It began when I read a story entitled The Death of Brown Owl. It explained that due to a shortage of Brown Owls, Brownie packs would die. The Girl Guide movement has 600,000 members, but a waiting list, mostly at Brownie level, of 50,000. About 8,000 volunteers would have to join to cope with this. The article stayed in my mind. And so when my eight-year old daughter Phoebe started talking longingly about Brownies, I was prepared. I would try and help a bit, by becoming a Brown Owl.
Personally, I didn’t love Brownies. I never got any badges. My Brownie memory bank consists of running the wrong way around a toadstool, and being shouted at. But why let memory obstruct present behaviour?
Via the website, I found out about a local pack and we went along. I didn’t want to join the same one as Phoebe, but events were taken out of my hands. “Well, I’m afraid she’ll have to join a waiting list,” said Barn Owl firmly.
Barn Owl, aka Mary Linington, has run Brownies in Islington for more than two decades and is not someone to quibble with. “We don’t have enough helpers. There’s only me and Snowy Owl (also known as Natalie Barnes, a twentysomething City professional) here.”
At this juncture, my Brown Owl ambitions came to the fore. “I’ll help,” I said. Barn Owl could not have moved faster. Within two minutes, Phoebe was not only a member of the First South Islington Brownie pack, she was actually clad in a (second-hand) uniform.
Our routine is now Brownies, every Friday, from 6.30 to 8pm. “We’d love to come to dinner,” I say to friends, “but it will have to be after Brownies.” There is either hoots of laughter or an appalled silence. To some, Brownies is a politicised concept, full of Godliness and royal fervour. I’m not a huge fan of the House of Windsor, but how does that help eight-year-olds who want to spend Friday nights playing sleeping lions and baking fairy cakes?
I don’t have an issue about the Brownie Guide promise, which takes in God, Queen and country. Barn Owl, Snowy Owl, the Brownies and I all say it while circuiting a large plastic mushroom topped with two fluffy owls. To me the benefits of engagement around this mushroom seem to outweigh any potential loss of individually held politics. If you are worried about your daughter being brainwashed then I would say you have the wrong set-up in your sights. There is more hard-core faith at a primary school nativity play than in the Brownie Guide law.
However, Brownies represents some sterling values, and not the obvious ones. A Brownie must of course do good deeds, such as unstack the dishwasher. But nowadays, when everything seems geared towards the battle for a decent school place, Brownies is the most relaxed after-school event on offer. With a weekly subscription of only £1, it is certainly the cheapest. And in a world of increased focus on success at primary level, from grade five piano to Kumon maths, Brownies seems to be a rare beast; a well-structured arena in which girls can unwind and spend time being curious.
Oddly enough, it appears that one of the keenest threats to the Guide movement is from the Scouts. The Scouts, who have 500,000 members (but have dropped 150,000 since the late 1980s), started welcoming girls in 1991. By 2007 girl membership will be compulsory for all groups.
So will Guides and Brownies start taking on boys? According to Guide HQ, the possibility of boy Brownies has never been entertained; the Guides consider its “girls only” space to be its unique selling point.
The Scouts rationale seems to be much the same as that behind girls in boys-only schools, namely that it works wonders for the lads. “On their own, boys would be happy to kick a ball around for two hours,” says Scouts spokesman Chris Foster. “Girls come in and want to do things and get some badges and that turns the boys around.”
There is also a notion that the Scouts is a far less “girly” option, although the idea that Brownies sit doing needlepoint in a pow-wow is a bit outdated. Brownies are encouraged to make their parents breakfast in bed (hoorah), but they are also urged to learn sign language and how to put up a tent. For our Christmas party the options were a) a sleepover in a freezing church hall or b) skating at Somerset House. Neither option particularly “girly”. Mercifully, skating won out.
Another advantage is that the atmosphere is highly unjudgmental. At Brownies a collapsed fairy cake is still a valid fairy cake. It remains something which a child has invested time and effort on, and it is edible. This seems to me important. “Oh, the badges have gone off. They have got so much easier these days,” said someone rather loftily to me. “Anyone can get a Brownie badge.” Well, this is Brownies, not a branch of Mensa Youth. And a Brownie badge is not an A-level.
I’m really enjoying it. Each week we end by holding hands and singing Brownie Bells. Of course, it’s funny, if you choose to adopt a certain perspective. But from the perspective of a Brownie, it’s fine, as well as funny. Through the church hall door I spot parents arriving to collect their daughters. And I feel privileged to be standing with our Brownie pack, not charging in from the outside.
For more information see www.girlguiding.org.uk/members/brownies
Additional reporting by Mary Braid
