Baddest Troop Alive: The Story of Inner City Troop 1135

By Steve Hauser

There was a new gang in the ‘hood, Troop 1135. How did it survive? And did it make a difference? Baddest Troop Alive is the story of inner city black and Hispanic Boy Scouts and their young naïve white scoutmaster. The troop spanned the ten years following the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1968, a time of civil unrest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626752863

Book preview

1908

Part I

Tenderfoot Times, 1968 – 1969

Chapter 1

Start ‘Er Up

Get Whitey. What was that? In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of boys’ voices. I tilted my ear toward the sound – it was definitely not the Vienna Boys Choir. In the dimming light of dusk, I could barely see my scouts as they neared our Redwoods campsite. Are those clubs and rocks in their hands? As the voices grew louder, I could finally be sure about the words. Get whitey. Get whitey. I knew who whitey was. I couldn’t believe my inner city Boy Scouts cried for the blood of the only person who ever took them anywhere. I had to think fast.

You may well be wondering how a nice Presbyterian white boy from a little town in Southern California, ended up in this perplexing, if not downright dangerous, situation.

Well, it all started in the summer of 1968, three years after the Watts Riot and three months after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Wednesday, July 31, 1968, was a day I’ll never forget – my first meeting as a scoutmaster. The dimming light of the setting sun filtered through the tall trees and hills of Westwood, an affluent area of Los Angeles, the site of my school, the University of California at Los Angeles. I lived on Fraternity Row, just off the UCLA campus and a block or two from where many wealthy Angelenos (sports heroes, movie actors, politicians and the like) lived. Just before slinking out the door of my second floor room of the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity house, I had pulled on a long-sleeved flannel shirt, preferring to sweat in the warmth of the midsummer evening rather than take the chance that someone would see me in my crisp, olive-green scoutmaster’s uniform. (Not that I was ashamed, exactly – but no college man wants to seen as a goody-goody or a square, even if he might actually be one, just around the edges.) I crept down the carpeted stairs, through the foyer, and out the front door of our stately, newly remodeled Tudor-style house.

It was approaching dusk by the time I and my tired ‘56 Ford made our muffler-sputtering way toward Willowbrook, a nearly all-black area, just south of Watts and north of Compton. Willowbrook was an unincorporated area of Los Angeles County that no city seemed to want, and little wonder. It was poor, shabby and run down, as were many of the people who lived there: mostly black, with a sprinkling of Hispanics for spice.

I was on my way to the first meeting of newly formed Troop 1135. My mind raced with concerns of what I was about to do as I exited the Harbor Freeway at Imperial Highway, the very street where many commuters had been dragged from their cars and beaten during the 1965 uprising. Would these poor black kids relate to me and I to them? I drove past the corner of Imperial and Avalon, images of what had occurred there just three years earlier playing behind my eyes like television news footage – flames and smoke, breaking glass, angry dark faces. Was it really all about race? A full city block of barren, uneven cement with weeds poking through cracks here and there stood as a monument to broken dreams and pervasive despair. This had been a Safeway store and a small shopping center, the only one in Willowbrook, before it had been burned to the ground. Why would people burn down their only shopping center?

Most of what passed for housing along Imperial Highway consisted of run-down apartment buildings with peeling paint, bars on the windows, and asphalt yards where, in any other part of town, grass would be. Shabby-looking liquor stores squatted on nearly every other corner, faded signage adding to the overall sense of poverty and sadness. Aren’t there any trees in Willowbrook? Not a willow to be found. Neither was the irony of the street name lost on me – there was nothing imperial about this stretch of city-street. I glanced down one residential side street and noticed a mixture of crummy, neglected houses, with yards to match, alongside neat houses with mowed and edged lawns. Apparently at least some people here have a ray of hope.

