Boy Scouts of the Bronx
July 4, 2004
In New York’s inner city of the 1970s a Puerto Rican kid growing up in the South Bronx actually had access to things like the Boy Scouts of America. But don’t let that fool you. What we called the “Scouts” bore little resemblance to the omnipresent posters or handbook covers of blond haired and blue eyed boys donning a freshness and hope to their appearance that seemed painful to observe for its unspoken exclusivity.
Our Troop 39 was privileged to earn the title of the poorest troop in the city. I doubt there was any validity to the designation but the label reflected certain aspects that were unique to our brand of scouting in America. We learned by heart the code of ethics every Scout memorizes and spews out to an adult in hopes of moving ahead in the club like atmosphere. But mainly we played basketball, traded baseball cards, and stayed off the streets for a few hours each Thursday night. We were definitely rough around the edges with no prospects for Boy Scout photo shoots on the horizon.
I didn’t even know our fearless leader’s full name. The best I can do is “Mr. Sam.” That’s what we all called him. He was a black man with a weakness for the bottle but he had a heart for helping kids on the street and in those days adults like that were a rare commodity in the South Bronx. We shared our Scout Master with Johnny Walker Red but we didn’t mind so long as he showed up for our weekly meetings.
I don’t have a storehouse of memories from my involvement in Scouting. Mainly it was something to do, a reference point for the future, or just a place somewhere in time.
I liked the idea of a uniform. It meant I belonged to something, a thing bigger than our square of the pavement on Southern Boulevard.
Harry’s Army and Navy. That was the place we purchased all our trinkets that were like passes into a clubhouse. At Harry’s you could find almost anything. Their window to the consumer was a smorgasbord of sports equipment, military surplus junk, and a wide assortment of the latest and greatest Chuck Taylor Converse shoes –the standard on the streets in those days.
I’m not sure why but it always seemed cold whenever we ventured on a camping trip. Maybe it was just me –never the outdoorsy type and yet never late to one of these disorganized excursions of ours.
Mr. Sam was no where to be found on the day we were to go to Ten Mile River for a weekend camping trip. Reverberation of “Where’s Mr. Sam?” were everywhere with, “He’s on the way” serving as a filler response to the inevitable. We all knew were Mr. Sam was, but hoped he would gather the strength to meet us.
Eventually we went in search of our Scout Master and found him without too much trouble. He was drinking and as I recall was less than sober when we went into the apartment and coerced him out the door to come take us camping. He was such a likeable man. Even in a drunken stupor and coming short of ruining our weekend you still loved Mr. Sam –bloodshot eyes, crackly sort of smile, slightly stooped and never verbose. We were hours late before we finally headed out.
When the time came to leave for Ten Mile River there was excitement in the air. Mr. Sam was there, a few other adults too, and all of us with our backpacks filled with enough junk food to feed a starving army. I stood there in my green uniform, my weighty backpack all ready, my sleeping bag tied to the base of an aluminum frame built into the tan colored canvas. We were going campin’ and nothing shy of a tornado in the Big Apple was going to stop us.
We were Troop 39 from the South Bronx and we were going to Ten Mile River for a camping weekend. Yes! Before we could leave however we had to make sure we could load everything in the van and two station wagons we were traveling in.
It always seemed cold whenever we went camping. It just seemed like I could always use another layer. I was the last one to pack in to our vehicle and upon inspection Mr. Sam said that it would be better if I just traveled with the other troop we were heading out with as we were running low on space. I think I groaned inside when he said this.
The “other troop” was a motley crew of rough and very angry teens many of which were members of gangs like The Young Skulls or The Nomads. They were familiar more with street fighting, drugs, sex, crime and hate than they were with the Boy Scout code of honor. I really didn’t want to travel with these guys but I wasn’t given any choice. The decision was nonnegotiable with our illustrious leader.
I knew I was done for when I ended up in the back seat of a Chevrolet station wagon pinned against a gang member that was determined to prove his superiority over me by an act of humiliation that proved only his cowardice against the backdrop of my innocence.
I squeezed into my judgment seat quietly and hoped my presence would not be noticed too much or that perchance my unwanted traveling companions would look upon me with such disdain that I would not be worth their attention. It was the one time in my life where I’m sure being ostracized would have been a welcomed blessing. Alas, however, my wish for invisibility never happened.
“Hey, are you Puerto Rican?” asked this snaggletooth bully turned Boy Scout.
I looked straight ahead and like a lamb to the slaughter answered quietly.
“Yes.”
