Every Tuesday, we shuffle into the American Legion Post 112 next to my junior high. I’m already wearing the uniform. I wore it to school. In Cub Scouts and Webelos, advancement was nearly automatic. Badges earned. Perhaps because our mothers tended the den. Like my mom did. Yes, she was a Den Mother and hosted Cub Scouts at the house when it was her turn. Unusual for our, shall we say, closed-off and private family. Seinfeld voice: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I mean sure, we had people, other kids, over after school. Friends. We didn’t call them play dates. But it was uncomfortable to think to ask if it was OK if they stayed for dinner. They didn’t. That was family time. We were running around on BMX bikes and they didn’t mind that we went all over town or even knew where we were (that trope, and yes, we drank from the garden hose). Home when the streetlights were on. Or when dinner was on. Which could be as early as it was, as Dad got up early and was home before most commuting-into-Boston-type dads. Early bird. Worm. Tree work is done in the morning. Snow plowing in the depths of night. Emergencies on God’s time. Dad worked these shifts.
As a sidebar, talking with Dad on Saturdays often takes us down to some work stories or recalls of his proud days as an arborist. His days as president of the Massachusetts Arborists Association. Big Arbor Day festivals with tree-climbing and rope-throwing contests. There were adults drinking beer and Dad’s friend’s special grilled chicken sprinkled with lemon juice and salt from a Ball jar with holes poked through the top. Hearing Dad talk about how proud he was—and truth be told, everyone wants to be their dad, their hero—I remember being proud too. Of him. Of the guys. Working with their hands, not in the soil but in the pitch of pine and the nooks of oak. Taking care of trees is a noble, environmental, and artistic trade. It is also profitable. I’m also proud that my brother-in-law has a full-time job AND a tree side business, and my niece’s husband works for him at both places. Sort of the family business in a way. And as someone who’s afraid of power tools and has Stacey build the IKEA, it's just not something I’m really ‘cut’ out for.
School is out and we’re over at the Boy Scouts of America. I’ve done the kiddy stuff. Without any overnight camping trips under my belt when I was a young Tiger Cub and Bear Cub, I racked up as many merit badges and Scout patches as I could. 1985, at age 10, was Scouting’s Diamond Jubilee. I loved this one. And anything that scored me a pin for our ribbons. Ever the collector.
We were Troop 41. Which is a cool enough number and just one away from a Douglas Adams Easter egg. Everyone had FIRST AID, which they should. I think it was required as the first. Trying to track down the merit badges this many years on, even with the internet, is not yielding much product, but you get the point. I probably had about 10. First Aid, Electronics, Camping. That sort of thing. They change (as they should!).
I’m in my brown shirt, all day, a wannabe soldier. Perhaps an astronaut. I will need to get used to being in a uniform at some point, I think to myself. On the shirt, for the 2-3 years I showed up to the Boy Scouts of America, I had this: SCOUT.
Scout is the rank they give you to be a redshirt. Cadet. First against the wall when the revolution comes. Above us, there were leaders of Patrols. The Patrols make up the Troop. The camp in me wants to write TROUPE, but I won’t!
For some reason. Some unknown reason. No direction was given to me to get to Tenderfoot. An adult Scout Leader asked me why I wasn’t Tenderfoot yet, and I gave him a good shrug: “I dunno, how do you get it?” He said the Patrol Leader was supposed to tell me how and that I should be much further along. How would I get to Eagle at this rate?
Gee, maybe because I literally didn’t know the path? These 15-year-olds didn’t give a shit about their Patrols? Too busy making out with cheerleaders (they weren’t, but maybe they were making out with the quarterback!).
That was OK though. I wasn’t feeling Boy Scouts. Cub Scouts and Webelos (We’ll Be Loyal Scouts) was fun! Even when I did get hit in the back of the head with a baseball, storming off the field because “this game sucks, that ball is hard, I can’t throw or catch.” Luckily—and no joke, folks, I’m not kidding around—my mom was there to take care of me.
We made crafts in Cub Scouts and art and hung out in the woods, looking at plants and shit. Stuff I was doing anyway.