While I was stopped at a red light, near the Imperial Courts housing project, a group of black teens crossed the street in front of me, turning their heads toward me as if choreographed. Each boy gave me a cold stare, their eyes seeming to ask, What are you doing here, white boy? I shuddered at the thought, wondering myself. I’d been to Willowbrook several times before, but never after dark. I involuntarily cringed just thinking of getting a flat tire in this neighborhood. At a lanky six feet tall, straight sandy hair and hazel eyes set in a boyish face that made me look even younger than I was, and not so much as a good base tan, I was a dictionary illustration of White Boy.

I pulled up to the Willowbrook Job Corps building, a dilapidated wooden structure that housed local activist Jimmy Brown’s employment agency and community center. Aretha Franklin’s Think faded out on the car radio. It was as if the Queen of Soul was singing directly to the nervous white boy behind the wheel of the clunky Ford: You’d better think about what you’re trying to do… Despite my apprehension, I suppressed my fears. This was the Sixties: I was determined to do my bit for the Civil Rights Movement.

In 2008, a black man was elected President of the United States. In 1968, no way, José. If Barack Obama had run for President in 1968, he would never have come close to winning any primary, let alone the general election. At that time, nearly all black Americans suffered daily doses of discrimination and prejudice. President Lyndon Johnson had pushed through the Civil Rights Act in 1964, raising expectations, but kept America at war in Vietnam, with black troops doing more than their share of the fighting, and the dying. Despite the new antidiscrimination laws, little seemed to have changed for the vast majority of black Americans – unemployment, poverty, and unabashed bigotry were still rampant, country-wide. Black Americans had had enough and were in the midst of a struggle for equality. Martin Luther King, Jr., and his Southern Christian Leadership Conference had peacefully marched for racial equality in Selma, Alabama; we had watched on television from the comfort of our suburban living rooms as white and black Freedom Riders suffered brutal beatings in Mississippi; we had seen the aftermath of the bombing of a black church in Birmingham, Alabama, that had caused the deaths of four little black girls; and we had stared in disbelief as Black Panthers proudly waved rifles and shotguns for the news cameras, shouting, Off the pigs! and Black power!

During the hot Southern California August of 1965, right after I graduated from Redlands High School, I’d watched the television coverage of the Watts Riot – angry black people yelling, Get Whitey! and then pulling white men from their cars and beating them mercilessly; angry black people breaking into businesses (some of them black-owned) and carting off merchandise; angry black people burning their own neighborhood stores to smoldering cinders as they chanted, Burn, baby, burn! I had wondered how so many people could be so enraged and so lawless. I knew that blacks were not treated equally, especially down South, but I’d honestly believed things were far better in Southern California, particularly in Los Angeles. Reaction to the riots seemed to polarize white Los Angeles into two extremes - those who thought all black people were criminals, and those who got the message that something needed fixing in the inner city. I was decidedly in the latter group. Those vivid images of violence and hatred stayed with me throughout my college years. A sociology class required that I read Robert E. Conot’s analysis of the Watts riots, Rivers of Blood, Years of Darkness, which told about the prejudice and frustration of blacks trying to achieve the American Dream. But by the spring of 1968, I knew reading wasn’t enough - I had wanted to see the inner city and its racial problems firsthand.

Hair was playing on Broadway, and James Brown’s I’m Black and I’m Proud was playing on the radio – both the play and the song were revolutionary their own ways; and both were scandalous and just plain frightening to many people. The war in Vietnam, nearly eight years running, was raging hot, and anti-war protests filled the streets of urban America. At the same time, hippies in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district and elsewhere, grooved to psychedelic music, smoked marijuana, and held love-ins (not that I was any too sure what exactly went on at a love-in). Young people wanted change in society, and that included me. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, and, even though I was no hippy – actually I was a short-haired, church-going college student - I didn’t want to be left behind. I was seriously contemplating how I was going to change society when, in April of 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. That put me over the edge. I had to do something – and soon.

