I was an active Boy Scout as a teenager because I had strong motivation: getting myself the hell out of the Scouting movement. It was a cultural rite and a family thing, one I hated—but the rule was that I couldn’t leave until I’d reached the highest rank. My older brothers were Eagle Scouts, as were most of my cousins and nephews. Now the Boy Scouts of America are filing for bankruptcy, like USA Gymnastics and a bunch of Catholic dioceses in the United States before them, and for similar reasons. The Scouts’ motto, of course, is “Be Prepared,” but when it came to compensating a mere fraction of the victims of sexual assault in their dens, they weren’t. Now their finances will mirror their morals.

Good, I thought, when I heard the news. I hope this means they’re dead as a cultural force. The entire Scouting ethos is based on predation. One guy from a Virginia Boy Scouts troop of mine later pleaded guilty to molesting children in a church building during his Mormon mission to Las Vegas. I lost track of most of the rest. I made Eagle at 14, and that was that.

I’d started out early in the organization, in Germany; my dad was stationed at Bitburg Air Base, but our family lived out in town, which meant that, aside from school, Cub Scouts was where I hung out with Americans of my own age. I was indifferent to the group, but I loved the outdoors; I spent most of my time out in the woods or down by the river and traveled steadily up the ranks—Bobcat, Wolf, Bear, and Webelos, and Arrow of Light, for which I vaguely recall walking a thin, slightly raised platform meant to symbolize a bridge.

It wasn’t really my thing, but in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints it was the official youth program for boys, and a record of promotions through the organization was cultural currency—tangible evidence, like the accumulation of material goods, of your spiritual success. Having a family full of Eagle Scouts meant having a family full of righteous men, and training began early. It was simply something I knew I’d have to get through.

By the time we moved back to the States, I was 11, eligible to join the Boy Scouts; there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Scouting should’ve been a natural fit: I already enjoyed running around in the woods by my house wearing camouflage, playing Army man; I’d sewn my own ghillie suit. But Scouting was full of weirdos being babysat by man-children on power trips once a week on Wednesday night, with weekend campouts every couple of months, plus a week at a Scout camp in summer.