Three Soulful Lessons While Growing Up White

Looking back at defining personal moments in the 1970s with modern day contemplation

The world watches America. Sometimes it participates.

The horrific death of George Floyd in Minneapolis sparked a global outrage to support the Black Lives Matter movement. Streets in American cities swelled with peaceful protesters, opportunistic looters and overzealous police squads.

Race issues in America are a constant. Each generation gains a different perspective based on their cultural and personal influences. Growing up as a young, white teenager during the early 1970s left a considerable mark.

As an Air Force brat, I grew up in the hinterlands of rural Missouri, the happening vibe of Southern California and the hot flatlands of North Texas. There is no Boy Scout Handbook equivalent that teaches you the right way to think about race. It is a learned experienced.

Here are three lessons learned during those pivotal teenage years:

The Soul Train Letter

Knob Noster, Missouri, Whiteman Air Force Base. I lived on base housing on Summit Circle, a section designated for non-officer military families. Kids played touch football on the grassy field connecting our open backyards. I was 14-years-old, loved basketball and watched music shows like American Bandstand and Soul Train.

It was the early Seventies, a mix of pop, rock ‘n’ roll and soul blasted from the radio and TV. As a white kid in the middle of America, I listened to everything: Elton John, The Isley Brothers, Rare Earth, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Three Dog Night, The O’Jays, America, The Spinners, War and The Doobie Brothers, to name just a few.

On Saturdays, I sat in front of the TV to catch the latest records from the Top 40 and Motown. Dick Clark hosted American Bandstand. His slick hair and basic business suit and tie came straight out of 1956, the year he started the show. Don Cornelius hosted Soul Train. His blown-out afro, deep voice and sharp-colored suits set the tone for “the hippest trip in America.”

Bandstand played the hits; Soul Train satisfied my expanding musical palate. Both shows gave young, attractive dancers a chance to shine on the national spotlight. As a skinny teen, I craved the songs and flipped out over the cute girls.

One day I got a letter in the mailbox. It was a simple white envelope with a letter from Soul Train Productions. That’s odd, I thought. Inside the one-page note read like a standard business communication:

As a devoted fan of the Soul Train program, the company wants to reward your dedicated viewership with a special gift. We will be sending a package to your home address with a free, full year’s supply of Afro Sheen.

Say what! Could this be real? It befuddled my white boy senses. In case you’re confused, Afro Sheen, a major hair-care product, sponsored Soul Train. My hair is straight and sandy blonde.

I suspected dirty tricks, but from whom and why. I examined the letter and envelope over and over looking for clues. It was impossible to pinpoint any culprits. It took a few more days to figure out the truth. The postmark stamp hit the final nail in the coffin: “May 16, 1972; Jefferson City, Missouri 65101”. Busted!

I felt confident that the national headquarters of Soul Train Productions was not located in the Missouri countryside. A simple scam using an old envelope and some creative writing.

My older brother, JR, hung out with the Epperly twins, who lived just two houses away. Doug and David visited our home often and we all played games outdoors with the neighborhood gang. The twins couldn’t resist teasing and torturing all the younger kids as a right of passage.

One day they pelted me with questions about my taste in music. That triggered the end of the ruse and they fessed up after a good laugh. I never knew why they did it. Was it just a good joke? Did they harbor ill feelings? Or was it just a tribal thing to choose white shows over black shows?

A new show called American Soul highlights the struggles of producing Soul Train against the dominance of Bandstand and the white power structure. It reveals a lot about the culture of times. I never thought about how hard it was to beat the system and gain ground for your people. I was just trying to get into the groove with “love, peace … and Soul!”

The California Wake

Redlands, California. The following year, the Air Force transferred my dad to Norton Air Force Base, 60 miles east of Los Angeles. Military brats learn to transition on the fly. One year it’s Benny’s Pond and lighting firecrackers stuffed in the mouths of perch fish, the next year it’s trying to find your cool factor in sunny southern Cal.

In 1973, only sophomores, juniors and seniors attended Redlands High School. So it felt like I was redoing my freshman year. California schools differed from midwest schools with far more Black, Hispanic and Asian students. I tried out for the sophomore basketball team and managed to secure the last position on the bench. I also decided to try out track and ran respectable times in the 440 yard dash and mile relay.

As noted earlier, my father was not an officer. He ranked as a staff sergeant and worked as a mess hall supervisor. Neither position is high ranking, nor high paying. With five kids, we lived in very modest housing on a busy street across from a gun shop.