As a twenty-one-year-old white UCLA student from Redlands, a small Southern California town (about thirty thousand people in 1968, sixty-five miles east of Los Angeles), I had never come close to experiencing racism, or even observing it first-hand – if only because I never mixed much with the few minorities in town. The blacks and Hispanics in Redlands lived on the poor north side of town, and few were in any of my classes or headed to college. But my parents had brought me up with a strong sense of justice and fairness. They told me how it bothered them that minorities were not allowed to buy a house on the south side, or to swim in the municipal pool, except on the day before they changed the water. By the time I graduated from high school, I began to think about how I could be a part of the struggle for racial equality. I wanted to make a difference. That summer in 1968, I decided how I would make a difference: I would do my part for the Civil Rights Movement by leading a minority Boy Scout troop.

It was a natural. Scouting was something I knew intimately, inside and out. While I realized many people my age, including most of my Lambda Chi fraternity brothers, considered scouting (if in fact they considered it at all) embarrassingly square and hopelessly outdated at best, and a militaristic, war-mongering Republican version of the Hitler Youth, at worst, I knew better. I’d been an Eagle Scout, and I considered my experiences as a scout to be among the most enjoyable and rewarding of my young life. Now, there were some learning moments I’m not especially proud of, like when I lost the election for senior patrol leader to David Wheeler. That happened in the same year I lost the election for president of my junior high school, also to David Wheeler, so I was doubly crushed. Losing served as an ego check and I took it hard (I’m still not over it.); and it also told me I wasn’t perceived by my fellow scouts or fellow junior-highers quite the same as I perceived myself. While I knew I was a dedicated and capable leader, I guess I needed lessons in humility and tact. I should have been forewarned when Mrs. Sherrod, my friend Hank’s mother, called me The Little Dictator, having observed me lead my Troop 6 Flying Eagle Patrol (including David Wheeler) that met over at the Sherrod house several times. Nevertheless, I loved scouting and I felt it had granted me a wealth of skills and life lessons. I was confident that they were well worth passing on to others.

I had seen the rare black scout troop at Boy Scout Jamborees, so I knew scouting was not totally foreign to black youth. Black American boys had been Boy Scouts since 1911 (a year after scouting reached America from England, where Lord Robert Baden-Powell founded the Boy Scouts in 1903), but up into the sixties, most troops were segregated, especially in the Jim Crow South. Scouting had made some inroads in the inner city, but not many. I wanted to go where I felt scouting was truly needed. I learned that Willowbrook, a focal point of the Watts riots, had no troops. That’s where I wanted to be.

And there I was, in Willowbrook. I was parked near the front of the Willowbrook Job Corps building on busy Alameda Street, a wide, four-lane thoroughfare that hugged nearby railroad tracks. From the front seat, I grabbed the old briefcase that was to serve as my scoutmaster’s kit. I got out and retrieved a rolled-up sleeping bag and knapsack full of camping supplies from the trunk of the car, took a deep breath, looked both ways for on-coming traffic (and any gangs of black youths with baseball bats in their fists and Get Whitey! looks on their faces), and ventured out. I took another deep breath at the entrance, and knocked on the door. Flecks of peeling paint popped off the door as I pounded.

After a moment, the door opened and I was greeted by Jimmy Brown’s big warm smile: a welcome and oddly comforting sight, all things considered. We shook hands rather awkwardly – Jimmy attempting a soul shake, while I went for the straight-forward white guy grip, while cradling my bundle in the crook of my left arm. I knew Jimmy was in his late forties (though like most black folks, his caramel-colored face was of indeterminate age). I also knew he lived with his wife and small child in the back of the Job Corps building. We had met and conversed a few times before; and while I knew Jimmy lacked much formal education, he had immediately struck me as intelligent, personable, and quite perceptive, especially (I suspected) in dealing with us white folks. He seemed to have a rather unsettling knack for knowing what I thought.

