Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  “Okay, you need to stop saying that,” I commanded.

  “He’s a boy,” Jason now changed his statement slightly.

  “I know he’s a boy,” I snapped.

  “Boys don’t join Girl Scouts,” he added as if it was some great kernel of wisdom no one had yet considered.

  “Enough!” I said. “Let’s take a little time to let this settle and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “He wants to be a Girl Scout?”

  “Enough,” I said.

  Jason opened his mouth, but before he could speak I commanded, “Shut up! You did enough damage downstairs. Be quiet already.”

  I’m sure he wished he could turn back the clock just thirty minutes to a time before his daughter told us we sucked for not allowing her to shake her pirate booty, and our son told us he wanted to don a green sash and hustle Thin Mints.

  Jason could not let this go. “What the hell’s that boy talking about? He wants to be a Girl Scout?”

  “I don’t know,” I returned. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “If he thought he got his ass kicked before ...” Jason sighed and shook his head. He got up from the bed, grabbed his free weights and began doing bicep curls with such intensity it looked as if he were trying to pump the gay out of our son.

  It’s not that I thought Logan’s idea was a good one, but it was unsettling to see my husband’s reaction. It was ten times worse than Maya saying she wanted to go trick-or-treating dressed as Captain Hooker. This alone was disturbing.

  “When I was a kid, the worst insult you could call a guy was a girl. Our coach called us girls when we weren’t playing hard enough,” Jason recalled.

  “He sounds very enlightened,” I said.

  “You know what I mean, baby.” Sadly, I did. “No boy wants to be called a girl, much less a Girl Scout. That’s like the girliest of girls! This is the craziest idea that boy has ever come up with, and he’s had some doozies.”

  “It is, but I can see where he’s coming from. Girl Scouts is the only place he really fits here.” Jason’s body deflated as he sat on the edge of the bed. Quickly he began pulling the weights as if he were starting a manual lawn mower. “He’s accepted, the girls love him, Michelle loves him. He’s very popular there.”

  Jason stopped pulling the weights and whispered, “They are going to kick his ass. Do you understand me?”

  Whispering back at him I explained, “I think it’s an awful idea, Jason. But I want him to know that we’re not going to freak out every time he tells us something, you know, difficult.”

  “Please tell me we’re not going there tonight, baby,” he said.

  “We’re there.”

  “Look, a thirteen-year-old has no idea if he’s gay. He’s not having sex with anyone, much less guys.”

  “Of course he’s not having sex, but, but — Jason, are we really having this conversation? Come on, we lived in San Francisco for years. How many gay men did we know?”

  “Plenty,” he said. “And they were all having sex with other guys. That’s what gay means, baby. If he wants be so gay so bad, let him do it when he’s older.”

  “Let him do it when he’s older?” I repeated, slowly, hoping that hearing his own words would help him realize how absurd he sounded. It didn’t. Instead he exhaled and sunk his face into his hands.

  “What? Say what’s on your mind,” I urged. “I need to know where you stand on this.”

  “If that boy joins Girl Scouts and keeps leaping all over the place, he’s putting himself in the line of fire, and I can’t understand why someone would want to do that. I’m his father. I can’t sit back and watch him do things that are an invitation for an ass kicking.”

  “Jason,” I began, crushed.

  “I know, I know, there’s no such thing as an invitation. You think I don’t know that?” Jason stopped and remained silent for a few moments as he contemplated whether or not he was going to share the memory he was reliving. “You know that scar over Bea’s eyebrow?” he asked. I shook my head, unable to recall his sister’s mark. “She got that from some white kid who threw a bottle out of his truck window one day when we were walking home from school. They shouted at us and before I could tell her not to turn around, she was facing a Pepsi bottle flying toward her.”

  “Oh my God. Why haven’t you ever told me this?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t let this kind of shit affect me, Lisa.” I knew better than to state the obvious. “I don’t understand why the boy can’t tone it down a bit and save himself a lot of hassle.”

