By David Himmel
When I was eleven-years-old, my parents signed me up for overnight
camp. I didn't want to go. I was perfectly happy at my
day camp with my day camp friends doing my day camp activities
as I'd been doing for the last six years.
I hated my dad
when he and Mom helped me pack my duffle bag and tossed me on
a bus headed to Greenwoods Camp. Although it was just a two-hour
drive from our suburban Chicago home, Dad thought it was better
to leave me on a bus full of kids I didn't know, aimed
to take me to a place I'd never been, while he peeled out
in the minivan before Mom could even close the sliding door.
I sat up front next to a counselor named Brian Jackson. I was
quiet, didn't talk much, which was unusual. I can remember
the noise from the other kids. I was jealous that they all knew
each other and had stories to share and couldn't wait to
get back to camp so they could horseback ride, water ski, shoot
rifles, and eat something called apple crisp. Most of the kids
were from the north side of Chicago. I was afraid I'd be
teased for being a Southsider.
I was afraid I'd be homesick,
which was confusing to me since I hated my parents at that moment.
I cursed my father that entire bus ride, certain that he'd
made the greatest mistake of his life. I swore I wouldn't
write a single letter home all summer. That changed of course,
when I learned on the second day that writing a letter home was
absolutely required.
I was going to be on my own for the next
several weeks, away from family and familiar friends. How could
that be good?
By my first night's sleep, I had already
forgotten why I was mad at my dad and was on my way to forgetting
all about my dad entirely.
There was so much to do, so much to
learn, so many new friends to make, and girls to flirt with.
I survived those weeks returning home with a suntan, an uncanny
sailing ability, and completely in love with a delicious dessert
call apple crisp.
I was a new me. Still two years away from my
Bar Mitzvah, I could tell I was already a man. I'd lived
on my own. I'd made friends without the aid of Mommy planned
play dates. I knew how to build a fire, and I learned that bug
spray was an awesome accelerant.
I had begun the transformation
into the person I would become. Outside of the confines of school
I developed a new confidence — one that suited me. I was
good at water sports, really good. I told great stories after
lights out. I had a knack for helping out homesick campers. I'd
just say, "Think of all the fun you're having. They
won't let you shoot a gun at home, will they? Camp isn't
so bad. Now stop crying, let's go raid the kitchen."
I
was a camper for five years. I went for eight weeks every year.
Camp would otherwise be too short. I felt sorry for those kids
who came to camp for just one session — like they were
missing out on so much. And they were.
When I outgrew my camper
T-shirt, I traded it in for a staff shirt and another five years
of fantastic experiences and rites of passage and all sorts of
other details that continued to shape and define me.
I still
talk to friends I made that first summer in 1990. We're
very close. A few years ago, I was the best man at a friend's
wedding I met the summer of 1996. He and his wife met at camp
in 1999. I chose to spend my 30th birthday hanging out with a
counselor of mine and his wife who he met at camp and their three
young boys. We all played Rock Band on Nintendo Wii.
I'm
an excellent sailor and am always window shopping for boats.
I'm still an avid storyteller and have incredible chapters
I could share about camp in a moment's notice. I am confident.
I know who I am and where I want to be. I'm not done becoming
all of me, nor am I exactly where I want to be, but I'm
well on my way. And it started the day my dad threw me on a bus
against my will. I should thank him for it.
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