by Tilda Shalof
“I understand,” I said, but I didn’t really understand a thing except that Samantha was not well enough to be at camp. “Do you want to be at camp?”
“If I go home my mother will make me go back to the hospital. It’s better if I stay here.”
I spoke with Kitch. He explained that some troubled young people use this self-abusive behaviour to substitute one pain for another and to make their distress visible. He felt that camp was a haven for Samantha, a better place for her than in her unhappy home life with an abusive father, who was now out of the picture, and a self-absorbed mother, who was in total denial about her daughter’s distress. “I know the mother,” Kitch said. “She travels a lot and won’t be agreeable to taking her home.”
That was it. Samantha was staying at camp, but I didn’t believe it was the right decision.
Camp Carson had an on-site professional photographer and a videographer. They strolled around camp with digital cameras and video cameras, taking still shots and video clips of campers involved in activities. At the end of each day, they uploaded the images onto the camp Web site for parents to view at home. I started receiving calls from parents once they’d had a peek into their kids’ world.
My son looks sad. Can you find out if he is homesick? Please get back to me.
Who do you have to pay off to get your kid’s photo on the Web site? It’s been three days now and there’ve been no pics of my kid.
In every shot my daughter is wearing the same yellow shirt. Were these all taken on the same day or is she not changing her clothes?
In the July 10th photograph, I don’t recognize the girl my daughter is with. Could you please find out who she is?
And the photos were not the only things drawing responses from the parents. I knew the letters from the campers had arrived at home when the phone started ringing off the hook and my answering machine filled up. One mother called to complain that her child wrote only one line in her letter home: “Camp sucks.” “Can you find out what’s going on and get back to me?”
Another mother had a worse problem. “My son hasn’t sent me a letter, not even one!”
“That’s a good sign,” I tried to soothe her, “they always write when they’re unhappy.”
In a recorded message, an irate father informed us that his daughter must have snuck her cellphone into camp (she’d handed over one before boarding the bus but kept a spare one hidden) and racked up a bill of over three hundred dollars of text messages to her boyfriend in the city. “Take her phone away,” was the terse message.
“The parents don’t seem to realize how well their kids are doing,” I said to Coach Carson. Well, most of them, I thought.
“They’ll soon get a chance to see for themselves. Visitor’s Day is only two weeks away,” he said, but he didn’t look too happy about it.
7
HEY, NURSE!
The photographers roved around, snapping shots of happy children playing on the beach, sailing on the lake, making clay pots, and – the best photo op of all – sitting around the campfire. Needless to say, no pictures of Wayne’s fearful swim test, Alexa Rose’s tearful misery, Wesley’s oozing impetigo sores, nor Samantha’s self-mutilation made an appearance on the Web site photo gallery. The unhappy few were not represented. The vast majority of the campers were having a fabulous time. Everywhere I looked I saw smiling faces. Everywhere I went I heard the sounds of joyful laughter, the light-hearted banter of voices, and enthusiastic singing – even a group of kids bellowing “Stairway to Heaven” as if it were a sporting cheer. (This song was going to be ruined for me if I kept coming to camp!) When they were physically active or creating something with paint, clay, or string, the kids were content.
But if you spent each day as I did, attending to the handful of children with minor complaints, who were therefore temporarily miserable, or the even fewer individuals who were desperately unhappy (possibly at home, too?), you might forget that most kids loved camp. As a nurse, my radar zoomed in on the unhappy ones, such as Alexa Rose who now cried throughout the day (no longer just at night) and begged to go home. Wayne didn’t say as much, but his sad face told the same story. Max said the other kids picked on Wayne and that he cried himself to sleep at night. There was also Hailey, a fourteen-year-old whom I hadn’t yet spoken to but had certainly noticed around camp in her black clothes and dark, heavy makeup, a look that was in stark contrast to the other girls’ bright, candy colours. Her counsellors told me she hated camp and was threatening to run away.
But unhappy didn’t always mean homesick. Samantha, for example, had problems that went way beyond homesickness. Kitch, Coach Carson, and Wendy agreed she wasn’t well but weren’t as concerned as I was.
