Free Assoc. #1

There's No I in Respect

And then there are the times I think about past moments, hours for weeks when I waited for a change. I was at a long table, a two-seated wooden rot. It had a peeling top in a yellow and black speckled pattern. In front of me were my mess kit and stainless steel drinking cup. My troop had dispersed hours ago, gone to their various activities and responsibilities, their duties in the camp. It was evening, and I anticipated taps ending the day being morosely drawn from the lungs of the young bugler.

I was a tenderfoot. I was fourteen-years-old at my first scout experience away from home. The patrol I was in was vicious, tortuous to me, far beyond the agreed upon hazing rituals of pubescent boys As the odd man in many ways I was abused, and no elder heard my cries. So I remember sitting as such, at the completion of the nightly mess, avoiding going back through the forested greens to our patrol's camp-site. I prolonged walking, rising and letting my wooden crutch stab the earth. I survived by not being me, by not allowing them to see what I lacked in balance, how I could not begin to compete with their agility.

The lake we swam in, where we washed ourselves, was a half-mile through the woods. The path was an obstacle course, ribbed with tree roots and eroded forest floor. It was full of moss-covered stumps that hid poison ivy leaves of three I was told to let be. I was lazy I guess. Swimming with the other scouts did not apeal to me. Walking a half-mile to bathe with those I saw as adversaries was not worth the effort. As I write this I realize an irony. That set distance was how far I had walked nearly daily in previous summers. When I was six, seven, eight I walked to the general store down a county road. I walked as therapy with my dad. The main difference was that I was walking to be received by people who'd applaud me, acknowledge my effort, and usually give me a treat (“Being the Greatest” from my book Finding me—and Them: Stories of Assimilation). An older scout, one who didn't know me well enough to be cruel, in some leadership role, asked me routinely to go to the lake. I always said no. By the end of the week I began to smell, which probably only added to my obstructions to assimilate well. I had a high susceptibility to poison ivy, and I leaned on that like a crutch.

“People get it walking down there and spread it in the lake. No, I'll stay here in the clear.”

“Well, you have to wash. You're beginning to smell,” an older scout whispered.

It was all so uninspiring. It was probably the first summer camp experience that was conducive to a learned introversion. Each evening after the meal I sat in our “mess hall,” on the long warped wooden bench. It went on for at least 40 feet of adjoining tables. Unless I was assigned KP (a task in the kitchen I hated, but appreciated the inclusion) I sat and watched the scouts disperse. They gathered their plastic soap boxes and towels. They came back from their respective camp sites and headed for the path to the lake. I sat waiting for them to return, listening to the loons, imagining the sunset on the lake. I looked down the path and pictured myself walking to the lake, reveling with my fellow scouts, seeing the amber traces of sunset peeking through the trees as we approached the lake.

“Are you sure we can't get you to go to the lake? I'm happy to walk with you. I'll go as slow as you want.”

“No thanks. I'll pass.”

One of the higher ranking scouts, an actual adult, gave a hesitated look to the guy who was still clearing the table.

“Well then, Mike, you leave us no choice. Go get your soap and towel. I'll even go to your site and get them if you want.”

“Fine, get them. I'm not walking down to the lake,” I said stubbornly.

“Oh, that's not what we have in mind.”

He looked back at me as he walked away, smiling just enough to make me feel safe, that I was not about to be put in humiliation's way. I thought nothing of it and listened to the faint sounds of the other scouts frolicking in the lake. In moments I'd be wishing I had made the half-mile walk. In a few minutes the star (two below eagle) came back with my necessities with a more disturbing smile on his face.

“You have to bathe. You refuse to go to the lake.”

He looked around whiffing of apprehension, like he knew what he was about to do could have legal implications someday, although in 1979, far north, he was safe. I was walked to the far end of the main camp area, where a water pump pierced the earth. Two older scouts wore rain-ponchos. I didn't wear much of anything. The days at camp had been hot and I thought of the better times for this, when I probably would have wanted to wear few clothes anyway, when the warmth of the sun would caress me—not the cold stares of older boys who, for all I knew, were closeted gays. It was a humiliation, although deep down, if any part of it was at all excusable, I had brought it on myself. I was the “special” tenderfoot, now with goose-flesh. The recalcitrant introverting kid with a crutch was getting the hosing he'd inadvertently requested. As they soaped me I sat precariously on a log. I heard the slopping of water ans suds lose itself in the solitude that prevails where north winds blow. Encroaching, as if calibrated, came incrementally louder the voices of the other scouts.

“Are we about done here? I really don't want to be seen like this,” I pleaded.

“Just hold on, we're all boys here. You shower in gym don't you?”

The water was cold and it wasn't my body's finest hour. That was the problem, we were all boys, each as hairless as the next. If there had been some girls I would not have minded so much. It was too late. The troop entered the camp and saw me shivering on the log with my legs crossed. No one really cared and went to their respective sites. Sounds from zippers of tents broke through the woods. Flashlights found faces in trees. My bath was completed and I sulked away up the trail to my dreaded patrol. None of them did or said anything to harass me, possibly figuring I'd been through enough. I'd shown my character (and a bit more). Could it be they respected me for my show, my refusal to walk to the lake and then take the consequences like a man with a boy's genitalia? The experience sunk in as I lay in the tent listening to taps. I was far from being “one of the guys” but my conviction and resulting humiliation may have earned me some respect.