{Prompt: What was it like, being a boy? Is it challenging, being a man?}
Becoming a “Man” - The Stages
I probably know more than the average person about child development and gender roles. Believe it or not, I took both Child Psychology (at NC State University), and Child Psychiatry (at Duke University Medical School), during my academic career (a long and tedious stage of my life when I accepted both trivia and tutelage for my efforts instead of money). I even learned the stages of childhood cognitive development as defined by the Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget.
Jean Piaget— an eminent child psychologist
I should know a lot about childhood from my “edumacation” (as they say ’round here) but I think I learned just a little bit… and maybe more… from my personal experiences as a boy and as a man. I’m no Jean Piaget; but here are my stages of boyhood/manhood:
Stage 1 - Blissful ignorance: The first three or four years of life when there are no expectations, and all behavior is acceptable, except for flinging yourself into a busy road or walking barefoot into Church. Those actions will get you put into time-out. (And if you sass back your Momma or your Daddy, you might even earn yourself a whuppin’.)
Stage 2 - Social consciousness: The whole prepubescent time frame when you begin to realize that you must embrace heteronormative behavior or risk being called things like “sweet”, “shy”, “sissy”, or, worst of all, “gay”. (At least, that’s how it was in the ’60s. You tell me if it’s changed.) Boys were expected to be good at football, dodgeball, and tag, but not good at skipping-rope or clapping-games. Boys were expected to play with little green soldiers, Hot Wheels, cap guns, and Tonka trucks, but not Barbie dolls, Lite-Brite, or the Easy-Bake Oven. Boys were expected to use hand tools, get dirty, and strike out on adventures. Girls were expected to use kitchen tools, look pretty, and take care of babies. I’m not saying that’s right or wrong. That’s just how it was when I was a kid.
Stage 3 - Finding a mate: the agonizing period between the full embrace of gender roles, at the onset of puberty, and marriage (the happenstance pairing of two people who have a mutual attraction and more than a passing acquaintance). For men, most of this stage is spent learning to anticipate and deal with rejection, learning to act with impunity (and to hell with the consequences), and learning to “control” (or hide) emotions (and desires).
Stage 4 - Married life: the period (if all goes well) when you unlearn all those self-destructive habits associated with toxic masculinity (or — if things do not go so well — you find a mate who can abide all of your bad habits, who is happily subservient to your whims and caprices).
Of course, marriage could include all sorts of dysfunctional relationships (and frequently does), but much of my marriage involved a good deal of negotiation and compromise as to the proper, best, or at least acceptable way of doing things. It included an ongoing effort to learn how to communicate (out loud and with civility); learn how to spend less money on fast food (and eat more homemade food and leftovers); learn how to clean the kitchen before cleaning any other part of the house (or yard); and learn how to reflexively say, “Yes, dear” instead of “You must be kidding!” to every spousal request.
I could spend days deconstructing the dynamics of couplehood and marriage. And it might be truly therapeutic. But this story is about boyhood, so let’s focus on that stage — stage 2 in my fanciful model above.
Let’s go back to the middle of the Civil Rights Movement, when blacks (and whites) were engaged in peaceful resistance, and the Counterculture Era, when hippies were listening to rock ’n’ roll (and Folk) music and protesting the Vietnam War. Let’s go back to my childhood in the late ’60s and the early ’70s.
My fifth grade class - I am at the bottom left.
School and Sunday School
Of course, I was in elementary school in the seventies. I was at Sherwood Bates Elementary as a boy. I was learning to write in cursive and to multiply using multiplication tables.
We checked books out of the library (by punching a date stamp on the checkout card), ran all over the field at recess (playing games or watching the bees buzzing around the clover), held assemblies to sing “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” to our parents, and stared out the big classroom windows during lessons at the chalkboard.
My elementary school was a conglomerate of Black and white children and Black and white teachers all living in harmony. (Desegregation began in earnest in 1971–72 in Raleigh, when I would have been in second grade. The song Black and White, by Three Dog Night, came out in 1972 and pretty well captures the feeling of the time.)
I was also going to Sunday school at Hayes Barton United Methodist Church, as a boy — learning about the Bible, and especially about Jesus. Jesus was, and always has been (and always will be) the paragon of virtue. I’m sure you knew that.
He was most certainly my earliest role model, outside of my family. He would turn the other cheek to avoid conflict. He would give the shirt off his back to help others. He would talk to a prostitute, even when she had been shunned by the whole town.
He was held forth as a model of peaceful coexistence, back then, both inside and outside the Church sanctuary. Jesus Christ Superstar, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, premiered in October 1971. I think I saw a version of it at Raleigh Memorial Auditorium, with my family, within a year or two of its premiere.
