When I was a kid…

...I was a little wild. Now I’m not talking juvenile-detention-center-burnin’-sh*t-up-wild, but mischievous enough that my mother felt that I needed the structure and guidance of a good role model. So, when I was around ten I found myself sitting in some stranger’s dirty @ss basement as he talked about how it was now my Scout Den and these kids who obviously didn’t feel uncomfortable being confined and left unsupervised in some stranger’s dirty @ss basement were now my brothers. But because there had been a promise of building a go-cart at the end of the year I had got suited-up with that smaller than average navy blue cap, sat in the circle “Indian” style, and took the Boy Scout oath. During our first “pow-wow” we had a candid discussion about proper male hygiene followed by a Q&A session that I felt was a little awkward, went on a nature hike where the highlight was finding our Den Master’s dog who had ran away a week earlier and was now infested with ticks, then preformed our good deed for the day by bagging leaves and trash around the neighborhood. When we returned to the den for ginger snaps, we started to discuss the go-cart project. I had come ready with drawings that I had labored over for what I wanted my racer to look like, including a picture flip-book of me going down a hill. Once the Den Master had flipped through the last scene of me winning a trophy he tried to explain why they couldn’t do it my way while pointing to the unfinished go-cart that the troop had been working on the year before. Now, I knew it wasn’t finished yet...but I have this saying, “You start off with crap, you end up with crap.” So I started to try and sell the idea of building my go-cart independently by pointing out my use of real rubber tires, my preliminary sketches for a breaking system, and a couple of kick-@ss color schemes with matching names. Plus, I added it would be nice to have something to race the old unfinished go-cart against since I discovered that a competition hadn’t even been planned. My pitch was met by a little teasing from my peers as I had established myself as someone who wore the bandana around his neck a little differently. And the Den Master's response was just a frustrated “No, Christafah…this is how we’re gonna do it.” (Christafah = my name with a strong Boston accent) So, after only a week I found myself sitting outside of the “Trust Circle” with several eyes looking at me in silence. This revelation ended my career as a Boy Scout. I was tempted to come back for the camping trip, but I decided if the planning for this outing was anywhere near close to that of the go-cart project there would be several “Brothers” who might not make it back and if they did they wouldn’t want to talk about it. Upon hearing the news my mother was pretty upset. At first I thought it was because she had paid for a uniform that was now only good during Halloween. But as I got older I realized she was more concerned than upset. She was afraid that for some reason I didn’t fit in with other people on a social level. I didn’t get into any more trouble that summer as I spent the majority of those long days in the dump and abandoned lots seeking the right parts for my go-cart.

I have more to say…