All right, Steve, he said, giving me an appraising once-over he wasn’t even pretending to hide. There’s some boys here early. They real excited about joining up.

I have to give Jimmy Brown credit for giving me a nudge in the direction of starting this Scout troop. It had all started one Saturday afternoon, when I caught sight of a couple of white guys (whom I assumed were UCLA students) cruising by in a car with a bunch of smiley black kids in the back seat. That gave me an idea. Following some research in the Yellow Pages, I called the Department of Public Social Services, and told the nice lady who answered that I was looking for some inner city kids to come to UCLA for a tour of the park-like campus and a punch-and-cookie-party at my fraternity house – kind of like ordering a pizza. I’d cleared the idea with Terry Maas, the house president, who agreed to back the party, with one condition: Get some publicity for the house. The receptionist referred me to Jimmy Brown at the Job Corps. I gave him a call, and after I’d managed to satisfy him that I wasn’t some sort of wacko, he told me he could definitely rustle up some kids.

A couple of weeks later, at the party, a photographer from the LA Times solved my publicity problem by snapping some good shots of former Dodger star, Junior Gilliam, and some of the kids. I had called the Dodgers, told them what I was doing, and they sent one of their first black stars. I was amazed at what could be done if one just asked.

At the party, I talked more with Jimmy Brown. When I asked him what I could do to help inner city kids, he said, What you doing here is a good start. Kids need to get out of our community and see what’s out there in the world. At a second fraternity party for a different set of kids, I asked Jimmy again what I could do to help kids in his neighborhood – something a little more substantial than a punch-and-cookie party. Do something that you would enjoy doing, he said.

School was out for the summer, and I decided to take some Willowbrook kids to the beach on a Saturday. Most people at that beach were white, and I was proud to be putting in my two cents worth for integration. I felt good inside watching half a dozen underprivileged black kids experience the sun, sand, and waves of Dockweiler Beach (the closest beach to where they lived). For nearly all of them, it was their very first trip to the beach.

A few Saturdays later found me back at the beach with a different group of kids. Afterwards, a skinny, light-skinned boy said to me, Steve, will we ever see you again?

Sure, I said, without really thinking. But it did prompt me to think. These kids needed something regular, something they could look forward to, something they could count on. And I began to consider how I could become that something for these kids in Willowbrook. And this, I hoped as I followed Jimmy Brown into the Job Corps building, was it.

Unfamiliar cooking smells made me wonder what might be for dinner around the Brown family table. Chitlins? I wondered – whatever they were. I followed Jimmy up a flight of rickety stairs in the old wooden warehouse-type building, to what had apparently been a storage room. It was about the size of a one-car garage in my old neighborhood. Splinters jutted from the well-worn wood floor; junk was piled in the corners; and a musty odor hung in the enclosed air. About ten fidgety black boys stood on the other side of the room. I was rather fidgety myself, nervous about how I might be received by this motley little collection of black youth. A couple of the boys were light-skinned enough to pass for white, some the color of dark chocolate; some tall, already looking like young men, and a few as short as fifth-graders; some were neatly dressed in slacks and button-down shirts, with others in tee shirts and jeans that had seen better days.

Hi, my name’s Steve, I announced, hearing my own voice crack as I looked into their faces. Most of the boys seemed eager and raring to go. A few looked wary and perhaps a bit surprised to find their scoutmaster was a white guy. I’m gonna be the scoutmaster for Troop 1135. Are you guys ready to be Boy Scouts? I said with an exaggerated smile.

We was thinkin’ about it, one kid said hesitantly, avoiding my eyes.

Well, I sure am, said a kid wearing what looked like a second-hand scout uniform. I took an instant liking to him.

Well, then you’re gonna be part of one of the largest and best organizations for boys in the world, the Boy Scouts of America, I enthused, feeling as corny as a used car salesman on television.

I pulled a paper from my pants pocket and began reading the list of names that Maury Lemons, the local scout professional, had given me.

