Alvin Leonard: Pioneer

By  Gary Priour – Nov. 1984

Author’s Note: When Alvin Leonard came to the Youth Ranch in 1980, he was the first black resident in the all-white community of Ingram Tom More High School.  What has happened to Alvin, and to his community, is a story worth telling.  It is a story of courage, and of growth, on both sides.  Had it not been for some very special qualities possessed by Alvin, it could never have been told this way.

It was the new kid’s first day to come out from the Ranch and be in the community.  I was coaching a little league baseball team and saw him drive up with is houseparents.  He approached the fence, glove in hand, wanting to try out for one of the teams.

It was then that the inevitable happened.  “Ya’ll gonna let that nigger play?” split the air.  It was the voice of one of the coaches.

“Hey, it’s hard enough for the kid without you laying that on him.  What’s the matter with you?  He plays just like everyone else.”

Alvin played that day and did well.  But he had only just begun to uncover the ugliness of prejudice.

That day was the first of many times I would think back over the decision-making process that led to Alvin’s acceptance at the Ranch.  Frankly, we had been worried that the experience of being the only black in the community might so hurt the kid’s chances of making it that, in the end, we would have done him no good at all.  Was Ingram ready?  Were we?

Alvin was scared, too.  “I’ve heard about these all-white places,” he said, “and what I’ve heard is that I got no business being here.”

Still, there was something about his case.  Alvin had gotten in some trouble, running around the streets, falling in with the wrong crowd.  The judge was going to send him to a detention facility.  But Alvin had a probation officer who believed in him and sought the judge’s permission to send him to the Youth Ranch as an alternative to confinement.  Maybe there was something different about this kid that would separate him from so many others who were headed for the wrong side of steel bars.

For a time, it was hard to tell whose mouth was the harshest- Alvin’s or his hecklers.  Street life had left Alvin with no shortage of verbal weapons.  A big part of our job was to work on the “chip” Alvin carried, often on both shoulders.  What was hard was to convince him to take “gentlemanly” the references to his race.  Those really hurt him.

One day I saw Alvin walking along the road during school hours.  I stopped and found that he was crying.  “Some kids told me to go back to Africa,” he said.  “I can’t take it any more.”

There would be a number of times that first year when Alvin wanted out.  But he would always look at his options and stay.

And it wasn’t just the name-calling.  As a freshman, Alvin was looking at a high school career in a community where he would be excluded from normal teenage social opportunities.  There was the problem of dating.  And after working all week with the boys on the football team, even they would have some place to go on Friday night that left Alvin out.

One day I saw Alvin sitting under a tree at the Youth Ranch.  As I approached, I saw a tear glistening on his cheek.

“What’s the matter,” I asked.

Alvin said nothing.  He just pinched the skin on the back of his hand . . .

At the end of the year, Alvin had done pretty well.  His probation was over, and he would be free to leave, even to go back to his old lifestyle.  The courts can only extend supervision so far.

Alvin knew that to stay at the Youth Ranch would mean more of the same lonely struggle to gain self-respect as well as the respect of the community.  But it was his best chance for self-development and a good education, and he knew it.  Besides, he had a football coach who believed in him and some in the community were coming around.

That second year, Alvin got involved in lots of different activities.  He proved to be a champion chess player, won a leadership award and lettered on the varsity football team.  In fact, he was instrumental in helping the team win its first game ever (the school was just 3 years old).  He began receiving praise in the local press.

Something was changing in the community, too.  “Anything we can do for Alvin, just let us know,” said someone interested in helping him be happy here.  Alvin began to be included in more social life, though things were still different for him than others.

Today, it’s hard to remember the problems of those first mostly painful years with Alvin.  This October he was nominated to be King of Homecoming by his classmates.  Last year, he was named to the “All-Southwest” football team and led the Ingram team to the state playoffs.  He seems certain to go on to college and play football for a major school.  He also seems happy, more assured, at ease among his peers.  There is a sense of purpose about him.

Sitting in the stands at that Homecoming game, I heard comments like, “What would this school have done without Alvin on the football team?” or “What a fine young man he has turned out to be.”  As I looked around, I saw Alvin’s mother, 200 miles from home sitting alone in the bleacher.  I went and sat by her and told her how proud we all were of Alvin.

“You know, ma’am, Alvin’s a pioneer here.  He didn’t have to stay.  But he did, and he made it.  He’s changed this whole community.  Now other blacks can come and be treated as individuals, just like everyone else . . . because of him.  And Alvin, he can go anywhere now, into any society and be at ease about himself.  He has had such courage.”

She beamed, and I could see from her eyes she was moved, “You know,” she said, “I haven’t been very dependable for Alvin, but do you know he asked me to be here for parent’s night this year?  And he said something else.  He told me. ‘Mom, someday I’m going to make you proud of me …’”

I could tell she already was.  As we all are.  Not just because of athletics.  Or grades.  Or success with personal problems.  But mostly because of who he is.  Because he has let us laugh and cry with him, and accepted us even before we accepted him.  Alvin Leonard has set a standard here for courage and perseverance, and shown us the way to believe in ourselves again.

Alvin, you’re family, hear?