I wrote about living in Texas before. We found ourselves, after some minor drama, living in a two-room shack by the highway in a town that was pure culture shock to me. I had been influenced by Virginians around Norfolk in my "formative" years...living in an institutionalized bigotry...learning by absorption. But Lampasas, Texas was something altogether different. In Lampasas, bigotry was a decision, meaness a choice, and intolerance was a matter of pride. In my life, Norfolk and Lampasas were separated by more than twenty years, years spent in multi-cultural communities all over the States and parts of the rest of the world. I had some rough edges that had had to be filed down when I first joined the Army, but by the time I arrived in Texas I was more influenced by shared experiences with soldiers of all races, creeds and religions than I was by the good folks in Norfolk.
Lampasas was a small town that reminded me more of the fictional town of Sparta from the movie "In the Heat of the Night" than anything I envisioned about Texas. The town center was a square block with the county courthouse in the middle. The rest of the town radiated out from there. The Dairy Queen was the social center of town (there was a "gentlemen's club" out by the spillway, a private establishment that charged enough for membership to keep the undesirables out. It was the only place in the county where you could buy an alcoholic drink; the county was dry). The richest man in town drove an old beat up Ford pick up and wore Levis and a denim jacket and owned as many oil wells as he did cattle.
The Sheriff was a pot-bellied, Stetson-wearing, tobacco-chewing or cigar-chomping (alternatively), mountain of a man who wore cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes and carried a pistol with NOTCHES ON THE HANDLE. I made the mistake of getting on his bad side right away. I had purchased a new Plymouth in Germany through the PX. When I registered it the first time, the clerk at the registration office in Heidelberg felt like writing the whole VIN was too much trouble so she only entered the last six or seven digits on the form. When I got to Texas, I needed to get Texas plates (they don't let you drive around on USAREUR plates for long) and that required a trip to the courthouse. The clerk looked at my papers and directed me to the Sheriff's office to get the VIN verified. In the Sheriff's office, I apparently interupted a really good BS session. While the Sheriff looked over my USAREUR rgistration form, one of the other guys asked me how I liked the Old West. I foolishly pointed out that it wasn't too bad, considering I had to drive 1500 miles EAST to get there. That was the beginning of sorrows. The Sheriff gave me a sidelong glare, then told me there weren't enough numbers in my VIN; couldn't be right. We walked out to the car to check it out. I explained about the clerk in Heidelberg, but the Sheriff wasn't interested. I finally gave up arguing, swallowed my pride, and pleaded for mercy. That did it. The "Power Sneer" appeared and with the promise that I would definitely "owe him one", he signed off on my papers.
I went into the clerk's office to complete my actions. The Sheriff was out in the hall talking to someone about a guy who had moved into the "Messcan" side of town, speculating that he must think he was one or maybe he just liked wallowin' around wi' em. There was some laughter and more comments of an unflattering nature. I paid my fees, collected my plates, and headed for the door. The Sheriff's conversation stopped as I passed and just as I was at the door, he gave me that sneer again and a tap to the brim of his Stetson that resembled a salute but bore no vestige of respect in it. It was weeks later that I realized that the subject of that conversation about the boy who lived in the "Messcan" part of town was me. For the rest of the time that I lived in Lampasas, I had numerous vists and conversations with one deputy or another; car too loud, took off too fast, safety checks, dog was scaring the neighbor kids, etc, etc. Turns out that the "Messcans" weren't anymore fond of my living in their midst than the white folk were. There was some other unpleasantnesses, apparently it was ok for he little kids next door to throw rocks and tease my dog but it was not ok for my dog to bark at them for it. A deputy told me that a neighbor of mine said he would shoot my dog if I couldn't control him. I reminded the deputy that under Texas law, it was a felony to kill an animal valued at more than $250.00, so if the neighbor shot my dog the deputy would have to arrest him and I would press charges. Further endearing me to the local law enforcement.
But in Texas there is one language that everyone understands. I went out and bought a 30-06 rifle, sat out on the front porch and spent some time cleaning it up real good. The neighbor kids stayed away from the dog and I didn't get anymore visits from the law. I still got stopped occasionally. But we moved to Copperas Cove, a town about 15 miles closer to post, just a couple months later. I was really glad to be out of Lampasas.
Looking back now, I can see that a lot of the problems I had there were my own fault. I have always been a bit of a smart ass and I really don't like authority figures who wield that authority unrighteously. We had some good times there; swimming in the spillway, people-watching while slurping Dr Pepper and Root beer freezes at the DQ, and just sharing time with friends. But the bigotry was not my imagination and my smart mouth didn't create it or aggravate it. It was a strange place, a strange time. A friend of ours had problems with the locals because he was Cuban (when he was referred to as Mexican, he would passionately insist he was cuban) and happened to be married to a girl who appeared to be white (she was of Cuban ancestry but had no accent at all). Their baby, who had normal vitals right up to birth was born dead. She felt that they had delayed labor unnecessarily and no reasonable explanation was ever given. Of course, they could have talked to the Sheriff about it...the one with the notches on his pistol.