I’d met Maury at the Los Angeles Area Boy Scout Council headquarters near downtown Los Angeles. A rather portly, butterscotch-colored man, somewhere in his thirties, Maury informed me of the previous efforts to get a troop started in Willowbrook. A few months earlier, several boys on my list had signed up and paid their two dollar registration fee, but as it turned out, no one had been willing to serve as scoutmaster.

Bobby Bryant? A few boys looked around the room, but I got no response.

Calvin Giles? Silence.

Jimmy Hawkins?

Here! Jimmy Hawkins was a dark-skinned boy, with a neat, close-cropped afro. He was on the short side, but looked like an athlete of some sort, muscles very much in evidence under his striped tee shirt.

We really going on all those camping trips you said in that postcard? he asked, an eyebrow raised in obvious skepticism. I’d sent out a postcard announcing the meeting to all the names on my list.

Decades later, the idea to write this book prompted me to try to find Jimmy Hawkins and ask him what he was thinking when he first saw me. When I did find him, he was in his forties and he told me, I was mad at the scouts for taking my money and not doing anything. The only reason I went to that first meeting was to get my two dollars back.

Camping is what we do as Boy Scouts, I said, hoping my somewhat forced smile conveyed my very sincere enthusiasm. I explained some of the things I had planned for the troop: hiking, swimming, cooking over an open fire – doing my best to make it sound as cool as I believed it would be. But the number one thing in scouting is to have fun, and that’s what we’re gonna do in Troop 1135. I smiled my used car salesman smile through several long seconds of silence. What do you think about that? I finally asked, hoping to elicit some reaction.

How we know we really gonna do all them things? one kid challenged.

I raised my right hand in the three-fingered Boy Scout sign. I’ll give you my scout’s honor on it.

That don’t mean nothin’, one kid muttered from the back of the room. I managed not to take it personally. Jimmy Brown had duly warned me that these boys had grown used to seeing promises made by well-meaning white do-gooders broken without so much as an I’m sorry.

"It does to me," the uniformed kid said.

Thank you, I said, relieved to finally find an ally in the room. What’s your name? I asked the boy in olive-green. He was short and chubby, with a quick smile, and I could have sworn I’d seen him somewhere before.

Jimmy Mangram. What was it about Willowbrook and the name Jimmy?

Jimmy Mangram looked me up after twenty years, giving me the opportunity to ask him his thoughts at that first meeting. We were all skeptical, he told me. A lot of people came to the Job Corps saying they would take us to Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm, and Marineland. We’d be sitting up there on a Saturday morning, waiting, and no one would show up.

I went on the bus with you to UCLA, young Mangram added proudly, smiling broadly. Remember? Of course – that’s where I’d seen him before: that first publicity-and-photo-op party at my fraternity house.

Apparently, that bus ride to UCLA had made quite an impression on Jimmy Mangram. Years later, in my law office, he reminisced: It took me a little while to work up the nerve to even talk to you. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I’d never been so close to a college guy. Before we really said anything to each other, I wanted to touch you without you knowing it. When you weren’t looking, I lightly tapped you on the shoulder. I thought, ‘Wow, he goes to UCLA, the biggest college in the world. And I touched him.’

I could tell that most of the boys needed some assurance from me, pronto. As a matter of fact, I said, our first outing will be this coming Saturday. We’re going to the beach for the day. How does that sound?

I guess that’d be all right, one kid allowed. But what about camping? You saying that’s what scouts supposed to do.

Our first camping trip will be on August thirty-first, one month from today. That’ll give us time to prepare.

Oooooh, they said in unison, like some sort of glee club, nodding to each other in satisfaction.

When I’d finished reading the names on my list, only three of the boys in the room had answered. I hoped the other boys on the list would hear that the troop was for real, and that the new scoutmaster was one white man who was a man of his word.

I called on the rest of the boys one by one, asking each one his name.

