I grew up between two brothers, Danny and Andrew. For the longest time, we were equals in every way. We built forts together, made go-carts, jumped in the leaves, threw snowballs at each other, climbed trees; the list was endless. For a while, I was even in the Cub Scouts because mom was a Den Mother and I had no place to go. With the Cubs, I used a hot iron pen to carve designs into a piece of wood, whittled balsa wood into small animals, made volcanos erupt with baking soda and vinegar; seemingly tough tasks, always slightly dangerous, but also fun. I was a Bobcat but never a Wolf.

Eventually, I was put in a brown dress with a sash that cascaded over my right shoulder to my left hip or maybe it was visa versa. I don’t remember. I was now a Brownie earning badges for cooking, baking, sewing, being a good helper, artist, weaver, or friend; delicate stuff compared to the Cubs. The most exciting badge was making a camp fire where I’d roast a hot dog and then melt marshmallows and Hersey’s chocolate into S’mores. Eventually, I joined the Girl Scouts and sold cookies of which I ate too many.

Around age 11, I started noticing that my brothers had privileges that I didn’t get. For example, they were allowed to sit however they pleased whereas I had to make sure my legs were crossed. They were allowed to yell; I had to speak like a lady. No one ever told either of my brothers to speak or even act like a gentleman. They were allowed to be wild animals. I, on the other hand, felt like I was put in a cage where rules were randomly decreed by parents, teachers, preachers and anyone else in authority. 

I watched while my brothers helped build the foundation and eventually the rest of two summer cabins alongside my maternal grandfather. By then, I had realized that asking to join would have led nowhere. When I discovered boxes of integrated circuits with their tiny resistors, capacitors, diodes and transistors all organized in separate compartments in my grandfather’s attic, I was fascinated and wanted to know more, but little interest or time was given me to assuage my curiosity. I was taught to knit and crochet instead.  

One summer as I walked along the country road that led from the cabin my brothers and grandfather built to a friend Lisa’s house, I consciously noted it was better to be a boy than a girl. That’s when I decided to call myself Scout. Yes, that would be my new name. It felt good. It felt right and with it, I’d get my freedom back. I could be loud like my brothers and involved again in daring boys-only activities. 

“I’m changing my name,” I announced to Lisa upon my arrival. 

“To what?” she said looking a bit frightened because no one changed their name back then least of all a kid.

“I want you to call me Scout from now on,” I said with earnest at which point Lisa’s cheeks ballooned as she tried to stifle a laugh. It didn’t work and in letting loose, she accidentally spit on me.

We played Barbie’s that day, which I enjoyed very much, and yet, as I walked home I wondered who else I could try my new name and identity on where it would be safe and actually work! My parents? My brothers? No, not them. I would have to work around this whole debacle; somehow become free like the boys yet still be a girl. What I didn’t know was that help was on its way in the form of a new decade and the beginnings of women’s liberation. The 70’s; a decade that made the ‘60’s look like the ‘50’s. 

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.