The Inspiring Story of One Man's Service to His Country -and How It
Saved His Life
Growing up
poor and black in the segregated South, Robert knew he had to do
something with his life if he was to avoid an eternal prison of poverty.
Like so many others, he found an escape hatch in the United States Army.
But then he got a whole lot more than he bargained for. Robbobell
chronicles Robert's remarkable journey from messed-up kid to GI, drill
instructor and finally, educator. This candid and often humorous memoir
takes readers behind the scenes of black life in the 1950s South, when
saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could earn a potentially
dangerous rebuke. From there, the narrative moves to Robert's Army
experiences as he yearns for a better life. Through boot camp, jump
school and service in Vietnam with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, Robert
learns the core values in wartime; staying alive and looking out for
your buddies; don't include anything about race. What follows is an
edge-of-your-seat narrative of survival spiced with the realities of
drug use in the military during the 1970's and 80's. But with help from
the Lord and Robert's beloved soul mate, Jackie, he builds an
impressive, globetrotting military career; while never forgetting how to
have a good time. Robbobell: The Scars of a Painful but Wonderful Past,
is an unsanitized, enlightening look at the challenges faced by millions
of African Americans during segregation. It is the story of how the Army
molded a young man to withstand the enormous pitfalls of his time. And
it is about an important period of American history that we simply
cannot afford to ignore.
He grew up in the rural South, riding stick horses through the
woods. He was forever day-dreaming of far off exotic places.
Spiderman and Dare-Devil were his childhood heroes. After deciding
that working on the farm or a life of fishing to support oneself was
boring, he departed for the U. S. Army, with a tour in Vietnam. He
has a love for the Lord, antique cars, a good debate, and beautiful
beaches. He truly believes in a loving and sharing relationship with
the one love of his life, Jackie.
He married his high school sweetheart and from what seems to be an
unending love affair, came two sons. When Robert is not laboring
away teaching his students in the classroom, he and his lovely wife
Jackie, enjoy relaxing at the beach. He finds the beach a place of
comfort, and relaxation, especially during the winter months. In
addition, he has gospel and golden oldies on the same play list on
his MP-3 Player.
EXCERPT
My mind flashes back to a town and time of innocence that has long passed, even
for Jackie. It was a time when “yes sir and no ma’am” were the norm. Any other
words coming out of a child’s mouth would have probably ended with a whipping.
There have been times when I’ve prayed to be able to return to those days of
innocence…. Back to those days of yester year! God has brought me through so
much, and was at work in my life long before I started to praise Him. I’ve been
told that until God “brings you through some things,” you don’t have a
testimony. Well, I can testify all day long and part of the night! On a daily
basis Father forces me to remember the childhood of this poor, but happy, little
Negro boy running along the Pamlico River bank behind the crab house, the potato
graters and the oil refineries. The days of yester year were an era when a
little boy’s time was spent daydreaming while riding his favorite stick horse.
It was a time when a little Negro boy galloping at full speed, would slap
himself on the butt in an effort to get his stallion to gallop even faster.
Cowboys and Indians were the daily game. When you were poor in the rural
segregated South you had to be extremely creative to have fun. Ambushes were
constant and occasional fist fights broke out when someone didn’t want to play
fair.
Suddenly, I hear a voice far off in the distance over and through the trees in
the woods. It’s a voice with which I’m intimately familiar. It’s Aunt Veta and
she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, “Rob---bo---bell your mama’s looking
for you.” That was the signal to stop chasing rabbits, looking for bird nests,
playing cowboys and Indians, and finding new hiding places for the day. I
imagine myself racing at full throttle to get home because Grandmamma’s patience
was always short. The world according to Grandmamma was extremely simple:
children must be obedient and listen to adults or pay the cost for their
disobedience. And Grandmamma took her role extremely seriously. To insure
discipline was maintained, Grandmamma had her very own war wall. It consisted
of a switch, a leather belt, and an electrical cord. Trust me, your crime
pre-determined the weapon Grandmamma would chose to carry out your sentence.
Besides, it was an era where any parent could discipline any child and nobody,
not even the child thought a thing of it.
My little home town of Aurora, North Carolina was extremely small and a quiet
place for children to grow up. We boasted a population of about five hundred
people. It was a town that didn’t have a McDonald’s, Burger King, Family
Dollar, Woolworth’s Five and Dime, or any other brand name store. If we wanted
to eat out, we just took our plate outdoors and ate. Um! Um! Good! If we
wanted to find a brand name store we had to somehow find a way to Washington or
New Bern, North Carolina to shop. This was a thirty mile journey for a family
without transportation. On Saturdays we could catch the bus to the “big towns”
if we really wanted to shop but we had to find our own way back.
Aurora was a place where segregation was typical. It was the word of the day,
everyday. Aurora was a community controlled by the rich White folks; and the
Negroes and Whites coexisted in pretty much harmony. The towns’ people pretty
much were farmers, lumbermen, or fishermen, but none of these jobs paid well for
the Negro community. The better paying jobs were always reserved for the White
employees. Aurora was a small rural town nestled along the scenic Pamlico
Sound. A usual day would find most men just sitting on wooden soda bottle
crates drinking Wild Irish Rose wine or “Nigger in the Woods” (illegally made
liquor). Stories were abundant and laughter was plentiful. One or two men at a
time would drift into the barber shop and Bro. James would cut their hair. Work
was seasonal and the bosses of the town knew where to find workers for odd
jobs. But there were a few men like Mr. Fruit Cannon, Mr. Ficture, Mr. Jenkins
and a few others who carpooled to Cherry Point (Marine Base) daily for work.
The women were totally focused on the house work. It was as if the women’s
chores around the house never, ever ended, and the men’s chores never, ever
began. A typical day for Mama and the other women would find them cooking,
wringing out clothes, and hanging them on the clothes line for drying. In
addition, the women also found occasional work at the crab house. Working at
the crab house was brutal and a girl’s rite of passage into womanhood.
The women arrived at the crab house at six o’clock in the morning Monday through
Friday. Each lady would be wearing anything that she didn’t mind destroying.
Her work equipment consisted of a plastic apron, a crab knife, bandages, and a
bottle of iodine. Each would select a white stool and sit at a table filled
with cooked crabs. Her mission was then to pick the meat from the crab shell
during the next ten grueling hours. Throughout the day they would carry the
meat up to a window to be weighed and credited to their account. They were paid
twenty-five cents per pound. By the end of the day, every woman had red iodine-
bandaged fingers. Their fingers were always swollen and extremely sore. So
often their fingers were so swollen from getting stuck with the knife or the
pointy ends of the crab that they looked like grounded up hamburgers. But they
never complained! The temperature in the crab house was at least a hundred
degrees everyday. The boss had large fans on each end of the building blowing
the hot air around. Big Jon (the boss) would sit in his air conditioned office
all day smoking a stinking ass cigar. The place was damp throughout the entire
building all day, everyday. Each Friday the ladies who worked at the crab house
picked up a small brown envelope with about twenty-five dollar for their
troubles. The crab house wasn’t anything but a legalized southern sweat shop,
but not one of us ever complained. We didn’t want to deal with the problems it
would cause.
As children however we were able to run, play and dream of far off places that
we would never see. We spent hours reading DC and Marvel comic books like
Spider Man, Daredevil, Thor, Superman, Batman,
Fantastic Four, Hulk , X-Men and any others that we could
get our hands on. We traded comic books among ourselves because we
were “Mo-moneyless.” As Grandmamma would always say, “we didn’t have
a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out.” In other words, our days were
spent just finding ways to have fun after all chores were done.
Robbobell:
Scars of a Painful but Wonderful Past
