Boy Scout

Boy Scout

Ed Manaban

Mother knew that to be a Boy Scout for me was an obsession ever since when I was a kid. “I want to join the Boy Scouts and that’s final,” I demanded. “There is nothing wrong with that, in fact that is commendable of you, my child,” she’d say. Thing was we didn’t have money, we couldn’t buy my uniform or pay the necessary fees to be a member of the Boy Scouts.

For me, no excuses. I wanted to join the group, with my classmates who looked like Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson in their uniforms.

It was one of my first frustrations in school. You just can’t enter any extra-curricular activity because of financial reasons. I rebelled against this setting. They sent me to school, they must sustain my financial requirements. In my child’s mind, my wishes came first. Mama or Papa’s refusal to allow me to join the group wasn’t acceptable. I had to do something. The deadline for submission of applications and entry fees was coming near.

I made my move, what I used to hear was one of the most effective ways. And in order for it to be effective, I had to do it at a time when my “enemy” was watching – at lunch time. At twelve noon, she’d serve me lunch at my arrival from school.

“No, not hungry, Mama!” And we’d stare at each other eyeball to eyeball. This happened for several days when count down was just so near.

“All right, all right,” she exclaimed, “you can join the Boy Scouts.”

That was easy. Now, the details.

“First you have to wear that old pair of shoes your elder brother discarded a long time ago. You have no shoes, remember? Besides, I can only give this much to your entry fee, but I can settle this by installment. And – last but not least – you do the talking to Mr. Café, the Master Scout of your school. The rest, we’ll take care of it when we reach there.”

Hmm, that would suffice for the moment. I examined her declaration of independence. My elder brother’s shoes were bought some ten years before, perhaps even earlier. The entry fee that she was to give me was only about ten percent of the real requirement. A white shirt for my uniform? That wasn’t a problem. Even if her declaration of independence was rather vague, I was excited and overjoyed. Boy Scouts, here I come.

“You’re in,” I declared (no, it was Mr. Café). “But be sure to give me the rest of your payment by the end of the month, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” I answered with a snappy salute.

I joined the band of Clint and Charles whom I envied so much because of their availability in every extra-curricular endeavor. There was Bobot, a Chinese kung-fu expert who wanted to chop my head all day long; and also Tabio who was non-white but sported a very white smile as if he owned all the “colgates” in town; there was also Nobelito who looked like Zorro but who wanted to make a laughing stock out of me.

Oh, I was prepared. Whatever were their moves, I had preconditioned my mind for any attempt to reincarnate Charlie Chaplin.

Testing, testing. Bobot made his move. He planted his elbow on top of my head and pronounced, “This man here, see how big he is? Can I separate his head from his body with my chops?” Everyone shouted in approval. Bruce Lee, I shouted. Even if I was a little smaller, I knew self-defense.

“Careful, Bobot,” I warned him. “I might not be as strong as you are, but my mind can penetrate your thinking. Mr. Café has informed me that I will represent the Boy Scouts in the Quiz Bee. How’s that for a new comer?” That was a lie, but I knew the likes of Bobot.

I passed, I thought. Tabio came in, held me by the neck and carried me to wherever he wanted me in the playground. He smiled that white smile I can never forget in my life as a young scout. “You’re okay, boy, you’re in.” I surmised that they really waited for me in the group.

The big event in our scouting was a very happy moment in my young boyish mind. It was the investiture. I was one of those who stood, raising my right hand, with three middle fingers upright, the thumb and the little finger held together. Mr. Café, whom I still owed my entry fee, announced our full acceptance in the Boy Scouts.

My first camping was a fascinating event in my life as a young man. What could be more exciting than these: fasten the belts, the straps, the ropes, tie whatever is there to be tied, climb coconuts and see to it that there aren’t any intruders, practice saluting, swimming and running, and, last but not least, independence (from my Mama).

Running to her in excitement and joy after the camping is one of my happy memories. I still can imagine her face, unsure of what to show to me or say. She was very happy for her boy scout, I think. A mother is a mother.