In Boy Scouts, I was an outsider among outsiders. Just the thought of those American Legion hall meetings fills me with an “I am going to shit myself” pit in my stomach. I didn’t have any friends there. Maybe one or two, but they were in other Patrols. There was dogma. And pomp. And circumstance. And alcoholic dads that worked for the Troop—Scouters. These Scouters didn’t give one fuckity fuck about me. Sure, they couldn’t be as awesome as my own actual, loving mother who must have hated hanging out with six other boys, but she did it for me. And we had the best snacks. But it’s not about being a mamma’s boy. The other weeks we were at other moms' houses…or at a random building next to a baseball diamond (see above—OUCH!).
These guys were fuckheads and I could sniff it out. I didn’t even want rank or to get to this coveted Eagle after spending time there. I think I spent too much time there before I got the guts to quit or not renew my dues for the next year. The bloom was off the merit badge. The first ‘fuck this place’ moment of my life. It felt…good?
The primo example of why I fucking HATED it was this. One week, before our big meeting, we were told to line up in formation. Usual pomp and circumstance stuff. “Fall In!” We had to do this at some point every week. I didn’t mind and my shirt was still pretty stiff from the iron (thanks, Mom).
If I can set the stage, picture Hank and Dale and a couple of friends with Scouter shirts on barking commands for us to ‘line up.’ It was hot. The parquet floor was waxed and shiny. Slivers of sunlight peeking through the dusty windows made shapes on the floor. Our Patrols were at one of the wider edges. Command had us facing them. Less Wes Anderson and more Green Room. It was hot. I felt like Private Pyle in the latrine directed by Kubrick. Every fucking week. Slumping behind was the highly ranked leader of my Patrol. The son of one of the Hank Hill guys. He was carrying a ‘boom box,’ but we probably called it something bad. I wanted to be a G.I. Joe, so no problem there with some stand-up discipline.
“Listen up. This is very important. We heard this song today and are now going to have you listen to it. It is important. Values…blah blah…you gotta listen to this.”
Being told HOW to listen to music, and country music, even, was not something I needed to be yelled at about. Still don’t! Plus this guy reeked of Schlitz and was probably driving you on the Red Line from Braintree to Park Street the next day. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
This babbling fuck punished our eardrums with one of the worst songs I have ever heard. I mean, I am not retrofitting my hate for Lee Greenwood here. I have always hated this pandering bullshit. I felt it in my bones. This shit ain’t Waylon. “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?”
We stood basically at Army-style attention and sucked this in. As instructed. This may have been the day that the older men were giving me stick about my rank. In fact, it would have been perfect. They had nothing else to fucking teach us. We weren’t identifying maple leaves or painting cars. This was Boy Scouts. This was Sparta.
Some old drunk berating me for not being given direction by the people we’re forced to follow. Checks out.
Anyway, I quit the Scouts. But I am still a proud American. Just not because of this fucking song.
America landed on the moon. We helped our allies achieve victory over fascism in World War II. People I know and have met have died for our country. People I know and have met served proudly in all branches of the military. I was even lucky enough to speak to not just one, but two women who served in the Space Force, and they had to pry me away from asking them so many questions.
I’m proud to be an American. Just not in a Lee Greenwood way, if you know what I mean.
Fuck that song.
America has lasted 250 years and is a fragile thing. I appreciate the civics I learned and how to work with people in Scouting, and think that Scouting is a good thing for kids. I don’t have any kids. Just be sure to nurture the cubs out of the den and encourage them to vote and participate in democracy. Participate in sharing their voice. Participate in resistance.
The Boy Scouts of America is now called Scouting America. Girl Scouts are more than cookies. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on with scandals involving Scouting and LGBTQ+ inclusion, or the sexual predator bullshit that no doubt rocked and likely continue to affect Scouting as a whole. But I do know that my mother was an absolute saint, and I’d give anything to share with my mother—the Abington Historical Society president—the joy of celebrating a big anniversary like America 250. In my heart, she’ll be with Stacey and me at Supergirl, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see a firework. That will be enough.
No one owns patriotism. Don’t let them tell you how to fucking celebrate.
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