Tommy Tucker, answered a lanky, neatly dressed boy.

What do you know about the scouts, Tommy?

Just what I seen on TV, he replied with a smile. They go camping and stuff.

Indeed, they do.

Jimmy Brown had been waiting at the top of the stairs. He came over to me and said in a low voice, I’ll go down to see if they’re any stragglers. I’ll send ‘em up.

Thanks, Jimmy, I whispered. I paused to finish writing down some of the new names, and noticed some of the boys whispering among themselves, leaving me wondering if I might have inadvertently said something offensive. I would no doubt be walking on eggshells for a while with these boys.

Less than a minute after Jimmy left, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Two more boys entered the room and hesitantly made their way toward where the other boys were standing.

Come on in, guys, I said, though neither boy turned to look at me. Welcome to Troop 1135. Tell me your names.

One ebony-skinned, athletic-looking kid, with a bit of an attitude and just a hint of body odor, replied, Renard Stevenson. They call me Nardo. Nardo shot the gathered boys a look that seemed to say, Yeah, maybe I’m joining the Boy Scouts. Want to make something of it?

Okay, Nardo. I turned to the second new arrival. And you?

Velvin Atkins. He was the shorter of the two, wearing a tee shirt pocked with holes, jeans with rips at the knees (years before such a look would come to be considered a fashion statement). He looked up at me with a broad smile that narrowed his big brown eyes, and made his round chocolate-colored cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s. I couldn’t help but smile back.

You say your name is Velvin? With a ‘v’?

Yeah, that’s it.

Okay, Velvin.

Having finally completed the taking of the roll, I then led my new troop in an opening ceremony, the same one we’d used in my Redlands Troop 6. I demonstrated the three-fingered Scout Salute as we all said the Pledge of Allegiance. Then I showed them the Scout Sign, like the salute only arm out and fingers up, and had them repeat after me the Scout Oath:

On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country, to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

What that mean, Steve? Velvin asked in his eleven-year-old soprano voice, Morally straight.

It means that you have to do the morally right thing, what you know to be right. Like not stealing or lying.

Oh, he responded, glancing over at Nardo.

When I interviewed him for this book, Velvin confessed to me why he and Nardo came to that first meeting: The plan was for me and Nardo to rob Mr. Brown at the Job Corps. Of course, I was just following along. Your Boy Scout troop gave us a way to get in. We were looking for cookies, bottles, cans of soda, and slot car parts. If we went to the meeting, we could get in without having to crawl through the fence. We was gonna sneak out and hand the loot over the fence to John Wayne [his accomplice brother, not the Oscar-winning actor], who would be waiting for us.

Every scout has to do his best to live up to the Scout Oath. I then told them the Scout Law. A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. I had them all say each of the twelve points after I said them. My father told me that I would have a good life if I lived up to the Scout Oath and Law. I was confident that my father would be proud of my passing this on to these boys. The thought brought a smile to my face.

I noticed a couple of the boys in the back poking each other and laughing. I was losing their attention. In the hopes of getting it back, I decided it was time to talk about something they were really interested in.

For our beach trip, I hope you guys don’t mind riding in the back of that red panel truck out there in the yard. Jimmy Brown had said we could use it whenever we wanted.

Naw, we don’t mind, one kid said, the others nodding in agreement. Like most boys, going on trips was likely the main reason they wanted to be scouts. Jimmy Brown had told me that most of them rarely went anywhere, except to school and maybe church.

I gave them the details of our first outing: we would leave at nine in the morning and return around four in the afternoon. Each boy was to bring a sack lunch.

When we going camping? Velvin piped up.

I told you. August thirty-first. You can write it down.

What we supposed to write it on? Velvin demanded.

Well, when you get home, if you have a calendar, write it on that. If you don’t have a calendar, write it down on a piece of paper that you might look at to remind you.

I ain’t forgetting our first camping trip! one kid cried out, eliciting chuckles from some of the other boys.