In my heart however I rather think that had he asked if I were Chinese I would have nodded affirmatively. Instead I answered what I believe he wanted to hear –my ethnicity always being a toss-up between being an American or being Puerto Rican, my generation being given the task of melding two cultures into one but failing to come up with an identity that pleased either. But all this was lost to this wandering soul who most likely could not find Puerto Rico on a map but chose to align himself with an identity for himself that allowed his validation as a societal victim.
“Well, if you a Rican why you got that flag on your shirt?” There was just silence.
In retrospect the commonwealth status of the island of Puerto Rico and the legal right of all islanders to U.S. citizenship was the furthest thing from this angry young man’s mind. It angered him that I wore a patch of the United States flag on my shirt.
Should I tell him that it came with the outfit and that everyone who wore a Boy Scout uniform had a U.S. flag on their shirt? Would he believe me if I told him it was stitched on at a factory somewhere far away and that it wasn’t my fault it was on there? The words would have been wasted. I sat there in all my shameful stillness and did not reply.
“Oye! I said why you got that fuckin’ flag on your shirt if you a Rican!”
I stared straight ahead and could feel hot tears coming to my eyes. Tears I did not want them to witness but droplets that I could not hold back and refused to reach up and wipe away.
I did not realize that day that humiliation was about to be served up to me on a hot platter. My accuser took out a switchblade and grabbed at my arm. He looked at me with an anger and hatred known only to those who are convinced they have nothing to live for other than the preservation of their supposed self esteem as thugs and abusers of the innocent.
With the detail of an artisan he wielded the tip of his switchblade and began cutting away at the stitches that fastened my flag patch to my shirt. I sat there quietly and said nothing. I was outnumbered and could do nothing other than stretch my neck out in surrender and embarrassment.
He clipped only enough stitches to allow boney fingers to grasp the flag and angrily rip the patch off my shirt. Nothing more was said. I sat quietly and looked out the window at the passing trees and I tried so hard to think about other things, about the blueberry Pop Tarts in my backpack, about my two sisters at home, my parents, and the fact that soon I would be with the others and away from these monsters I was shackled to for hours.
I don’t remember much about the Ten Mile River apart from this experience. I did eat blueberry Pop Tarts though and when I returned home my proud Puerto Rican mother sewed the U.S. flag patch back on to my shirt. I don’t recall ever telling her how it managed to be torn off my shirt. It wasn’t the kind of thing a boy tells his mother.
It always seemed cold when we went on camping trips. Perhaps it was because the winds of change were blowing over all of us.
July 4, 2004
In New York’s inner city of the 1970s a Puerto Rican kid growing up in the South Bronx actually had access to things like the Boy Scouts of America. But don’t let that fool you. What we called the “Scouts” bore little resemblance to the omnipresent posters or handbook covers of blond haired and blue eyed boys donning a freshness and hope to their appearance that seemed painful to observe for its unspoken exclusivity.
Our Troop 39 was privileged to earn the title of the poorest troop in the city. I doubt there was any validity to the designation but the label reflected certain aspects that were unique to our brand of scouting in America. We learned by heart the code of ethics every Scout memorizes and spews out to an adult in hopes of moving ahead in the club like atmosphere. But mainly we played basketball, traded baseball cards, and stayed off the streets for a few hours each Thursday night. We were definitely rough around the edges with no prospects for Boy Scout photo shoots on the horizon.
I didn’t even know our fearless leader’s full name. The best I can do is “Mr. Sam.” That’s what we all called him. He was a black man with a weakness for the bottle but he had a heart for helping kids on the street and in those days adults like that were a rare commodity in the South Bronx. We shared our Scout Master with Johnny Walker Red but we didn’t mind so long as he showed up for our weekly meetings.
I don’t have a storehouse of memories from my involvement in Scouting. Mainly it was something to do, a reference point for the future, or just a place somewhere in time.
I liked the idea of a uniform. It meant I belonged to something, a thing bigger than our square of the pavement on Southern Boulevard.
Harry’s Army and Navy. That was the place we purchased all our trinkets that were like passes into a clubhouse. At Harry’s you could find almost anything. Their window to the consumer was a smorgasbord of sports equipment, military surplus junk, and a wide assortment of the latest and greatest Chuck Taylor Converse shoes –the standard on the streets in those days.
I’m not sure why but it always seemed cold whenever we ventured on a camping trip. Maybe it was just me –never the outdoorsy type and yet never late to one of these disorganized excursions of ours.
Mr. Sam was no where to be found on the day we were to go to Ten Mile River for a weekend camping trip. Reverberation of “Where’s Mr. Sam?” were everywhere with, “He’s on the way” serving as a filler response to the inevitable. We all knew were Mr. Sam was, but hoped he would gather the strength to meet us.
