Here's What July 4th Teaches About Being Both American And Texan

DALLAS, TX —Growing up on the Texas border in El Paso gives you a unique perspective about America.

When I arrived there, Pancho's had just opened. My stepfather moved us from New York to El Paso after the school year. I later learned as an adult that I pitched a fit upon discovering that the Alamo was nowhere nearby, because Davy Crockett was my childhood hero.

Just before my first 4th of July there, my stepfather, who was stationed at Ft. Bliss, took me and my sisters downtown in June to wave to President Kennedy. I did, and he waved back. Later that day, he made plans to return in the fall to campaign in Dallas.

I remember that first July 4th as being the hottest weather I'd ever experienced in my short life, but that no one else seemed to mind a bit. In fact, there was an orchestra set up in the park playing big band hits from the swing era. My parents, like most, told me rock and roll was junk that wouldn't last more than another year or two, but that this was what real music was supposed to sound like.

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When the band broke into Louis Prima's "Sing Sing Sing," I could have sworn it was rock and roll. The paunchy middle-aged guy plucking his stand up bass started thumping it wildly and then began to spin it as though his instrument was the hottest lady in the dance hall. After, there was ice cold watermelon and I learned it's wise in West Texas to stay in water up to your nostrils for as much time as possible between May and October.

I attended Texas Tech during the disco years and learned how to spin ladies around the dance floor in real time. Since Lubbock was dry, we'd always make a big deal out of Independence Day by throwing a huge party with trashcan punch from The Strip and some poor guy huddled for three days at his smoker making sure there was enough brisket, ribs, chicken and sausage for all concerned.

Tech was pretty insulated from the America of Watergate, SNL, gas shortages and even what was happening in music. The one record on everyone's shelf was not Saturday Night Fever, it was Viva Terlingua, the Jerry Jeff Walker album with such anthems as "Up Against The Wall, Redneck Mother" and "Sangria Wine." Often in the dorms, you could hear people singing, "I wanna go home with the Armadillo..." until the wee hours.

There was one connection to the outside world that unexpectedly arrived years later: John W. Hinckley, Jr., who sat behind me in magazine writing class, would go on to shoot Ronald Reagan.

On and off, my friends and I would head into Dallas, where the bright lights awaited. There were concerts by The Who, Chicago, The Beach Boys and The Rolling Stones. And then I got called to Austin.

I decided it was the best place for me and my journalism career. I scored an interview there with Barbara Jordan, landed a job at The Austin American-Statesman and then spent my July 4ths either on Lake Travis, up the road in Dallas, or, if someone had a way to beat the humidity, Houston. All of Texas became my playground.

I moved to LA for a few years, but left for Texas again after the Rodney King riots and the Northridge earthquake. We arrived back on the Fourth of July in 1992. Here's how I knew I was back in familiar territory. We stopped at a roadside cafe where the scent of every kind of barbecue known to man was wafting out from a glass display case so steamy its contents were barely visible.

"That smells . . . like home," I sighed to the lady behind the counter, explaining that LA wasn't what we'd hoped for or expected.

She reached into the case, cut a thick wedge from the brisket inside and, reaching over the counter, handed it to me with her bare fingers — in the kind of health code violation you'd never witness in Los Angeles without someone being fired on the spot.

"Welcome back," she said, beaming.

I ate every morsel.

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