By Michael Thompson
When I was thirteen, and a city boy, my mother declared that
I was both lazy and obnoxious—she said I was in the "back-talk" stage—and
that I should be sent away to camp. So I was sent to an all-boys
canoeing camp, which I absolutely loved. It was one of the great
experiences of my life. I returned home physically stronger and
more confident than I had been two months earlier (and probably
still as obnoxious).
A few years ago, when my son, Will, was twelve, I felt it was
time for him to go to a sleep-over camp. Looking at my gentle
and rather "soft" son on the edge of adolescence, I
had a classic father's reaction. I thought he ought to be more
independent, that he needed to get away from his mother's overprotective
hovering, and he could benefit from more outdoor activities so
that he could get stronger. Also, he needed to get away from
his video games and his laptop computer for a month. (Well, he
didn't think he did, but I sure thought so!)
Naturally, I wanted to pick a camp that would give my son the
same incredible experience that camp had been for me. I recognized
that he was not quite as athletic and outgoing as I had been
at his age (and not nearly as contrary), so I chose a camp for
him that had many of the same elements mine had had: all-boys,
campfires, canoeing and kayaking, waterfront activities, etc.,
but which also had the things my son adored which I was never
good at: arts, woodworking and dramatics. We visited the
camp at the end of the summer a year before he was to attend.
He had a great time playing Ultimate Frisbee® with a bunch
of boys and counselors. He said he liked it. So off he went.
He attended the all-boys camp for two summers, and I was very
proud of him for doing it. He took risks and attempted things
he had never done before, including kayaking and performing in
skits in front of the entire camp. He received an art prize at
the end of the second season. However, it was unmistakably clear
that he wasn't really comfortable there. He didn't love it. As
kind as the camp staff were, as friendly as the other boys had
been, the camp wasn't really a fit for him. When I picked him
up on the last day of the second year of camp, here was my son,
stronger, more confident, and more challenging than he had ever
been. He looked me in the eye and delivered the news: "Dad," he
said, "I don't want to come back here. This is your kind
of camp, not mine. I'm not like you."
Ouch—that hurt. My intentions had been so good! Because
his mother and I wanted him to have a camp experience that he
loved, we renewed the search. This past summer we sent him to
an arts camp that had ceramics, theatre, wood-working, glass-blowing,
and lights, set and sound design, among other offerings He
called us at the end of the first week to report happily that
he had gotten a part in "Rocky Horror Picture Show," and
that he was taking a stand-up comedy seminar. On the wood lathe
he produced a beautiful martial arts fighting stick, with which
he still practices daily. He wants to go back next year for the
full eight weeks. (Did I mention that he also had a girlfriend
at camp?)
The other day I asked Will: "I know you loved your arts
camp much better than the canoe camp, but do you feel you got
something out of the canoe camp experience?" "No,
Dad," Will said. "I wish I'd had had those two
years to go to the arts camp." Still casting about, I asked
him whether they had had campfires at his arts camp. In an exasperated "duh" tone
of voice, he proclaimed, "DA-AAD, it's not that kind of
camp!"
There is a parenting lesson in here somewhere, and I'm searching
for it. Was it wrong to send him to the kind of camp I had loved?
Is it essential that a child love every camp experience? Can
you predict what a thirteen-year-old will love? (I think not.)
Is there some value in a son attempting to do the things his
dad wants him to try, and thereby discharge some unconscious
obligation to his father and better define his own identity?
I hope so, because that's what happened in this family.
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