“We’ve been through this nonsense with Samantha before,” Wendy said. “It’s pure attention-getting behaviour. Princess Diana was a cutter, too. She used a lemon peeler.”
She was so matter-of-fact that I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. How could they be so casual about it? The only thing that put my mind at ease somewhat was that Samantha had a tight bond with her counsellor, who promised me she’d keep a close watch on her. That was reassuring, but I saw that Samantha was too weak to participate in most activities. She stayed on the sidelines and hardly spoke. When she did, it was in a whisper and with downcast eyes. I tried to connect with her but she offered barely audible responses to my attempts at conversation.
Meanwhile, the daily routine continued. Pill Patrol still delayed the morning clinic and put us behind in paperwork, charting, and answering the growing number of phone and e-mail messages from parents. Coach Carson tried to help out by driving me around in his golf cart in hot pursuit of kids who missed their breakfast meds. He was like the merry host of a big summer party out on a “meet and greet.” He loved this opportunity to ensure everyone was having fun, and loving camp. He knew most of his “guests” by name, including their nicknames. He knew who had portaged or soloed a canoe in Algonquin Park and who had gotten up on water skis for the first time. He knew all about the CIT boys’ recent late-night raid on the CIT girls’ cabin.
“Don’t be pulling any pranks tonight,” he warned them in mock sternness as we passed by. “Tonight I’m on patrol duty and I’m not going to let you off easy. I’ll make you do a hundred push-ups if I catch you out of your cabins after lights-out.”
As we drove along on the bumpy ride in the golf cart, he shouted out greetings to children he saw along the way, especially, it seemed to me, the ones he deemed exceptional campers, such as the athletic, popular, talented ones, or simply the happy-go-lucky, non-complaining, content ones.
“How’s it going, Blake?” he called out to one boy as we drove past and waved.
“Camp’s a blast, Coach Carson!” Blake grinned and waved back.
“I love that kid! He’s so easy.” Coach Carson shook his head in admiration of a successful camper like Blake who confirmed all he believed about camp’s ability to bring out the best in children.
I admired the happy campers, too. By then, I had a pretty good idea of my own what made a happy camper. Happy campers felt they belonged; they didn’t question their membership in the group. They never held themselves back or apart and moved with the pack. They loved to be silly and revelled in (and often contributed to) the cacophonous noise. These extroverts adored (and wholly participated in) the relentless activity from morning to night, and didn’t mind one bit the lack of personal space, privacy, or downtime. The happy campers never yearned to be elsewhere or to be doing anything other than exactly what they were doing. They knew how to find their place and fit in.
As part of my ongoing field study of the happy camper, I asked a group of boys from Harry’s cabin what they liked about camp.
“I don’t like camp,” said one boy with an uncharacteristically grave expression. He was the joker who had kidded me about my “wenis.” Then his face broke into an enormous grin. “I love, love, love camp! I live for camp!”
“Camp has m
ade me who I am,” a boy, all of ten years old, solemnly told me.
“Camp’s, like, the only place where I can be myself,” another boy said. “Oh, sure, there are rules and stuff, but it’s nothing like at my parents’ gulag.”
Around about the middle of the second week of camp, as I was jostling alongside Coach Carson in the golf cart on Pill Patrol, I decided to ask him about unhappy campers, such as Alexa and Wayne. “Aren’t there some kids who aren’t cut out to be campers?”
“I consider it a personal triumph to win over a camper,” he said with missionary zeal. He waved to someone and gave him a thumbs-up about something.
“Do you think every child can become a happy camper?”
“Every child can be turned around.”
“I’m beginning to think there are a few kids here who shouldn’t be here,” I persisted.
“Nonsense! What’s not to love about camp?” He seemed uncomprehending. Either he wasn’t seeing what I saw or just didn’t want to acknowledge the downside of camp.
“But what’s the benefit of making a miserable kid stay? Who wins?”
