and he saw our Air Force uniforms hanging in back (We got military discounts on Eastern Airlines wearing our blues.), he said it was dangerous sleeping on the roadside and “suggested” we be in protective custody. 

I can’t forget the creaking steel door at the Palmetto, Georgia jail as the deputy opened it. He turned on the light and I remember it was a small two-cell jail. I distinctly remember the words painted on the wall. There were two black arrows on the wall, above the left arrow was the word “Colored” and the right had “White”. The deputy looked at me, then down at my ID, saying “I don’t know which side to put you in. I guess I’ll let you stay with your buddy, ‘cause there’s a couple of drunk niggers on the left.” After locking us up, he said he’d come for us at 8 a.m. He did. He dropped us off at a mechanic’s shop that offered tow service. We went to a little cafe for breakfast. It was the first time in my life I ever tasted grits. The transmission was replaced. Scotty still owes me $48 cash. He transferred to Elmendorf AFB, Alaska and I haven’t seen nor heard from him since.

We started back that same day, the night drive through Louisiana was eerie. We didn’t stop until we drove into Houston on Easter Sunday at 9 a.m. My uncle Marcos Rodriguez and my aunt Dolores fed us breakfast followed by Pearl beer.

We were back in Laredo by 5 p.m., at which time I called my girlfriend to tell her of my adventure. Damn, some things remain indelible in memory! It’s weird how the people at last week’s Republican “Save America” rally here in Laredo revived those memories from fifty-two years ago like it was yesterday.