Pack conformity
When I was eight, we moved to a small town. One with paved streets, and some sidewalks. And a critical mass of boys my own age. I joined the Cub Scouts.
This was not an option. At that age, you did things like that. Society makes you confirm. I showed up in the church basement, on the appointed evening, and I was added to a six. The White Six, I believe. We learned to sit and stand when so instructed, and we began to memorize the required chants and hand signals. We were a pack, which is similar to a gang, except that we had adults as our leaders.
I made the required visit to the local department store that sold Cub Scout clothes. A sweater. A geeky hat. A woggle to hold my kerchief. I dreamed about all the other fancy things I could buy, but all in good time.
At the next meeting, I received my tags. The name of my pack. The triangle for my sleeve. Not much else as I was really just beginning my climb. But I was proud. At home, I convinced my mother that nothing would be more important in our family life than the sewing of my insignias on my jersey, because that was what you did when you were a cub. And as soon as my jersey was done, I dressed up and headed outside, onto the sidewalk.
Not my finest moment. An older boy, versed in the ways of pack life, informed my that you did not get dressed up and go outside to show off. I was wrong, and if I did not go back inside and change into my regular clothes, I would be reported to Akela. I conformed. That was the whole point of being in a pack.