“It teaches a child the value of never quitting, of never giving up.” He stopped to high-five a camper – “Hey there, D-Bomb!” – then turned back to me. “Think of the words of Winston Churchill: ‘Never, never, NEVER give up.’ Every child can succeed at camp.”
“There are a few really unhappy kids here and I still can’t see the purpose –”
“Well, their parents see a purpose,” he snapped, beginning to get irritated. “A child who goes home will always regret it and look upon it as a failure. If children leave, it is very bad for their self-esteem.”
Coach Carson had a vested interest in keeping every kid at camp. As for the parents, there was no question that the vast majority wanted their kids to stay: that was the plan, and it was what they’d paid for. Summer vacation was long, and many, if not most, parents worked and needed to keep their children safely occupied. Parents also needed time to themselves in the summer, to recharge their batteries.
After a few quiet minutes’ riding together, Coach Carson reprised his beliefs about the virtues of camp, where new skills are learned, lifelong friendships made, and beautiful memories created. “Camp lays down the foundation for success in life. Camp parents understand this because many were once Carson campers themselves.” He paused for a breath. “Winston Churchill also said …”
Here we go again.
“… ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts.’”
He told me about his plans for improvement, such as a Camp Carson radio station and the purchase of more motorboats for the water-skiing area. His son Eric, who’d now completed university and was too old to be a counsellor any more, would be leading some of these new projects. “We’ve supported this theatre hobby of his for years, but starting next summer, he’s going to transition into Camp Director. It’s always been his dream to run the camp.”
When Coach Carson had other business to attend to, and Eric wasn’t too busy with play rehearsals (he was directing the camp production of the Broadway musical Wicked), Eric would give me a ride on his ATV to do Pill Patrol. The kids all called him “Shakespeare” because of his love of theatre. As we flew around camp, me giving out pills from the basket looped over my arm, Eric would fill me in on the social scene. Because of his widespread popularity Eric connected me to counsellors and kids who weren’t the mc regulars. With Eric by my side, I didn’t trigger the “incoming mom, grown-up approaching” alarms that usually sounded whenever I showed up. Eric was very good-looking, with dreamy, expressive eyes. He often dropped by the mc to ask if we needed anything or sometimes just to visit. Caitlin had developed a crush on him. I agreed with her that he was very attractive, but to me, what was most appealing about Eric was his kindness.
From Eric, I got the inside scoop on camp gossip. He gave me the skinny about all the crushes, hook-ups, break-ups and make-ups going on around camp. He pointed out the “Sex Tree” I’d heard a lot about. It was the destination spot for heavy-duty making out. He told me who’d gotten into the university of their choice and who’d been turned down by medical school. In my role as camp nurse, it wasn’t at all necessary to know any of this, but hey, I’m nosy.
One day, Eric introduced me to his buddy, Wallace, whose nickname was Einstein. He was a counsellor and also the camp tutor. Einstein wore a T-shirt with “I love π” on it and the number 3.14159265358 … that wrapped around his chest. “Hey, did you know Tilde is a scientific symbol?” he said when he heard my name. “It means a similar or approximate value.”
“Wallace is a major brainiac,” Eric said with admiration.
When I had to track down kids in their cabins, Eric waited patiently outside for me. The boys’ cabins were messy and smelly, with dirty clothes strewn about, bottles of insect repellant and sun screen scattered on the floor, and heaps of discarded sports equipment and damp towels. One boy, whose clothes had been sent to camp organized into separate outfits, each in a clearly labelled bag, had dumped them all out onto the floor in a tangled pile. The girls’ cabins were more orderly than the boys’ but crammed with considerably more stuff. Beside each girl’s bed was a brightly coloured canvas director’s chair – turquoise, purple, lime green – with her name spelled out in glitter on the back. Since I didn’t have daughters, I found it thrilling to examine their paraphernalia – personalized stationery sets, preaddressed and stamped; piles of teen fashion mags; tubes and bottles of makeup and hair products (was bubblegum shampoo with cotton-candy conditioner for eating or working into the scalp?); fluffy cushions (some in zebra or leopard patterns) and a rainbow of quilts and coverlets; stuffed animals; folding plastic fans in pink or orange; plush slippers; hair dryers and curling irons. In addition to their designer clothes, assorted sports equipment, and iPods and MP3 players, there was an array of decorative trinkets, motorized mini gizmos, and gewgaws, such as pens with feather tops and glow-in-the-dark shoelaces.