When I wasn’t in church school, learning all the stories about Jesus and the parables he taught, I was learning to sing (and play music) as a member of the children’s choir, and then the youth choir, and then the handbell choir.
We also had religious “fun” by going to a variety of Christian events. We went to an old-fashioned revival, out in a field with a tent, way out in the country, in some place like Garner. Or Benson! They served barbecue with baked beans and Brunswick stew (Yuck), and instead of hush puppies they had strange fried bread sticks the length of a pencil. They had a quartet singing spirituals in four-part harmony. They sounded just like the Oak Ridge Boys. Maybe it was the Oak Ridge Boys.
We went on religious retreats to places like Lake Junaluska and Wrightsville Beach. We once stayed at a high-rise hotel on the beach called the Blockade Runner, named for the ships that would run through the blockade around Wilmington during the Civil War.
We once went to a service where folks were encouraged to come up front and be filled with the Holy Spirit by speaking in tongues. I’ve since learned that’s something that’s often done in the Pentecostal churches. Of course I couldn’t understand what they were doing or saying, so I’m pretty sure I asked my mom what they were saying, and she explained the whole phenomenon of speaking in tongues to me in a way I could understand.
By the time we went to the Billy Graham crusade in September of 1973, I was prepared. I knew just about everything I know today about Jesus and the Bible.
But in all seriousness, the Billy Graham crusade was an amazing event, led by a truly charismatic preacher. Billy Graham held his crusade at Carter (now Carter-Finley) Stadium, in Raleigh, near the fairgrounds, for seven nights in a row; and most accounts agree that the stadium was filled every night. I had never been to a place so big, or as filled with reverence, as the stadium was that night, when I was still just a 9-year-old boy.
There were hymns sung by George Beverly Shea, who probably sang How Great Thou Art. And there were hymns sung in unison by the 40,000 people in the stadium! They probably including He Leadeth Me, and Just As I Am, the latter serving as the altar call — the call to come to the (football) field below the preacher’s podium to make a public commitment “to take God as your savior” and dedicate, or rededicate, your life to Christianity— to “be reborn. Thousands of people were reborn in Carter Finley stadium in Raleigh that week, including myself.
Evangelist Billy Graham inspiring Faith
Gaining Merit (Badges)
Outside of school and religion I was just an ordinary boy. I liked to explore the neighborhood creek. I liked to climb the dogwood and magnolia trees. I liked to ride my bike. I liked reading books (The Hobbit, The Chronicles of Narnia, etc.), and I liked watching TV.
But in two activities, in fact, I must have been a boy by definition— I was a newspaper “boy” for the Raleigh Times (which I write about in another story), and I was a member of the Boy Scouts of America (BSA, now called Scouting USA).
Looking back on those times, when I was in elementary school and 6th grade — from age 5 to 11 — it’s surprising how much the things that I did in the Boy Scouts match the things that I enjoy as an adult. My love of hiking and being outdoors undoubtedly started with the backpacking and camping excursions in Boy Scouts. And my first introduction to medicine probably began with the first aid skills that I learned back in the ‘70s with my Boy Scout troop.
Besides first aid, scouts were expected to learn certain basic skills — skills that I can boast a bit of familiarity with when called upon, albeit rarely — tying a knot, pounding in a tent stake, pitching a tent, chopping wood, gathering kindling, starting a fire, preparing a dehydrated meal from a package, filtering water, cleaning the dishes, packing a backpack, hiking, and not getting lost.
Chopping a log, in uniform - circa 1976
Boy Scouts must always “be prepared” — the scouting motto. Some would say that I’ve embraced preparedness to an unhealthy degree.
I blame the scouts.
Scouts must swear, “On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”
That’s quite a proclamation, if you think about it.
Boy Scout Oath, Salute, and Logo
I think in my life, I’ve gone four for four:
- Help people at all times. Check. Well… partial check. “At all times” is a pretty high bar.
- Physically strong. Tentative check. Strength is kind of relative, I’ve learned.
- Mentally awake. Double check.
- Morally straight. Well… I met the moral requisites of the NC Medical Board for almost 30 years, so I think that’s a check, also.
Do you know the twelve principles of Scout law?
I do — or rather, I did. I used to have them memorized.
They are:
Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful…
…Friendly, Courteous, Kind…
…Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty…
…Brave, Clean, and Reverent.
Those last three are the hardest.
Did I mention the uniform? Scouts wore a khaki shirt and pants, with a U.S. flag patch on the right shoulder and the Scout council, unit, and troop number on the left shoulder.
