I’m amazed I’m not more of a dissident. After all, I was a Boy Scout for nearly two decades. From a Tiger Cub at the impressionable age of 7 to achieving Eagle Rank at 16 to serving as an Assistant Scoutmaster, Shooting Sports Instructor and Ranger from the ages of 18 to 23.
Now, completely rid of all associations I have with the international program geared towards getting boys to grow and mature into responsible citizens I’m amazed I didn’t turn out to be a significantly more fucked up character of questionable will.
Any longer in that program and I might have a new title: David Pennington – Eagle Scout – National Threat.
They taught me survival skills – living off the land and finding nutrient resources. Citizenship – how governments work. First aid, leadership. Squint hard enough and my merit badge sash may as well resemble a semester’s course work at Al Qaeda U.
All of the Boy scout’s teachings designed to promote a legion of perfect citizens. However, there is one ingredient the scouts has nothing to do with – original thought. Adding just a dash of that can turn those survival skills into how to live off the grid. First aid becomes medical support at a protest rally. Knowing how governments should run becomes finding all of the busted gears and why it isn’t running.
Throw in the fact that I’ve got superb land navigation skills, a merit badge in chemistry and atomic energy, and I’m scarily accurate with a firearm – it’s a wonder I’m not on more “watch lists.”
Or, maybe I’m on more lists than I know?
I have a lot of stories about my time in the Boy Scouts. A book’s worth, to be exact, and they sit in a largely unedited manuscript in my file cabinet. As you might guess, none of these stories would ever make it into a brochure for scouting. They aren’t exactly campfire tales either.
The summer of 2004 I worked as a shooting sports director for the Denver Area Council of the Boy Scouts at a little camp in unincorporated Elbert county called Peaceful Valley.
By and large, I was in charge of teaching 7 to 10 year olds how to properly handle a firearm. The gun of choice? Good ol’ Daisy BB air rifles. Most likely the most gentle of the rifle-shaped family – comparable to maybe a nickle shot with a rubber band. There was nothing to actually be afraid of here. The idea was to teach the kids young, to let them know that all firearms are dangerous. These were the same kids who would stand in line for hours to shoot .22 caliber rifles and 12 gauge shotguns a few years later.
We had all kinds of rules. Rules about who belonged on the range when, about how to load and fire, about when to load and fire, about which voices to pay attention to. These were the exact same rules the National Rifle Association used on their certified ranges. By following their rules to a T, we were covered by their multi-million dollar insurance policy.
In this world of lawsuit-happy parents looking to get their child’s college paid for in any way possible it was vital to have a ridiculous insurance policy. Although, realistically, an injury on my range would have been resolved with a ten cent band-aid and twenty minutes under an icepack.
But the pain and suffering the kid experienced by getting hit with a ricochet BB? That’s got to be worth at least 10 million, maybe 20. It’s enough to want to add a “man the fuck up” clause to whatever liability forms are signed.
And I didn’t want to see any kids get hurt. But, the summer dragged on, things got repetitive, and certain leadership became a nuisance. Responsibility is key when running a shooting range. However, on a long enough time line, even the most diligent rifle instructor will consider solving a problem by shooting it in the ass.
Nothing lethal – just something to get their attention. Bonus points for getting a wad of steel or lead lodged under their skin and making airports an impossibility for the rest of their days. Just a little something to remind them that they aren’t god. That the universe revolves around something beyond them.
Namely a council executive named Kathy Turner needed this reminder. Constantly.
In the middle of that summer we were host to a daytime group of inner city kids that the scouting program was anxious to recruit. Kids gathered by a church community that was chaperoned by Turner for the day. These kids, as many are, were anxious to get to my firing range and shoot. Most of them wouldn’t hit dirt, but they were ecstatic at the idea of having a gun go off in their hands.
You know. Click, puff. . . .thrilling!
The kids were shooting fine, comfortably, having a good time. All the more reason for Kathy Turner to shout instructions at the kids. From behind them. Worse yet, she was offering bad advice.
In every NRA certified range, there is a staging area, a shooting area, and an area downrange that’s not usually a good idea to be in, ever. Fences and ropes and barricades section off each area. Permission is granted into each of these areas by the Range Officer – me.
As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of rules. There are also a million ways things could go wrong on a firing range – which is why there are rules. In the end, when injury does occur, one person is blamed, sued, and quartered – me.
So yes, I’m going to follow every little rule I can find.
Another of these rules is to not distract people who are holding guns. I warned Kathy twice about her behavior, even taking the time to explain to her (and I’m not sure why I had to explain it) that when you yell at a kid with a rifle in his hands, he’s going to turn around – with the rifle – and point it somewhere you don’t want.
She then informed me that I wasn’t permitted to tell her what to do.
“I sign your paychecks,” she said. She didn’t.
Turner’s next move was to wait until I had turned my back, jump over the fence, and not yell things but to stand directly behind a kid and tell him something.
I caught her before she finished this maneuver, called a cease fire and left the range under my assistant’s supervision. I dragged turner out of my firing range, out of the range of nubile ears, and I gave her a piece of my fucking mind.
Yes, my FUCKING mind. I’m not sure this woman, this COUNCIL EXECUTIVE, had ever heard the word “fuck” come out of the mouth of anyone in uniform – especially when it was directed at her.
My motherfucking range. My motherfucking rules. I’m in FUCKING charge here, not you, so I’m going to kindly ask you to get the FUCK away from my range.
She said nothing. She sat down and waiting for her group to finish shooting where she gathered them up and left my range.
Later that night I got an earful from my supervisor. Shit about keeping the higher ups happy because it had a direct result on their budget and who was and wasn’t hired.
“Your insubordination is out of control!” I was told.
Frankly, I was amazed that this woman, who several people had entrusted the care of their children to, wasn’t bending over backward to make sure every single safety precaution was taken. And I was in the wrong?
Right, right. I should have been nicer.
Other area directors told similar horror stories of Kathy Turner. Everyone in the shooting sports arena had some kind of issue with the power tripper. Everyone had the same suggestion – let her do what she wants on a range and see how long it took before she wound up with a bullet in her ass.
I was never asked to come back to work for the Denver Area Council again. Kathy turner most likely still works there – managing budgets and endangering kids. And I? I meander the world with my insubordinate attitudes, my merit badge sash of dangerous skills, maybe wanting to prove that good, kind-hearted people rarely wear uniforms.