I would never go into anyone’s private things, or read a diary or a letter, but I had no compunction about reading a note left out in the open, such as the following “questionnaire” fluttering around outside a Wildflower Girls cabin.
One day I visited Alexa Rose’s cabin to find out why it was so hot. “There’s no AC! It’s boiling in there! I can’t sleep,” she’d been telling me. The windows were all closed, so I opened them up, and while I was there, I picked up a few pairs of Lululemon yoga pants from the floor and put Alexa Rose’s designer sunglasses that she’d left on the bed back into their case on her shelf. She was always losing her flashlight or her sunglasses, and had already lost one of her flip-flops. When I’d found Wayne’s plastic water bottle and raincoat left on the porch of the dining hall in the rain, it made me wonder if perhaps it was the kids who could take care of themselves and their stuff who enjoyed camp more.
A few times, I had occasion to go into my own kids’ cabins and got to peek at their stuff. I don’t know many mothers who could resist that glimpse into their child’s private world. As I predicted, Harry’s belongings were orderly. More surprising was to see Max’s clothes neatly folded on the shelf, his bed nicely made. This wasn’t my kid, nor the kid his teachers knew, the one who was “all over the map.” How did he suddenly manage to organize himself here at camp?
Both kids were having a great time discovering new interests. Harry was getting into breakdancing and playing the guitar, adding to his hockey and snake interests. Max was enthusiastic about everything. The way they both dived in and tried everything inspired me to try new activities myself. I took a sailing lesson and learned about the mast, mainsail, and swinging boom (discovering that the hard way). At the ropes course and climbing wall, I watched how one cabin worked together as a team to get each person across. For a moment I considered trying it out, but Harry happened to be there and looked worried.* “Please don’t, Mom,” he begged me. “Don’t even think about it.” I
gave it a pass. In the Eco Zone, I made bubble bath and lip gloss from baking soda, glycerine, and rose petals and learned to identify poison ivy, poison oak, and sumac – “leaves of three, let it be.”
“Look at you!” Eric said when he saw me taking a mountain bike from the shed. He gave me a big grin and a flash of those gorgeous eyes of his. “It’s great to see you livin’ in the moment. My dad’ll be pleased with you. He swears he’ll make a camper out of you yet.”
On hot afternoons, I often went for a swim in the lake, sometimes quite far out. I always felt like I could swim forever without tiring.
At “a and c” I sat alongside the kids and made friendship bracelets out of plastic, colourful string called boondoggle or gimp. They taught me the flat stitch, zipper, and spiral. One day, I noticed a girl in dark clothes sitting by herself, away from her cabin mates, dabbling with paint and brushes. I suspected it might be Hailey, the gloomy girl I’d been hearing about. I asked her counsellor about her.
“Yup, that’s Hailey. She’s gone Goth. She doesn’t fit in, doesn’t even want to.”
“Is that what she says?”
“She’s, like, always saying how much she hates camp. She used to be really sweet, but this year, she’s got an edge. She’s managed to turn all the other girls against her.”
Hailey heard us talking about her and got up and flounced away. I wanted to see what she’d painted. In dripping red was one word: DIE. I went outside to where she was sitting on the porch steps.
“Hailey, you look upset. What’s going on? Do you want to talk?”
“Talk to you? Why should I talk to you? What have you done for me lately?” She said she had nothing to say to me, would never talk to me, and that I should go far away and stay away. I sat with her for a few moments, then told her I was around if she ever did want to talk.
But I wasn’t going to give up that easy. Later, that night, I went to find her in her cabin. Her bunk mates were out. She was in the corner upper bunk, pretending to be asleep when I walked in. I knew she was faking it because it was still early and it would have been impossible to doze off with the commotion outside from that night’s “Camp Survivor.”
