Girl Scouts
What is a Girl Scout? This is a seemingly simple question. A Girl Scout is a member of an organization called Girl Scouts. And, well, the organization is made up of girls. Except I was a Girl Scout. I earned patches, went camping, and sold cookies. I am also an adult man. These things are contradictory, yet true. I was a Girl Scout. Now, I’m something else.
During my childhood, late in the school year, a pamphlet would arrive. It would list the various summer camps I might attend as a Girl Scout. These had different themes: horseback riding, arts and crafts, canoeing, and more. I would scan the catalog and pick one. Then my mother would cough up the money to send me to it. By July, I was shipped out to a campsite full of girls.
I did this every year, and each year I asked to attend. But the curious thing is that I did not enjoy it. I was a fat child, and hiking was not my skill. In a line of girls on a trail, I was always at the back, huffing and puffing. Sweat would get in my eyes, and my fair skin would burn. A sympathetic camp counselor would stop to take water breaks with me. But it was not just the physical aspect that was torturous.
I did not get along with girls. Young girls are like great beasts with excellent noses. They sniff out intruders faster than anyone else. I attended Girl Scout camp for at least ten years. I never made a single friend. I was always alone. Excluded. These girls could sense something was wrong with me, although they could not articulate it. The best they could come up with was “weird.” That one is weird. Don’t go near them.
However, I did get along with the camp counselors. I think this may be because Girl Scout counselors are an odd bunch. Many are queer, with many being lesbians (although they never outright told us this.) They would dye their hair strange colors and assume nicknames like “Spock,” “Kitkat,” or “Apple.” Most were familiar with being seen as weird. So they were supportive.
This may be the reason I returned every year. My home life was bad, and getting out of it for a few weeks during the summer was a blessing. Despite the heat, exercise, and bullying, it was better than watching my alcoholic father collapse on the floor. Being around adults that were kind and caring was unfamiliar to me. And so, every year, I signed up for Girl Scout camp.
One year I was miserable. The girls were crueler than usual, and the summer was hotter. I stayed in the shade of the cabin. I watched a lizard scuttle inside, away from the heat. The girls screamed, terrified of it. I watched with disinterest as it ran into the shadows, disappearing.
Later a girl would be gathering her things, reaching for a lost sock under a bed. I was also cleaning, trying to make sense of piles of dirty laundry. Then I heard a shriek. I watched the dead body of the lizard go flying through the air. It landed on a bunk bed in a comical position, its tongue hanging out. The girls were terrified of it, rushing to get a camp counselor. And I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Yes, I was not like these girls. Because I was a boy.
Something I would consistently miss at the camps was men. It isn’t until all men disappear that you miss their unique attributes. Men have a different kind of energy. They smell different, walk different, talk different. The only men I would see was the occasional cook in the kitchen. I would steal glances at these young men. They wore short sleeves and worked in a burning hot environment. Sweat dripped off their arms. When I returned home, it was a relief to see men again. Like returning to the pack.
When I came out to my mother, I wrote her an email. I explained carefully all the reasons I was not a woman but a man. In that list was Girl Scouts. I’m unsure why I thought it was relevant, but I noted it. As if to say, “See? The girls rejected me. I was never one of them.” Of course, this didn’t go over well. My mom wound up screaming at me that I must be autistic, not transgender. These two things had no correlation, and later under the scrutiny of a psychologist, I would be determined allistic. It turns out you don’t need to be autistic for girls to hate you.
Now, as an adult, I buy cookies from Girl Scouts. I always tell them, “My sister was a Girl Scout,” because it’s impossible to tell them the truth. This imaginary sister has come in handy a number of times. Like when letters to my birth name arrived at my house. “Oh, that’s my sister’s name,” I would say to my roommate. And maybe, in a sense, that person is my sister. My dead identical twin sister. I murdered her.
If you check the Girl Scouts website, it says anyone can be a Girl Scout. Men who volunteer, transgender children, and nonbinary people. But at the end of the day, the organization’s title is still “Girl Scouts.” I was once a Girl Scout. Now I’m something else. Something better, with sharper teeth and blood-stained hands. I buried a Girl Scout in the earth. Now I’m free.
Author Statement: James Anear is a writer and artist studying English at MiraCosta College.