What Is Mean to Be a Girl Scouts - Essay Example

Running Head: LITTLE SISTERS Little Sisters I was never a Girl Scout, and that never bothered me. My concept of a structured group activity was something more along the lines of getting two or three other girls to go to the mall with me, not sitting around with a bunch of other misfits and learning how to build a campfire, or how to sew, or whatever it is they do in the Girl Scouts. And those uniforms? You have got to be kidding. I knew a few girls that were active in the Girl Scouts, but nothing they ever said about it made it seem interesting enough for me to give it a second thought. Except for the time of the year when they were selling those cookies; the Girl Scouts seemed to have a lot of friends then, including me. I liked the mint ones, and those little butter cookies. Yet as unimportant as they were to my academic and social life for my first 11 years of school, I may have the Girl Scouts – specifically, Brownie Troop 74 – to thank for getting into college. Not long after the start of senior year in high school, my guidance counselor, Mr. Greer, called me into his office. “You have a little problem that might become a bigger problem when you start filling out college applications,” he told me. “Your grades are fairly good, but you have no activities. Have you given any thought to this?” I had heard this speech already from a couple of my teachers, but I didn’t consider that someone might take it seriously. I sure didn’t. “Well, no, not really,” I said. “Look, competition for admissions is tough,” he explained. “Colleges want to see some activities outside of class, especially if you’re hoping to get a scholarship or a grant. And you really haven’t done anything.” “Like what?” I asked, getting a little irritated. “I’ve got a full schedule of classes, I have a job after school. It’s not like I have a lot of free time.” “Well, I understand that, but even if it’s just an hour or two or week, it’ll make all the difference,” he said. “And I even have an idea for you, something I think you’ll enjoy, and won’t take up too much of your time. My daughter – who’s nine, by the way – is in a Brownie troop, and the lady who runs it doesn’t have much help. They meet for an hour or so twice a week, I think, and there’s sometimes some other activities during the weekend. If you’re interested, I can give you her phone number.” Oh, nice, I thought. Way to put me on the spot. “Well, I’m not sure, with my work schedule and all…” I said hesitantly. “Why don’t you give her a call,” Mr. Greer said, scribbling a number on the back of one of his business cards. “If you can work something out, great. If not, well, that’s okay. But give it a try. You might decide you like it.” Goodbye social life, I thought. Well actually, I didn’t have much social life to lose. But Girl Scouts? And not just any Girl Scouts, but a group of nine-year olds? The only image I could conjure was a roomful of thirty or forty identically-dressed little monkeys – you know, the kind that like to shriek and climb on everything and throw their own poo. I could think of thirty or forty other places I’d rather be. I better get one kick-ass reference letter out of this, my inner voice grumbled. It took me two days to make the call, and I finally did so mostly out of concern that Mr. Greer would cross my path sooner or later and ask me about it; I imagined news of my calling – or blowing it off, for that matter – would get back to him. I pictured the woman who would answer the phone; probably a middle-aged, overweight, church-going type. Somebody like my Mom, in other words. But I was completely disarmed by the voice on the other end of the line. Mrs. Cross – “Oh please call me Linda,” she said – sounded like a lingerie model: young, with a sweet, breathy way of speaking. “It would be so nice to have some help,” she said. “These girls’ mothers, they think this is the baby-sitting or what, all they do is drop the kids off and pick them up again.” “Um, how many girls are there?” I asked warily. “Oh! Don’t worry about that, there’s only ten of them,” she laughed. “I couldn’t handle more than that. And they’re good kids, really. My daughter is in the group, and some of her classmates, and I guess Amy would be your Mr. Greer’s daughter. So, you still interested?” Okay, I’ll admit it. Mrs. Cross – Linda, I mean – just sounded too nice for me to say no, and so I agreed to meet her and the group the next afternoon, at the cafeteria of the elementary school where all the girls were students. I arrived a few minutes late, and the kids had already started on their project, gluing different-colored popsicle sticks together. “Girls,” Linda – who was not a lingerie model, but a short, slender, tired-looking blonde about 40 years old dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt – called to the group, clapping her hands to get their attention. “This is Theresa, she’s here to help us out, so let’s make her feel welcome.” “Hi, Theresa,” the girls sang out in unison, looking at me with curious smiles. “I’m so glad you could make it,” Linda said to me as the girls went back to giggling and chattering over their art projects. “We don’t have too much of a program here. It’s pretty much just something to keep them busy, and then a snack. Today we’re supposed to be making picture frames, so…” her voice trailed off as she looked around the room. “Oh, just introduce yourself and do whatever comes naturally I guess.” I wandered around the room, feeling self-conscious, watching the girls while at the same time being uncomfortably aware that they were watching me. Finally, I sat down at a table with four of them, who introduced themselves – Hazel, Linda’s daughter, her best friend Allie, Samantha, who was in Hazel’s class, and Robin, who was Allie’s cousin from a different school even though she lived next door to Allie. I didn’t realize it then, but I had just met four of the best friends I’ve ever had. Hazel was the ringleader of the little group, I suppose because her Mom was in charge. She was a pretty, but chubby girl, with gorgeous blue eyes and an amazing head of golden hair. Allie was quiet and serious, unlike her red-haired cousin Robin, who was the group clown. Samantha was the smart one. She was not as well-off as the others, as I found out when I asked