Cub Scout

A humorous look at my one year career as a Cub Scout in the BSA.

Cub Scout

A long time ago, back when we were a great country, it was the early spring of 1990. I was in the first year of two during which I would ace first grade, as I was so repletely skilled and proficient, I was enabled to ace the first grade not once, but twice. While in first grade, I had taken notice of various individuals about school who attended from time to time in uniforms of various sorts, which of course began a phase in my life that would take considerable time and effort to work through, a phase that all real boys .. uh .. I mean .. men .. tend to go through: the Uniform Covet Phase. In a certain sense, fortunately, and in another, unfortunately, for me, an opportunity was about to arise for me to don one and begin my journey through the rectification of the Uniform Covet Phase.

At some point earlier that year, my father had offered me the opportunity to join the Cub Scouts, into which I would enter as a Tiger Cub first class. This was kind of a big deal because I'm sure that something like that cost my parents money, which considering that my Dad, being a mere petty officer in the Navy at the time, meant we didn't have much to spend on stuff like that. Induction into the ranks at that time sort of came with a uniform, which was the important part to me. There was a shirt with some sort of Tiger Cubs logo and a trucker cap with logo as well, which to me seemed like the most important part of the uniform. I do not recall there being anything else. I faithfully attended all the den meetings which are mostly a blur of flag rituals, parading the flags, and counting up all the stuff the higher-ranking cub scouts and scouts were supposed to be selling. We Tiger Cubs counted or assembled the goods to be sold: popcorn, Swiss army style knives, key chains, and other items that I didn't pay much attention to. My attention was on the much-coveted uniform, being able to hold the flag pole and march (which we "Tigers" couldn't do) and the much anticipated "outing" that came with selling all the fund raising loot we were busy counting and assorting at den meetings.

The Outing, as I recall thinking of it, was an assumed concept with preconceived expectations that were totally made up by me. My conceptualization of it was based on the assumption that the Scouts was where one could learn how to: chop down trees, wrestle polar bears, build log cabins and fires, and be a real man. So, naturally it made sense to my first-grade imagination that The Outing would be a culminating event wherein we Cubs would begin to practice such arts and therefore also learn how to be real men.

Finally, the day arrived. We had done it! Enough low quality mass produced goods made in China and overpriced popcorn had been sold to solicit the necessary funds to appease the scouting demigods. Jubilantly we gathered in uniform and hopped eagerly into mini vans and other 80's era automobiles and started off on our amazing adventure on .. The Outing. Our journey beginning, we began to drive .. toward .. town? Hmm. That's odd. Why aren't we going to the forest or to the mountains? Or the lake? Maybe we're going to acquire supplies in town. Yes. That must be it. We passed the Jamesway, we passed all the other stores, we passed pretty much anywhere and everywhere poedink Ballston Spa upstate New York had to offer in 1989 where supplies for scouts to become real men could be had .. and then .. we arrived .. at the movie theater.

Okay, perhaps we were going to watch how to chop wood, wrestle lions and tigers and bears, build log cabins and fires, and then we would go off and be real men. Yeah. That must be it. We trooped into the theater, got our popcorns and oversized drinks and piled into the theater seats eagerly expecting to see an amazingly informative film about how to chop wood, wrestle lions and tigers and bears, build log cabins and fires and .. the lights went out; a hush fell over the crowd of Cubs and Scouts and .. instead of a troop of manly men teaching us how to do manly things .. our attentions were arrested, nay assaulted, .. by the rising crescendo of the heart piercing singing voice of a small and delicate, but brave and beautiful .. red haired, bluish eyed, whiny, bratty teenaged .. mermaid???? Stunned, I watched in silence as my boyhood dreams crashed in a pit of confused anxiousness. Was this supposed to be happening? Did someone mess up? Had we been confused with some other group? Am I supposed to like this or not? I can recall finding some of the songs a little catchy, but never really gave a rip whether the mermaid got legs, a voice, or a man, or if the octopus witch died? As a matter of fact, I can't remember anything about how the film goes or who wins, .. only that my favorite character was a singing French chef, who has zero meaningful connection with the already irrational plot ... What to do! What to think! Oh no! And finally, it ended. The Outing was over; the lights came on and we dragged our weary emasculated souls to our awaiting rides to .. wherever we went after that, I can't even remember there was so much disappointment.

The next morning, a very distinct memory does remain, and that was my retirement from the Tiger Cubs, Boy Scouts of America et. al. First Class. esquire.

My father must have had a duty watch to go to because he was in uniform, in Navy underway blues. It was exceptionally rare for him to come into my room at any time of the day, much less in the morning, and even less in any of his uniforms. This could only mean that whatever he had to do or say was very important. He sat somewhat solemnly at the foot of my bed as I turned from my side to see him. He looked at me and said, "Son, if you don't want to do this anymore, I'll understand."

I then rose from the bed, and rather ceremonially I think, turned in my Tiger Cub uniform shirt and, with a little, teeny bit of hesitance, my Tiger Cub uniform trucker hat. Thus concluded my career in the BSA as well as my preoccupation with uniforms pretty much for good. Don't get me wrong, occasionally, I daydream about a uniform now and again, what man doesn't? But I have learned after wearing a few over the years, for some odd reason or another, that I don't really need one to be who I am.