Troop 625

I was a Boy Scout once.  If I remember correctly, it was for about 3 years, beginning somewhere around the time I was 12/13.  I absolutely hated it.  Boy Scout Troop 625, Clio, SC.  Our meetings were on Wednesday nights @ 7 p.m.; our hut was a little wooden building about ½ mile from my house.  There was this one house I had to walk past that had dogs.  I still remember the fear of not knowing whether they were going to pick this week to chase me home or not.  For some reason, they never seemed to bother me when I was on the way to Scout meeting.  In my memories, the hut is always cold when I arrive, though I know that couldn’t have been the case in the spring/summer.  The mind is funny that way.  You ever wonder how many of your memories are actually memories, and how many of them are revisions of what REALLY happened?

Anyway, I was the first (and only) black member of the troop.  My brother joined a couple of years later, but I was on my way out by then.  My Scouting experience has been one of the few times I intensely felt like an outsider.  I NEVER felt like I belonged.  For one, I just wasn’t gung-ho on camping like most of the others.  I couldn’t enjoy our canoe trips, or our tubing trips down the Chattooga River because of my inability to swim.  Try spending 12 consecutive hours fighting panic and see how you like it.  The biggest reason I think I never “fit in” is because of some preconceived racial/socioeconomic baggage I brought with me.

You see, the rest of my troop was white.  And they went to Marlboro Academy, the private school in the county.  Many of their parents taught in the public school system, but they sent their kids to the private school.  We (the black kids) were taught that the reason the private school existed had nothing to do with academics – it was strictly an option to integration.  In short, they didn’t want their kids interacting with US – which was fine, in that the public school and academy kids didn’t cross paths much.  We assumed they didn’t like us, and called us n-----s when safely within the confines of their precious academy, so therefore we didn’t like them.  I have no idea how accurate that picture is or was, but I do know that that’s the picture I had in my head as I tried to become part of the Scouts.

As a result, I held back.  I was polite, somewhat friendly, etc.  But I refused to completely “buy in”, so to speak, partially because I didn’t completely trust the other guys.  Looking back, I never had any problems with any of the guys.  Many of them went out of their way to make me feel welcome.  I just couldn’t shake my preconceived notions.  Couldn’t shake them.  When we were having fun, I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop – the racist joke (“No offense, Mike), the “accidental” use of a racial epithet…  To my knowledge, it only happened once, and it was perpetrated by someone who came into the troop after I did.  Even though I know better, there is still a large part of me that wishes I’d knocked him into next week.  What made it worse is that I don’t (and didn’t then) think he said what he said to be mean – I think he thought what he was saying was acceptable and OK.

Once I got into high school sports my practices interfered with attending Scout meetings, and I eventually stopped going altogether.  My brother pretty much stopped when I did.  I do wish I could go back and interact with those fellas again without my biases.  Most of them were good guys; several of them went to Clemson.  We occasionally crossed paths, and exchanged pleasantries.  I lament the missed opportunity to forge stronger and longer-lasting relationships.

Scouting wasn’t all bad though.  We had a memorable campout on the beach, where I found out that sand gets EVERYWHERE.  There was a five-mile hike, followed by the planting of hundreds of pine trees that ended up being very enjoyable; and there were trips to Carowinds that were quite pleasurable.  And I did learn to tie a bunch of knots.  I think the Scouts are a good thing; perhaps the boys will get to experience it.