  “I don’t see how you can say that, Jason. You know what it’s like to be targeted like that,” I began, but was quickly interrupted by my husband’s wrath.

  “Being black and being gay are not the same thing, and I am damn well sick of every group in the world trying to piggyback on the black experience. There were no 400 years of gay slaves in this country. No one ever tried to keep gay folks from voting, riding in the front of the bus or earning a decent living. My father’s a surgeon and he can’t buy a Slurpee at the 7-Eleven without being followed around by some dumb ass security guard. Lisa, you ever heard of someone being pulled over by a police officer for driving while gay?!”

  “No, but I have heard of idiots like that boy in the truck beating up gay people,” I retorted.

  “Exactly, Lisa!” he shouted before quieting himself so the kids wouldn’t overhear. “That is exactly what I’m saying! Logan can make a choice to tone it down and blend in, and save himself some of the bullshit I went through every day. I wore my difference on my skin every day. He doesn’t have to.” The air left the room. We looked at each other and seemed to have made the same realization: We had each married a fool.

  “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being black, Lisa?” Before I could open my mouth and try to help him make the correlation that was so obvious to me, he held out his hand to stop me. “I could deal with a few assholes every now and then; it’s the everyday shit that wears you down. I tell you, I could’ve used a day off from it growing up.”

  “You want a day off from being black?”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth, Lisa,” Jason snapped back. “I didn’t say that. I could’ve used a day off from the bullshit Logan is opening himself up to.”

  “So you do see the parallel between being black and being gay?”

  “You know what I think? I think you want Logan to be gay so everyone can see how hip and liberal you are with your gay kid and black husband.”

  If someone shot me from a cannon, I don’t think it could have blown me further across the room. Jason had joked with me a few times about marrying him for his melanin, but I never thought he really felt that way. I lost the struggle to hold back my tears when Jason sat beside me and put his arm around me.

  “You know I didn’t mean that, baby,” he said.

  “I know you did,” I said, sniffling. “What hurts me is not that you said it, but that you think it.”

  “No, baby,” Jason said tenderly, brushing the hair from my face. “I don’t think that. It was the heat of the moment. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

  But he did. Jason didn’t shout that my drinking was tearing apart our family. He didn’t complain about my gambling addiction or any other imaginary gripe he had with me. He called me a benign racist because he thought it was at least a little true. And maybe it was to some extent. When I was in grade school, I felt horribly ashamed to be white when we learned about slavery. I went out of my way to flash big, self-conscious smiles at the African-American kids in my class to assure them I wasn’t like those nasty white folks on southern plantations. Jason’s words stung so deeply only because there was a drop of truth in them.

  I wiped my eyes and focused on Jason, who now looked like a blurred apparition. He handed me a tissue, and as I blew my nose I realized clearly, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that, like everyone, I had my issues with race, but that I loved Jason with a purity that transcen
ded the physical body.

  “Girl Scouts even gonna let a boy join?” Jason asked, wholly unaware of my thoughts. I could have stayed locked in that state of self-analysis for another hour or five, but he’d already moved on.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “You want Logan to feel like we’re behind him, that’s fine. Give him the thumbs up from us and let them turn him down. Let Girl Scouts take the hit.”

  Only a man could hatch a plan that ends with the phrase, “Let Girl Scouts take the hit.”

  Chapter Nine

  When I was single and knew everything about parenting, I envisioned myself being the type of mother who always included my children in family discussions. In the fantasy, I looked like Mother Nature dressed in a long flowing robe, sitting under a star-filled sky as my hemp-clad children listened attentively to my wisdom. I patiently answered all of their questions openly and honestly, and when we finished, we would share a meaningful embrace and thank the universe that we were joined as a family.

  Now I just wished Maya would go to her room so I could be alone with Logan to discuss this Girl Scout thing. Normally she would be at Ashley’s or Bianca’s house after school, but all three girls were grounded for crank calling their math teacher, so my daughter was home, hovering around her brother like a carrion bird. Finally I openly and honestly asked her to scram.