We’ll leave on Saturday morning and come back on Sunday afternoon. At the next few meetings I’ll go over what each of you will need to bring for the trip.

We gonna have tents? Nardo asked. His posture looked a bit more relaxed, what I hoped indicated a softening of his attitude. Still, he (and probably others) seemed to need some convincing that this troop would actually do things and not just take their two dollars and run.

I’ll see what I can do, I promised, my mind already racing: transportation, cook kits, backpacks, tents – running and outfitting a troop properly with limited funds was not going to be easy.

I explained about patrols and troop leadership. Having been an Eagle Scout and leading my Redlands Troop 6 as senior patrol leader, I knew of what I spoke. Initially, they all seemed to be paying attention, but after a while, I could see that Jimmy Mangram was the only one still looking at me. The other boys were whispering to one another again, fidgeting, studying splinters jutting from the floor. Obviously, it was time for a game.

Okay, I announced with all the enthusiasm I could muster, now we’re gonna play Bulldog. The object of the game is to run across the room, without being caught and lifted up off the ground by the boys in the middle. Bulldog was a favorite when I was a scout in Redlands – I hoped it would go over well in Willowbrook. I went on to explain the rest of rules, and the games began.

Go! Jimmy Hawkins yelled. The boys all ran in a panic as Jimmy scooped the slender Tommy up in his athletic arms. Tommy squirmed and pulled, and slipped out of Jimmy’s grasp, reaching the safety line on the other side of the room.

Go! the frustrated Jimmy yelled again, making a bee line for the tired Tommy. This time, as the boys ran by, he got a firm grip and held Tommy up for the required three seconds. Tommy then joined Jimmy to capture and lift other scouts. After several unproductive efforts, the two huddled up and emerged with a plan. Velvin was their next victim and Jimmy went for Velvin’s legs, while Tommy grabbed Velvin’s flailing arms. It worked.

I’d learned from my own scouting experience that just about any game that involves running, some rough-and-tumble contact, and a bit of strategy is a good game for scouts – they can work off some excess energy, and do a little thinking in the process. The unavoidable bumps, scrapes and bruises did not deter these inner city boys. They seemed to love Bulldog, as I’d hoped they would.

Several rounds of Bulldog later, I decided it was time to move on to other things.

Come on, man! One more game, Nardo pleaded.

No, I insisted. We can play it again next week. Now, take a seat, guys.

A good-looking kid with wavy hair whined, Why we gotta sit on that raggedy floor? We gonna get splinter butt. I would later learn that the whiner’s name was Keith. As quick with a smile as with a quip, Keith would emerge as one of the troop clowns.

Sorry about the floor. Just do the best you can, I said.

Ain’t we supposed to all wear uniforms? Tommy asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Yes, I’m glad you brought that up. I do want everyone to get a uniform. Value Village has good second-hand uniforms for just a dollar. Or, you can buy a new uniform at the Penney’s in Compton. Jimmy Brown had told me about these shopping opportunities, and I’d checked them out. Jimmy had also warned me that no one wants to admit that they are poor, especially young boys. So I tried to act like it was no big deal when I added, Any of you have trouble, let me know. While hardly flush with cash, I held a part-time job as an expediter, earning $4.00 an hour, a princely sum back then. All I did was drive around Los Angeles picking up jukebox 45s and small appliances for a one-man export business, packing and sending things overseas, mainly to officer and NCO clubs in Vietnam. I knew I’d be able to help any of the boys who couldn’t afford even a one-dollar uniform.

Now, I continued (speaking quickly, as my audience seemed to be drifting away again), you’ll also need the Boy Scout handbook. You can get that at Penney’s too. Anyone who needs help buying a handbook, let me know. To my thinking, the uniform and the handbook were the two most important elements of scouting for new scouts. I made a mental note to scrounge up some secondhand uniforms and used handbooks for those boys most in need, and I’d try to have some on hand at the next several meetings.

