For years I have been way too soft on the Boy Scouts of America (AKA BOA).  My interaction with them started in 1992 when my oldest son tugged at my legs, begging to become a Tiger Cub.  I mistakenly thought it was the uniform of the bright orange sweatshirt that he was attracted to.  I had horror thoughts of this leading up to orange hunting attire years down the road.   I offered to get him anything orange as a substitute: an ear-flapped hat, mini-waders, even bribed him with Skittles (all orange) if he'd give up the idea of entering a world of the Orange Brigade.  However, fearing that his little boy facial winces to my objections of joining scouts would become a big man's permanent frown, I reluctantly took him to sign up.  I was a single Mom; tired and weakened from trying to please.  In spite of that, I knew I was about to enter God's gallery of hideous mistakes.   

My fear started as I drove into the parking lot of the community church that held registration.  Biting my cuticles close to the blood line, I noticed all the male leaders drove Ford trucks and trudged bodies that matched their tailgates. Could this be a reason why the BOA's don't permit gays in their fashionable organization? I've yet to meet a gay man who thinks he looks good in orange.  

After strained parking lot introductions, my son and I walked into the church gymnasium and sat on cold metal chairs, pop-eyed like cornered rodents.  Within a few minutes we were amidst the ritual of grown men carrying machetes and wearing headdresses found in gift shops on the side roads to South Dakota.  I caught myself looking on in disdain and reminded myself to be aware of my sordid history and hypocrisies--after all I come from a background of working-class pathologies.  I was reminded of a family trip to South Dakota in our loaded down station wagon filled with Native American trinkets.  Nevertheless, this scene in the gym was far beyond the cartoon behavior of Fred Flintstone, and my memories of South Dakota's Mount Bedrockmore.  These eight-year-olds were mesmerized with the ritual and the howling noises coming from their fearless Fathers.  I guess some groups are slower to accept political correctness than others.  I needed more muscle relaxers.  

After the tomahawk exchange between the leaders, we were then each handed a scouting handbook.  Page one denounced gays.  I rubbed my neck and thought of the woman I most recently had a crush on.  I tried to remain calm, all the while making notes to myself, composing a personal letter of protest to the head council.

Later that night, after registering under machete treaties with my little tiger cub off to dreamland, I wrote a letter to the BOA.  I tried to be open-minded and reach for the positive things that scouts promote, endorsing my beliefs in the Scout Honor: be honest, be kind, do a good deed daily, be prepared.  I intentionally identified the irony of all their lofty beliefs and how they clashed with the blanket refusal of gays into their organization.  I mailed the letter the next morning.  

The letter went unmentioned and I continued to attend meetings with my son.  The meetings got substantially more ridiculous with time and the only thing I looked forward to was the processed sugar snack at the end of the evening.  

Before too long I was asked repeatedly to help out with food drives, escort camp outings, hold meetings and to tithe to the BOA.  I complied with these requests, attending to the meetings, sitting dutifully behind cheap sunglasses.  Somehow I felt being incognito shielded me from their scornful glare.  The letter I had sent made its way through the pack leaders and although the issues in the letter were never addressed, my station wagon helped deliver scads of wreaths during holiday fundraisers.  I was still held at arms distance.  

*****  

I have two sons, five years apart, and this is the fifth year I've stoically succumbed to the various bizarre whims of the scouting world.  My oldest son is now an Eagle Scout.  My youngest son likes the camps and magician visits at the pack meetings but now wants to "can" the rest.  So, at this particular juncture I have less tolerance for all its hype after just returning from a five-day camp with my youngest son--five days of clenched teeth and plaque build-up.  I am embarrassed to say I no longer was able to hold it together.  I believed the BOA's needed to be stripped of their headdresses and the only way to do this was by force or farce. When outnumbered however, I've been told it's best to not steer too far left but to stay middle-of-the-road.  I know that now, but at the time…  So here's when I detour far from pavement, far from gravel and become one with the dirt.  

My son and I arrive at the camp on a Friday evening, right before the opening pow-wow ceremony.  The leaders are referring to each other by nicknames like Dopey, Stinky, Taco, Little Boy, Wolf, etc.  What an honor it must be to be named after a dwarf or a fast food.  I need a fix so I tell my son I'm going back to the car, at least a mile away, to smoke a cigarette.  I'm ashamed of my habit but I'm out of muscle relaxers.  I walk to the car wearing my sunglasses, hanging my head, weak to nicotine.  I am just about to light my smoke when I'm startled by a voice that booms across the parking lot speaking with a pre-memorized guidebook, God-like vibrato: "Ma'am, this is a no smoking camp and I have allergies.  I don't think you want to see me have an attack so I wouldn't smoke here if I were you.  Also, it's really not a good example to set for the kids."  I think, 'You pious, stupid big-assed…,' but I remember: stay middle-of-the-road.  I'm so ashamed but instead of committing hara-kiri I respond with, "Up yours!"  As the "yours" echoes back to me through the wilderness, I think middle-of-the-road; STAY IN THE MIDDLE.  Do it for your young scout.   

Walking back to the pow-wow, butt extinguished in my pant pocket, I hear the group singing "Greasy Grimy Golfer Guts" but something is amiss.  The lyrics have been tampered with.  This isn't the song I remember from my childhood.  This is a bad rendition of what was once an okay tune.  Stupid.  Did I mention that?  Stupidity runs rampant with too much fresh air.  Middle-of-the-road, I remind myself.  But before I can stop it, I slip into farce.   

This is my life for the next 96 hours.  Farce, force and middle of the road.  The big kahunas rally in a self-congratulatory circle, singing once again the wrong lyrics to a faintly familiar tune.  "Good job, Dopey," I hear myself say.  "Stinky, you are one with the wilderness,"  "Taco, a natural born leader!"  I'm shouting these tribulations as if these leaders are my heroes.  I look over at my son, sulking among the trees.  He is giving me the "cut throat" sign.  I can't stop myself; I want to be heard.  I want the congratulatories to never cease.  I see the parent off to my right that I said "up yours" to.  He looks confused at my stupid joy, my insanity.  I am really a surprise to them all!  I am frightening myself as I slip into the role of stupid scout parent.  

My son meanders over to my side, reaches up and pulls my head next to his.  "Middle-of-the-road, mom," he says.  I look at him and throw him a wink.  "Let's hit the road, big guy," I say. He asks, "Can we go to the magic store on the way home?"  I say, "Absolutely, now let's disappear."  With that, we high-five each other and we're on our way to the middle of the road.  

*****  

Will I return next year?  I'd rather cook with Teflon. 

Author's Biography

Suzanne Nielsen grew up in St. Paul's East Side, a working class community and the setting for most of her short stories. She is known to be compulsive in many areas of her life, including writing genres.  She writes poetry, fiction, essays, screenplays and memoir.  She teaches writing at Metropolitan State University and her work has appeared in various literary magazines internationally in all-of-the-above genres.  

In addition to teaching, Suzanne is a wife and mother, a doctoral student at Hamline University, as well as the owner of three dogs.  She grabs time whenever she can to create because if she isn't creating, she isn't happy.  Suzanne firmly believes nothing is more truthful than the writing of fiction.  You can view her work through her monthly column, Cool Dead People at www.doubledarepress.com 

E-mail Suzanne at srnielsen@earthlink.net

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