I spent countless days playing hoops at the local basketball courts. On the weekends, David Flores and I jogged through the city streets and orange groves. At school, I hung out with the basketball guys, but I knew a lot of the football players too. All of us mingled in the gym, on campus or in the classroom.

In the spring of 1974, a football player died after a motorcycle accident. I attended the wake at the family’s backyard swimming pool to pay respects. I didn’t know the deceased very well, but I was not a stranger to the other football players there.

I remember sitting poolside trying to nibble a snack off a paper plate when one of the guys stood nearby with a quirky smile. He looked at me and said, “How’s it feel to hang out with white guys?” It startled me wide-eyed a bit. First, I thought it was an odd time to ask that question. And second, I never thought it mattered to anyone.

It’s hard to say if the question was just a funny comment or a statement of attitude. Even after 45 years, that moment sticks in my mind. I still see the seats around the pool, the backs of the crowd and the questioner’s smug face.

The Marvin Gaye Record

Wichita Falls, Texas. My dad retired from the military in the summer of 1974, so the family moved back to Texas. I reunited with my best friend, Zac Ellis, from the third grade.

As 16-year-olds, we joined forces every day to escape the doldrums of damn hot Red River summers. Zac and his older brother, Lee, lived in a duplex apartment with their single mom, who supported them on her late husband’s Railroad Retirement pension. She drove a 1970 grass green, 2-door, column-shifting Ford Maverick nicknamed Ralph.

Ma Ellis was an original. She grew up in East Coast high society and toughed it out alone in Texas. She cooked the worst looking flat-white pancakes that somehow tasted dandy. She mastered the white Wonder Bread, single-slice cheese sandwich with mayo, served with a side of Lay’s potato chips and a dill pickle. Her hamburger patties swam in a pan of hot water atop the stove. She earned extra money working at the Econowash laundromat across the street, where we slotted coins in the pop machine for a cold RC Cola or Nehi Grape soda.

Zac, Lee, my brother JR and I lounged all summer in the heat and humidity of that apartment. A workhorse refrigerated air-conditioner cooled off the main room. In the back bedrooms, evaporative swamp coolers blew sticky, warm blasts of air.

A HiFi stereo console, pushed against the wall, stood as the only valuable piece of furniture. We flipped the top open and stacked 45s or an album on the spindle to drop and spin. On one stuffy afternoon, Lee slide out a vinyl record and started to play Marvin Gaye’s exceptional album, Let’s Get It On. The title song was the first track on side one. It landed at #4 on Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 1973.

As we waited for the next track to begin, the HiFi stereo mechanics clacked and clicked. The needle settled on the grooves and the first track played again for the second time. It’s a great song, so we let it ride. Each time the tune finished, the stereo repeated the process. After a few more rounds, everyone except Lee wanted to hear the other tracks.

Lee is the stubborn older brother. He commandeered the stereo and didn’t allow any of us to fix the player. For the next hour Marvin sang that hit track at least 20 to 30 times.

I never soured on Marvin Gaye, instead I gained immense respect for his musical genius. Years later I studied forestry and worked on environmental issues. A big influence on me was Marvin’s socially-conscious concept album, What’s Going On. In 1971, this African-American urban soul singer wrote a song about the ecology:

Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)

Whoa, ah, mercy mercy me
Oh things ain't what they used to be, no no
Where did all the blue skies go?
Poison is the wind that blows from the north and south and east

Whoa mercy, mercy me,
Oh things ain't what they used to be, no no
Oil wasted on the oceans and upon our seas, fish full of mercury

Ah, oh mercy, mercy me
Ah things ain't what they used to be, no no
Radiation under ground and in the sky
Animals and birds who live nearby are dying

Oh mercy,…

Nothing about Marvin Gaye was normal. The artist hit on all Motown cylinders.

I still don’t know how four teenage Texas white boys come to revel in the sexy soulfulness of Marvin Gaye? I was already crazy about Jimi Hendrix and Sly Stone, but they were Rock ‘n’ Roll. And Soul Train tutored my mainstream Motown education.

All of these memories are powerful. They stay with you from 16 to 60. They filter into your psyche and provide food for thought and fuel for action. Is it any harder to transition from the Black is Beautiful movement to #BlackLivesMatter?

A global audience awaits the outcome of the continuing American experiment. If we learn our lessons and “play that funky music white boy”, we might be alright.

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My appreciation to you for taking the time to read these selections and essays. I hope you find some enjoyment and insights about the world we live in. Thanks for supporting and sharing Continental Drift.

— Rick Scobi (@rickscobi)