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Hanging in my closet back home is a beige button-up shirt. It’s too small for me now. The sleeves are too short, and I’ve developed a bit through the shoulders in this last decade. Given my growth, though, it still fits surprisingly well. The length is about right, the neck is a comfortable diameter, and I can easily give myself a hug, all of which makes me wonder how I wasn’t swimming in it as a youth. An Old Glory patch adorns the right shoulder, balanced by a Council patch and three numbers on the opposite side, all sewn with machine precision. On the left breast pocket, a golden flour-de-lis over a crimson heart is stitched with rather less finesse; you can count the loose loops of thread on one hand. And embroidered on the opposite pocket, in the same brilliant red, four words: Boy Scouts of America. In the wake of their decision to allow girls into the organization, they’ve been on my mind. I started in the Cub Scouts, the BSA program for young’ns. My memories from that time have largely faded (it was 13 years ago, gimme a break), but some remain clear—the suave pride of earning a new belt loop; painting a knock-off Eye of Sauron on a can-lid Christmas ornament (still in use, by the way); bellowing an unbridled “OOOOOaaOOaaOOOOOaaOOaaOOOOO—Day Camp!” with Tarzanic zeal; rippling with anticipation for my first sleep-away camp; the feeling of void when, at that camp, Mom told me my grandmother had passed. The Boy Scouts stick in my mind better. It was more recent, it was more formative—hell, it was just more fun. Troop 136 was, hands-down, the best group of young lads I have ever encountered. We acted with the swiftness of wind. We flowed together like water. United, we were as stable as the earth beneath our feet. We blazed with fiery vivacity, and damn, did we have heart. We had the ambition and ability to captain this planet to a brighter future (sorry, not sorry). We were blessed with a Scoutmaster who gave us nearly-free rein, far more agency than was probably wise, founding the troop on us boys and our natural dynamic. And boy, were we dynamic. Cases in point:
I have many more stories to tell. This is not the last you’ll hear of Troop 136. Though my three years with them was relatively brief, they remain one of the most influential entities in my young life. By the time I entered high school, when we moved away, I had ascended to Life Scout and was on track to be the youngest Eagle in the Troop’s history. I tried to finish with my new Troop, but with the move to a new town and away from 136, my motivation faltered. I had four years and never took those final few steps. That regret will never stop pinching, but the lessons learned with 136 will never leave me, either. I modeled myself—and still do—after some of the older boys. They were confident, kind, excellent human beings. They presented a seamless, honest, praiseworthy integration of smarts, soul, and strength. I was gifted the best role models an awkward and outcast kid could desire and I remain thankful for everything they taught me: Be confident; Be compassionate; Live life to the fullest; Engage; And when you sing, sing with full lungs and a heart bursting with joy. Semper Gumby, boys. Semper Gumby.
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