Eventually we went in search of our Scout Master and found him without too much trouble. He was drinking and as I recall was less than sober when we went into the apartment and coerced him out the door to come take us camping. He was such a likeable man. Even in a drunken stupor and coming short of ruining our weekend you still loved Mr. Sam –bloodshot eyes, crackly sort of smile, slightly stooped and never verbose. We were hours late before we finally headed out.
When the time came to leave for Ten Mile River there was excitement in the air. Mr. Sam was there, a few other adults too, and all of us with our backpacks filled with enough junk food to feed a starving army. I stood there in my green uniform, my weighty backpack all ready, my sleeping bag tied to the base of an aluminum frame built into the tan colored canvas. We were going campin’ and nothing shy of a tornado in the Big Apple was going to stop us.
We were Troop 39 from the South Bronx and we were going to Ten Mile River for a camping weekend. Yes! Before we could leave however we had to make sure we could load everything in the van and two station wagons we were traveling in.
It always seemed cold whenever we went camping. It just seemed like I could always use another layer. I was the last one to pack in to our vehicle and upon inspection Mr. Sam said that it would be better if I just traveled with the other troop we were heading out with as we were running low on space. I think I groaned inside when he said this.
The “other troop” was a motley crew of rough and very angry teens many of which were members of gangs like The Young Skulls or The Nomads. They were familiar more with street fighting, drugs, sex, crime and hate than they were with the Boy Scout code of honor. I really didn’t want to travel with these guys but I wasn’t given any choice. The decision was nonnegotiable with our illustrious leader.
I knew I was done for when I ended up in the back seat of a Chevrolet station wagon pinned against a gang member that was determined to prove his superiority over me by an act of humiliation that proved only his cowardice against the backdrop of my innocence.
I squeezed into my judgment seat quietly and hoped my presence would not be noticed too much or that perchance my unwanted traveling companions would look upon me with such disdain that I would not be worth their attention. It was the one time in my life where I’m sure being ostracized would have been a welcomed blessing. Alas, however, my wish for invisibility never happened.
“Hey, are you Puerto Rican?” asked this snaggletooth bully turned Boy Scout.
I looked straight ahead and like a lamb to the slaughter answered quietly.
“Yes.”
In my heart however I rather think that had he asked if I were Chinese I would have nodded affirmatively. Instead I answered what I believe he wanted to hear –my ethnicity always being a toss-up between being an American or being Puerto Rican, my generation being given the task of melding two cultures into one but failing to come up with an identity that pleased either. But all this was lost to this wandering soul who most likely could not find Puerto Rico on a map but chose to align himself with an identity for himself that allowed his validation as a societal victim.
“Well, if you a Rican why you got that flag on your shirt?” There was just silence.
In retrospect the commonwealth status of the island of Puerto Rico and the legal right of all islanders to U.S. citizenship was the furthest thing from this angry young man’s mind. It angered him that I wore a patch of the United States flag on my shirt.
Should I tell him that it came with the outfit and that everyone who wore a Boy Scout uniform had a U.S. flag on their shirt? Would he believe me if I told him it was stitched on at a factory somewhere far away and that it wasn’t my fault it was on there? The words would have been wasted. I sat there in all my shameful stillness and did not reply.
“Oye! I said why you got that fuckin’ flag on your shirt if you a Rican!”
I stared straight ahead and could feel hot tears coming to my eyes. Tears I did not want them to witness but droplets that I could not hold back and refused to reach up and wipe away.
I did not realize that day that humiliation was about to be served up to me on a hot platter. My accuser took out a switchblade and grabbed at my arm. He looked at me with an anger and hatred known only to those who are convinced they have nothing to live for other than the preservation of their supposed self esteem as thugs and abusers of the innocent.
With the detail of an artisan he wielded the tip of his switchblade and began cutting away at the stitches that fastened my flag patch to my shirt. I sat there quietly and said nothing. I was outnumbered and could do nothing other than stretch my neck out in surrender and embarrassment.
He clipped only enough stitches to allow boney fingers to grasp the flag and angrily rip the patch off my shirt. Nothing more was said. I sat quietly and looked out the window at the passing trees and I tried so hard to think about other things, about the blueberry Pop Tarts in my backpack, about my two sisters at home, my parents, and the fact that soon I would be with the others and away from these monsters I was shackled to for hours.
I don’t remember much about the Ten Mile River apart from this experience. I did eat blueberry Pop Tarts though and when I returned home my proud Puerto Rican mother sewed the U.S. flag patch back on to my shirt. I don’t recall ever telling her how it managed to be torn off my shirt. It wasn’t the kind of thing a boy tells his mother.
It always seemed cold when we went on camping trips. Perhaps it was because the winds of change were blowing over all of us.
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