The boys sat up a bit as I again described the kinds of trips and activities we would be doing: camping in the woods, wilderness hikes, swimming at the beach and in backyard pools.

How much camping we gonna be doing? one boy asked.

I answered, One overnight a month. And you’ll see that it’s probably the most fun thing we do. The boys’ eyes lit up, and they turned to one another with smiling nods.

Pushing the camping equipment I’d brought to use as visual aids to the middle of the room, I laid out a sleeping bag on the splintery floor, and on top I set down a knapsack filled with gear. Nardo and Velvin quickly sat on the end of the sleeping bag. They gave me a look that made me hesitate to say anything. I decided not to challenge them. After all, that floor had to be a pretty uncomfortable sit.

I explained each item I’d brought as I removed it from the knapsack, quietly surprised to find myself talking to people who had apparently never before seen a cook kit or a hatchet. I also gave suggestions for using substitute materials like blankets for sleeping bags and department store bags for packs. I was pleased to see the boys hanging on my every word - most of the time, at least. While they were behaving well enough, I kept catching them staring at me, obviously checking me out. I was at least as curious about them – we were strange to each other, and would probably continue to be so for a while - but I made a concerted effort not to stare.

Near the end of the meeting, I pulled out the official Boy Scout applications for the boys’ parents to sign. All scouts who haven’t yet paid have to bring two dollars to the next meeting, along with your signed applications. If any of you have trouble coming up with two bucks, let me know. I hoped none of the boys was feeling condescended to, but I also wanted to make sure nobody was excluded for lack of funds.

Look, I said, I know some of you guys have been disappointed before. I looked each boy in the face, one after another. But I want you all to know that Troop 1135 is for real. And so am I. I sensed by the eager looks on the guys’ faces that I had finally managed to win their trust, at least on that issue.

As planned, I closed our first meeting with my old troop’s traditional scout friendship circle. Put your arms around each other’s shoulders, like pals, I said, demonstrating with the two closest boys. With varying degrees of hesitancy, they all complied. After a little serious talk, I said, we’ll end with the scoutmaster’s benediction. I felt every eye of every boy in the circle on me. This was the scoutmaster’s minute, a scouting tradition. This was my time.

I used my minute to explain the scout motto, Be prepared. For instance, you all need to be prepared for Saturday’s trip, and for everything else in life. I reminded them of the words, morally straight, in the Oath. Sometimes you have to be the one to refuse to get into trouble – to say no - even when your friends are all calling you ‘chicken’.

Can’t I just be a bad scout and go with my friends? cracked wise guy Keith, with his usual disarming smile. The other boys laughed, but I chose to ignore the comment.

Finally, I led my scouts in the Scoutmaster’s Benediction. They all repeated after me in unison, And now… may the blessings of our Heavenly Scoutmaster… rest upon each of us… and upon all regular scouts… And may we follow the trail… that leads to Him.

As instructed, my twelve new scouts joined me in shouting, Good night scouts!

See you here Saturday morning, nine o’clock! I called as they all ran down the stairs and out the door. And don’t forget your applications!

Listening to their stampeding footsteps down the stairs, I finally felt my shoulders relax, just a bit.

Driving home, despite the dark and my overwhelming sense of not belonging in the inner city, I felt relieved and pleased, almost euphoric. After some understandable skepticism on both our parts, I’d seen real enthusiasm in the boys’ faces, as I was sure they’d seen in mine. My fears of distrust and tension between the boys and me appeared to have been groundless. I could tell these boys were eager to go places, and they didn’t seem all that picky about who took them. I was filled with hope and confidence. This is going to be great! I can do this.

Jimmy Mangram: "It was weird at first, having a white scoutmaster. We weren’t real sure what was gonna happen, whether this scout troop was for real. But as long as you took us places, we were all for it. It didn’t bother us that you were white. As long as