With a little research (and photo confirmation), I can state that our troop was a part of the Occoneechee Council, in the North Star district. I was in troop 348, which met in the basement of the Hayes Barton Methodist church. (Troop 325 met at the Hayes Barton Baptist church about three blocks away.)
The khaki shirt came with epaulettes on the shoulder, sorta like in the military. The shirts had a collar of course, but not the pointed collar of a disco shirt. It was just an ordinary collar, but we could wear a tie or a neckerchief with the collar. It seems like the neckerchief was for the Cub Scouts or the Webelos, but I have no idea, anymore. I just remember that at some point in my life I was rolling up a dark blue scarf diagonally, to proudly hang around my neck (see below).
There was an olive green web belt with an adjustable metal buckle, embossed with the BSA logo, to be worn around the waist. In Cub Scouts, we could earn belt-slide metal clips, decorated with enamel icons, for certain “Skill Awards.” Those metal loops were fantastic. I loved them.
I think that in Cub Scouts we also wore a sash for the merit badges that we earned. (They had to be sewn on.) But in Boy Scouts I think that the sash was only worn on ceremonial occasions, and your most ‘meritorious’ badges could be sewn onto your shirt.
A truly unbelievable collection of patches
Or maybe it was the patch for the “rank” of the Boy Scout that was sewn onto the shirt.
I know now that the ranks of Scout are Tenderfoot, Second Class, First Class, Star, Life, and Eagle. I’m fairly sure I only made it as far as Second Class.
As much as I loved earning merit badges, I can’t imagine why I didn’t achieve a higher rank. Maybe the higher ranks required more time, loyalty, and obedience than I could muster. Maybe academics took precedence. Maybe our troop was too much in disarray.
Or maybe I was in disarray.
I always knew that Eagle Scout was unachievable for me. Eagle Scouts were seemingly in it for life. They had to be tenacious and they had to complete an insanely laborious community project, which seemed impossible to me at the time.
But I have to give them kudos for such an accomplishment. I think my Uncle Bill was an Eagle Scout. (And a Physics professor.) At least someone in the family made it.
Mike Gallup, in BSA uniform, with an impressive backpack.
A Cautionary Tale
Most stories about the Boy Scouts are stories about disaster. I mean, what else can you expect when you put a bunch of preadolescent boys in one place.
Here’s one example.
On one of our trips we traveled to the “far off” wilds of western North Carolina (possibly in the Uwharrie mountains—which, by the way, are more like foothills than mountains. None of them are over 1,200 feet high.)
After the mayhem of arriving, pitching tents, gathering kindling, cooking some beans, and poking at the fire, we went to bed, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep on the uneven, knobby ground of the real outdoors in our poofy nylon sleeping bags.
The next day we spent an hour or so in preparation to navigate our way, a mile or two down the trail to a lake. It must have been a well marked or an isolated trail, because no one got lost and no one took a wrong turn—which is a rarity in my experience. In fact, we did the entire trail without adult supervision.
Be that as it may, we ended up at the lake as planned, with no misadventures upon the trail.
However, no one had really planned what to do at the lake. There were no boats. There was no swimming area. There was no fishing gear. There was only a short pier and a rocky beach and about eight pre-adolescent boys from the city, dressed up in Boy Scout garb.
Well, one of this intrepid bunch decided to take off his shoes, roll up his pants cuffs, and wade out into the muckety-muck.
Not having anything better to do, and by nature willing to imitate the actions of anyone with assertiveness, some of the others began to take off their shoes and socks, and dip their toes into the placid water. One or two of us had waded out into the lake, where the shore was littered with moss-covered stones, driftwood, and mud.
Unfortunately, one of the troop discovered there was also broken glass beneath the surface… he cut his foot, and with a cry of alarm he limped his way back to the shore.
With images of an underwater minefield of glass in our heads, all the rest of us carefully retraced our steps, hoping to avoid the fate of our fallen comrade.
Safely back at shore, we inspected his cut for embedded glass, which was thankfully absent, and we applied a bandage, probably wrapped from a sock, a T-shirt, or a blue Boy Scout bandana. The bleeding was minimal but undoubtedly painful.
Then we debated how best to go back for proper treatment — whether to prepare a cot with which to drag the hobbled child, or attempt a fireman’s carry, or send a runner up the trail for assistance. In the end, we decided upon the “Four-handed Seat Carry”, a lesser-known rescue carry, possibly one known only to army medics, paramedics, and Boy Scouts in training.
The Four-handed Seat Carry
I had never seen this rescue technique before, and I’ve never seen it since, but I saw it implemented that day with an incredible amount of conviction.