the girls what their parents did. “Mom’s a waitress, and Dad, um, stays home a lot, I guess,” she said, but with puzzlement and not shame. Which seemed remarkable, since her clique included the daughters of the General Manager of a Mercedes dealership (Hazel), a Marketing Director for a big pharmaceutical company (Allie), and the owner of the biggest shopping mall in the county (Robin). “Her parents are kind of the hippie type,” Linda explained to me weeks later. “She’s lucky she’s smart. But at least her parents are there for her, which is more than I can say for most of these other parents. My husband included.” And it was true, of all the parents, Samantha’s were the ones who would actually come into the building after the meetings, and show some interest in their daughter’s activities. Besides them, throughout the entire school year the only other parent I saw was Mr. Cross, who stopped by a couple of times. He was nice enough, I guess, but kind of scary – he reminded me of Agent Smith in The Matrix. And, as Linda liked to point out, he reminded everybody of what a busy man he was. I had started out just wanting to get through my “extra-curricular activity”, but soon I began to have fun, and look forward to our weekly meetings. I liked all the girls, but Hazel, Allie, Robin, and Samantha were my special little buddies – like little sisters I never had. Weekly meetings soon grew into sleepovers, and birthday parties, and outings to the mall or the amusement park, when I could arrange my work schedule for it. Mr. Cross paid for almost all of it; “Oh, he’s good at that,” Linda said. “Can’t spend two nights in a row at home, but give him something to throw money at, and he’s all over it.” We had a blast, spending Mr. Cross’ money. Sometimes I felt a little guilty; wasn’t the Girl Scouts supposed to be somewhat educational? I wasn’t sure what I was teaching the girls by taking them to the mall, or having over for the weekend and letting them stay up all night. It bothered me so much that I finally asked Linda about it. “You know, I used to worry about that, too,” she confided. “In the Girl Scouts, they give you a lot of information about programs, and learning outcomes, and so on and so on, and I tried to follow it at first. But then I got to thinking, why should I? These kids don’t get to be kids anywhere else. It’s either school, or activities their career-driven parents pick for them, and sure they mean well, but does it help? Here, at least, they get to be themselves. There’s no objective. No goals to meet. Just be kids. Because soon enough, they’re going to be like their parents. In the meantime, though, they learn to get along with each other and have fun. That’s all that matters, I think.” One of the other girls interrupted her to ask about how to glue a scrap of cloth to a poster she was making, which was the art project for that week. “They look up to you, you know,” she continued, “All of them do, but especially your little gang over there. Hazel talks about you constantly. You don’t realize it, but these girls are just a few years from growing up. And they look at you, and can imagine themselves. They look at me, and I’m, well, a Mom. That’s too big a leap of the imagination. But they can relate to you.” “Wow,” I said, feeling kind of humbled. “I’m not sure what to say. I’m just being myself, and having fun.” “You care, and you treat them like people. That’s something wonderful. Give yourself a little credit, will you?” she said with a smile. That was in April, and sadly, the school year would be over soon. Because of finals and all the activities of graduation, I made plans to leave the troop after the first week of May. On our last day, they planned a party for me, and somehow kept it a secret; when I arrived at the school, a giant hand-painted banner stretched across one wall: THANK YOU THERESA FROM BROWNIE TROOP 74 OUR FAVORITE LEADER (AND ALSO MRS. CROSS) GOOD LUCK FOR GRADUATION And almost all the white space around the words was covered in brightly-colored handprints, with all the girls’ names painted over them. I couldn’t help myself; I started to cry. All the girls came over and hugged me. “They actually did that themselves,” Linda said. “Hazel and Allie thought it up first, I guess. They were halfway done with it before I even knew what was going on.” “Aww, girls, that’s so sweet, thank you,” I said, and I meant it. The sentimental part of the festivities being ended then, everyone went for the stack of pizzas that Mr. Cross, he of the Deep Pockets, had arranged to have delivered. It was a bittersweet celebration, the most fun I had all year, but sad because I knew in all likelihood I might never see any of these girls again. After a while, I noticed my four little sisters whispering among themselves, then Hazel came over and tugged me on the arm. “Hey, come over here, we made something special,” she said. “But we want to give it in secret, so the other girls don’t feel bad.” “Oh! Okay,” I said, letting her lead me over to the other side of the room were the other three waited expectantly. Robin was holding something that looked like a large homemade card, a folded piece of purple construction paper about the size of a dinner menu, trimmed with pink ribbon. Beaming with pride, Robin handed it to me. On the front, surrounded by hearts, it said: TO THERESA And inside: BEST LEADER BEST TEACHER BEST FRIENDS 4EVER HAZEL SAMANTHA ALLIE ROBIN THERESA YAY! WE LOVE YOU!!! And under each of their names, each of the girls had carefully written their phone numbers. “You girls really are my best friends,” I said, tearing up again. “I’ll miss you.” “That’s why we put our phone numbers, so you can call us,” Hazel said. “That was my idea.” “That’s my own cell phone number,” Allie said proudly. The other girls shot her a look, but let the boast slide. “Okay, I’ll make a deal with you,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Before I go, I’ll call you all and give you my new number, too.” “Well, except if you have a boyfriend,” Samantha said. “Then it’s okay if you don’t, because maybe you’ll be busy.” “No!” Robin protested. “She has to call and say what he looks like.” “Oh, okay,” Samantha said. “Well then after that.” “I’ll call you, I promise,” I laughed. “And if I get a boyfriend, I’ll call you and let you talk to him.” Read More