  “I know you’re going to talk to him about joining Girl Scouts, so why can’t I stay and listen?”

  I looked at Logan, who shrugged his shoulders and said that he’d discussed the idea with Maya before bringing it to Jason and me. “I don’t care if she hears. Maya thinks it’s a good idea, don’t you?” he asked her. She nodded her head emphatically.

  “What’s your angle?” I asked my daughter.

  “Angle?”

  “Yeah, what’s in it for you, Maya?”

  She huffed and crossed her arms. “Brotherly love, that’s all.”

  I raised a suspicious eyebrow before Logan continued. “I know the idea sounds a little weird,” he began. “But think about it. I’m at Girl Scouts every week anyway. What’s the big deal if I join?”

  I sat down next to him on our tire couch where Maya was perched on the armrest. “Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Maya asked.

  I shot her a look of warning.“Look, you can ask, but they’re never going to let you join.”

  Logan disagreed. “I’ve been at the last five meetings. Isn’t that joining?”

  “You visited, you didn’t officially join,” I explained.

  Maya interjected. “He joined us for the meeting, he joined the activity, he joined in the fun.”

  “Joining the fun is different from joining the organization. If what you want to do is go to Girl Scout meetings, Michelle said you’re always welcome to visit.”

  “I don’t want to visit!” Logan asserted. “I want to belong.”

  My heart ached for Logan and his sense of disenfranchisement in our new home. For a kid like Logan, Utopia could be hell. When our realtor told us that Los Corderos offered “absolutely everything” for kids, I wish I’d pressed her for specifics.

  “Logan, I want you to find your place here too, but you have to be a girl to be a Girl Scout.”

  “Isn’t that a bit sexist, Mom?” Maya asked.

  “Actually, it’s not,” I began. “I went to the Girl Scout website and their whole mission is about empowering girls by creating a safe place for girls to try —”

  “So now I’m a safety threat?!” Logan scoffed.

  “Yeah, we’re all so scared of him,” Maya said. “Everyone’s trembling. Logan might decoupage us to death.”

  “Let me finish! Girl Scouts is about creating a safe place for girls to try out new things without worrying about what boys think. My God, you two, I said he can ask, what more do you want from me?”

  They squealed like pageant queens. I had thought Logan might change his mind, but he was more excited than I’d seen him since we moved here. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a blow for him when his request was denied.

  “Can I be a pirate?!” Maya slipped in quickly.

  “Absolutely not.”

  She sighed, exasperated. “That’s so unfair. He gets to do everything he wants.” With righteous indignation, she spat, “All I want is to try something new without having to worry about what boys think.”

  “Oh, I’m buying that,” I said flatly. “Do your homework, you two.”

  After Maya left the room, Logan kissed my cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I know you think I’m crazy but this is something I need to do.”

  In that moment I was returned to Jason’s parents’ mahogany dining room table so many years ago. “Drop out of medical school?!” his father shouted. “To become a fireman? You’ve got a great mind; don’t waste it doing what any joker with a hose can do.”

  Jason and I had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times on the plane ride to Baltimore for Thanksgiving dinner, where I was to meet his parents for the first time. Looking back, I see that perhaps we should have spaced our bombs a bit better. Their son dropping out of medical school and marrying a white woman weren’t high on the list of things that Jason’s parents were thankful for that holiday. As planned, Jason told his father that he respected and admired his work with burn victims, but wanted to send fewer his way.

  “And what about you?!” Jason’s mother cried. “Firefighters die in the line of duty every day. You’ll save more people if you’re alive. You don’t have to work at the Burn Center,” she assured Jason, though all three of his sisters did. Even she was an occupational therapist there. “You don’t even have to work in the field. You’ll find your own specialty.”

  There were hours of discussion, which ultimately ended with Jason telling his parents that he knew it sounded crazy, but it was something he needed to do.

