We met in a Methodist church on a weekday afternoon. Recite the pledge, munch a snack, craft a project. We’d earn badges through field trips, skills, lessons. I was snack helper, clean up helper. We’d rotate through, sit in a circle on the beige carpet. Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold.
We took our sleeping bags to overnight camp, sang songs around the campfire. Kumbaya. I didn’t like the bugs, the forest air was foreign to my sheltered suburban self. I liked the novelty of it though.
I never was good at selling cookies. My dad retired young, couldn’t take them to work like the others. Too many other Girl Scouts in my neighborhood, we had to ration out the doors to knock on. Most people were nice enough to the awkward girl in the green vest but I wasn’t animated enough to make more than a pity sale. My mom, like me, an introvert and not wanting to be too pushy, didn’t help my failing cause. I wanted to be forward, learn the marketing skills, but I never did muster the ability to sell.
I remember traveling with my troop to the Peace Arch on the northern U.S. border, admiring a stylish girl with long braids and a green beret, souvenir pins stuck to her vest. What travels she’s made, what friends she’s met! I started collecting pins that day, not to trade but to keep: document the family road trip to Disneyland, the annual summers in Hawaii, the study abroad in France, the Mekong Delta, the crowded dusty streets of India and beyond.