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Upside-down Scout

David Sapp

    My stint in Cub Scouts was brief. I suppose I was seduced (thankfully, not by a scoutmaster) by the blue uniform, the yellow neckerchief, the asinine beanie-like cap. My ensemble was second-hand, passed down by failed cub scouts’ mothers, all thinking, “Let’s see if it takes.” Washed too often with harsh detergent, the fabric was soft, comfortable but faded, unlike the crisp, creased livery of wealthier classmates.
    I was seduced (thankfully, not by a scoutmaster) by the thick manual of regulations, the code, loyalty, salute and oath, the logical progression of achievement, the chronology of brightly colored patches illustrating wild animals I never encountered in suburbia. I presumed scouting provided predictability in a usually chaotic world; it promised respectability and status in life.
    No one briefed me on the Bobcat Pin tradition: to affix it upside-down on a scout’s chest pocket, it was pinned right-side-up with the small boy suspended upside-down. When the recruit performed his first, official good deed, his initiation in chivalry, the pin was spun round. Without even the most informal of introductions, I was abruptly hoisted by the ankles into the air by two overly zealous dads. My father quietly endured the scene, smoking a cigarette at the back of the room. Apparently, he was not apprised of the ritual as well. One dad had performed the ceremony before, a grand master of sorts. The other seemed an apprentice, inexperienced in the task, his face working out the weight and physics. Did they confer before the flip?
    From this new vantage point I caught sight of our den mother, Mrs. Beck, looking on. (In second grade, it was Mrs. Beck who caught David Doup in the boys’ washroom with a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his cheek. Though I wasn’t interested in the habit, she insisted I watch as she washed my friend’s mouth out with soap. Actually more horrifying than quaint, this was another popular ritual.) Also the lunch monitor at Elmwood Elementary, a squarish woman, as wide as she was tall, Mrs. Beck’s usual fierce demeanor turned into an unexpected, rather gentle smile: “Turn that frown upside-down.”
    This was all very funny, a magic trick, laughter at my expense, my bewildered expression. I suppose this was a modest admission to belonging to the clan, but blood rushed to my brain. I knew, when righted, I’d be dizzy, maybe sick. I didn’t appreciate the humiliation, the loss of control over my spare body, my fate. Indignation efficiently replaced pride and camaraderie. However, if they dropped me on my head, there’d be one fewer scouts to torment. More pertinently, beyond this mild hazing, it all failed to make any sense. This random idiocy was juxtaposed against too many rules and, I discovered, very little room or regard for individual expression. After Cub Scouts, I was wary in joining much of anything.

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