In theory, two people form a sturdy place to sit by grasping each other’s forearms, while the conscious or semi-conscious victim sits with their arms around the necks of the rescuers. And in practice, it looks pretty much like the picture above — at least until the rescuers start to get tired.
And it doesn’t take long for some ten-year-old boys to get tired when lugging a 75 pound scout up a forest trail.
And its awfully hard for this assembly of three to walk sideways up a trail that’s only wide enough for one or two hikers.
Still, we made some progress, using our overly engineered, merit-badge worthy carry, but it was slow progress — painfully slow.
In the end, I think that the boy with the laceration chose to dismount this humiliating makeshift seat, and limp, hopping on one leg, with one person for support — football-injury style.
Upon our return, the scoutmasters reacted with alarm to the whole situation. They had little regard for the ingenuity of our rescue or our chivalrous behavior. (I think they were probably sweating bullets for letting the boys go off and hurt themselves, while they were completely unsupervised.)
Conclusion – The Mantle of Manhood
Before my time in the scouts came to an end, I was lucky enough to have my Dad participate in a day of gun safety and shooting at a gun range, with the troop. I don’t know how it came to fruition, but my Dad spent a few hours talking to us about guns and letting us actually shoot some guns under proper supervision.
He had a rifle that we learned to fire in the standing… kneeling… and prone positions. (I think most of our firing was allowed only in the prone position, where we were least likely to dangerously swing the rifle from side to side.)
We learned to load the chamber, line up the sights, and slowly — very slowly — squeeze the trigger.
I hardly ever touched a gun after that day, but for one day at least, I was a “deadly weapon.” I would hazard to say that the other kids took my dad pretty seriously too, when he gave this session on the use of firearms. It wasn’t playtime anymore.
Gerry Gallup with his .22 rifle in August 1971
My dad died unexpectedly in the winter of 1977, when I was still only twelve years old. Even so, I was lucky to have a pretty good male role model, for the entirety of my boyhood.
After his death, I still enjoyed the rambunctious ramblings of a teenager in the days before internet and smartphones.
I went to movies at the Rialto, rode a moped around to see my friends, chopped up wood for our fireplace, saw the orthodontist for braces, and played basketball up at the courts outside of Sherwood Bates Elementary School.
The halcyon days of childhood — playing kickball and picking buttercups , were gone forever.
I became less involved in Boy Scouts and in Methodist Church activities, and more or less withdrew to hang out with a stable group of childhood friends who supported me (along with my family’s support) for the next three years, until I went off to school at the School of Science and Math.
It’s been many years since the boyhood I fondly remember. Many years learning to be a good man. And many years learning to be a good husband.
I’m still learning, but now that I’m married and retired, the mantle of manhood seems a little bit lighter than it did before.
Redbuds in bloom at Sherwood Bates school
Appendix I - “The Seven Ages of Man”
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything
Appendix II - Lyrics to “A Man I’ll Never Be”
If I said what’s on my mind
You’d turn and walk away
Disappearing way back in your dreams
It’s so hard to be unkind
So easy just to say
That everything is just the way it seems
You look up at me
And somewhere in your mind, you see
A man I’ll never be
If only I could find a way
I’d feel like I’m the man you believe I am
It’s getting harder every day for me
To hide behind this dream you see
A man I’ll never be
I can’t get any stronger
And I can’t climb any higher
You’ll never know just how hard I’ve tried
Cry a little longer
And hold a little tighter
Emotions can’t be satisfied…
Appendix III -List of Fictional Role Models on TV in the ‘70s
TV dads
Mike Brady (Robert Reed) on The Brady Bunch
Pa (Michael Landon) on Little House on the Prairie
John Walton (Ralph Waite) on The Waltons
James Evans (John Amos) on Good Times (Seasons 1-3)
Andy Taylor (Andy Griffith) on the Andy Griffith Show
TV families without (suitable) Dads
All in the Family
One Day at a Time
Good Times (Seasons 4-6)
The Partridge Family
Not Dads at All, (but role-models, nonetheless)
Gabe Kotter (Gabe Kaplan) on Welcome Back Kotter
Hawkeye (Alan Alda) on M*A*S*H
Kirk (William Shatner), Spock (Leonard Nimoy), and McCoy (DeForest Kelley) on Star Trek
James West (Robert Conrad) and Artemis Gordon (Ross Martin) on Wild, Wild West
Mr. Grant (Ed Asner) and Murray (Gavin Mcleod) on the Mary Tyler Moore show
James Rockford (James Garner) on The Rockford Files
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