  As I returned to the present, I hoped that Logan having our support would be enough for him. There was no way in hell Girl Scouts of America was allowing a boy to join its ranks, but perhaps Logan knowing that his mother — and more important, his father — were behind him would give him some strength.

  Chapter Ten

  “Michelle, have I caught you at a good time?” I asked.

  “Turn down the television!” she shouted, not pulling her phone quite far enough away from her mouth. “You are grounded. This is supposed to be a punishment!” Returning to me, she apologized. “I’m on a tea fast and I’m ready to fry these kids and eat them.”

  “Michelle, you look great, what’s with the constant fasts and cleanses?”

  “Oh, thanks,” she dismissed. “I’m detoxing. The girl at Answer said the herbs in Sereni-tea will help me de-stress.”

  “You just threatened to eat your children,” I pointed out.

  Michelle sighed, “Only ’cause I’m hungry.”

  “You seemed pretty serene before the detox,” I offered, hoping she would see the absurdity.

  Mistake. Big mistake. The greatest insult to a Utopian mother was suggesting that she was anything less than busy, stressed and overscheduled. When running into another mom, the conversation always went something like this:

  You: How are you?

  Her: Crazy busy. My life is just insane.

  You: Tell me about it, we are stretched to the limit.

  Her: We’re beyond the limit.

  You: We don’t know what a limit even looks like. I am so exhausted with everything I do for this family.

  Her: Multiply that by three and you’ve got my life.

  You: You don’t know how good you’ve got it. I could collapse from exhaustion.

  Her: Oh yeah, I’m actually dead. I had a fatal nervous breakdown, double heart attack last night. This is a ghost you’re seeing pushing the cart here at Target. My funeral is on Friday and my family is having a small memorial service afterward. I hope you can make it.

  You: I hope so too. Fridays are crazy.

  “I most certainly was not serene, Lisa!” Michell
e snapped.

  “How long has it been since you had food?” I asked.

  “Two days.”

  “Two days since you’ve had any food?!”

  “Food is for the weak,” Michelle said like a mantra.

  “Food is for the living, Michelle.”

  “Negativity cannot penetrate my bliss zone,” she said, half-mocking herself.

  “You been smoking that tea?”

  When she laughed, I detected a slight note of pity that I would never achieve the pure state of Nirvana that comes from a cellulite-free ass. “I wish,” she said instead, surprising me. “What’s up, Lisa?”

  “I’m calling about Logan.”

  “Logan,” she said extending each letter adoringly. “I love that boy. I mean, of course Maya’s terrific too, but there’s something very special and sensitive about Logan. Am I crazy for hoping that maybe one day he and Ashley will hit it off?”

  Certifiably.

  “He’s a great kid.” I stopped, hoping to gather my thoughts. “I’m going to just spit this out, ’cause it’s kind of an odd request.”

  “Please, Cara just called to ask me to help make her front door look like a coffin,” Michelle said. “Halloween. We really get into the holidays around here.”

  “I got a citation last week for leaving my garage door open too long while unloading groceries,” I said, baffled by the inequity.

  “Val says if it’s in the spirit of a holiday, she’ll look the other way on the codes. I know she’s a little intense. So what’s your odd request?”

  “Logan wants to join the Girl Scouts,” I blurted.

  She laughed as if I were kidding. “Gosh, that makes me feel good. So many kids today are so jaded, they can’t appreciate the—”

  “Michelle,” I cut her off. “I don’t mean he wishes he could join your troop. I’m saying that he wants to join.”

  “Really?” she shrieked in puzzlement. “Logan wants to become a member of the troop? I’m so flattered.”

  I waited for Michelle to say, “But he can’t. I’m flattered, but in case you hadn’t noticed, he has a penis, which is an automatic disqualifier for Girl Scout membership.” Then I waited through another few seconds as she thought about the gentlest way to shoot down her golden boy.