... yes, even me. I know! Stop gasping, you'll hyperventilate, pass out and hit your head on something.
I could not live with the guilt.
Back en pointe, like the pretty Black Swan I am...
I was excited, but scared, to go away to Boy Scout camp when I was 12. How would I do it, not possessing the skillset to throw a ball, run, pretend to like sports, or poop in the woods? Actually, to be fair, I did like pooping in the woods until the episode of Poison Ivy Penis visited my Netherlands.
But three weeks of forced swims, unfortunate softball, making of whistle lanyards and Tandy wallets, and hundreds of verses of "There's A Hole In The Bucket, Elijah" was a hard sell for me--other than the swimming, which I loved (even though your arms and legs would get tangled in green bottle brush type pond weeds and turtles would nip at your legs...), I was a defective boy.
God knows I had the intense desire to be good at ANY of those things, but it just wasn't in my DNA. It woud have been like asking my mean counselor to recite lines from Man of La Mancha. Wasn't gonna happen.
Slightly softening the horror of away camp was the fact that my best friend, Billy Cirilli--great name huh?--would be there with me. He was a great boy at all things boy, and I by association, seemed like a normal enough kid to have around--just not someone you'd want on your team. Ever.
The first week wasn't soooo bad, even though I missed my parents a lot, but I stiff upper lipped it. Here, enjoy evidence of my state of mind:
Enter weeks two and three.
Hell. Pure hell. Some mean spirited, closeted counselor decided I must be gay since I sucked at baseball. The torture began. Making me do jumping jacks by myself in front of 100 kids, which, in retrospect would have been fun to watch as I was approximately the shape of a polka dot. Having to run with my arms over my head until I couldn't anymore, crying which seemed to be the funniest thing many people had ever seen. Watching the counsellors eat my special lemon cookies my mom sent in a care package...
Pants being pulled down, being stared at going to the bathroom--it was like auditioning for the role of choir boy.
Around week one and a half, my spirit broke and my rage turned away from the tormentors and toward my parents. THEY enlisted me in this hell, they drove me there, they didn't rescue me.
Well, I still felt it important to reach out to my family and thank them, let them know I was still alive. Here's postcard two:
What a nice kid huh? I found these when my Mom was at home in the final stages in hospice and showed them to her, and she laughed until she wept. So of course, I immediately framed them and put them up in her room. She woke up every morning with a grin and a chuckle--even in the final stages of a brutal cancer.
Thank God the humour nullified some of the angry brat and reminded one of the universal misery that we have all gone through at some point. And brought moments of joyous reflection.
Camp seemed less awful in golden sepia memory. That I liked.
That said, Counsellor Closet WAS a jerk and I hope he learned some compassion. Or died a slow, firey, painful death.
Oops. I thought I was better.
Oh well.
PS. It's cut off a bit, but there is a lovely 'PS I hate you' along the side.
I could not live with the guilt.
Back en pointe, like the pretty Black Swan I am...
I was excited, but scared, to go away to Boy Scout camp when I was 12. How would I do it, not possessing the skillset to throw a ball, run, pretend to like sports, or poop in the woods? Actually, to be fair, I did like pooping in the woods until the episode of Poison Ivy Penis visited my Netherlands.
But three weeks of forced swims, unfortunate softball, making of whistle lanyards and Tandy wallets, and hundreds of verses of "There's A Hole In The Bucket, Elijah" was a hard sell for me--other than the swimming, which I loved (even though your arms and legs would get tangled in green bottle brush type pond weeds and turtles would nip at your legs...), I was a defective boy.
God knows I had the intense desire to be good at ANY of those things, but it just wasn't in my DNA. It woud have been like asking my mean counselor to recite lines from Man of La Mancha. Wasn't gonna happen.
Slightly softening the horror of away camp was the fact that my best friend, Billy Cirilli--great name huh?--would be there with me. He was a great boy at all things boy, and I by association, seemed like a normal enough kid to have around--just not someone you'd want on your team. Ever.
The first week wasn't soooo bad, even though I missed my parents a lot, but I stiff upper lipped it. Here, enjoy evidence of my state of mind:
Enter weeks two and three.
Hell. Pure hell. Some mean spirited, closeted counselor decided I must be gay since I sucked at baseball. The torture began. Making me do jumping jacks by myself in front of 100 kids, which, in retrospect would have been fun to watch as I was approximately the shape of a polka dot. Having to run with my arms over my head until I couldn't anymore, crying which seemed to be the funniest thing many people had ever seen. Watching the counsellors eat my special lemon cookies my mom sent in a care package...
Pants being pulled down, being stared at going to the bathroom--it was like auditioning for the role of choir boy.
Around week one and a half, my spirit broke and my rage turned away from the tormentors and toward my parents. THEY enlisted me in this hell, they drove me there, they didn't rescue me.
Well, I still felt it important to reach out to my family and thank them, let them know I was still alive. Here's postcard two:
What a nice kid huh? I found these when my Mom was at home in the final stages in hospice and showed them to her, and she laughed until she wept. So of course, I immediately framed them and put them up in her room. She woke up every morning with a grin and a chuckle--even in the final stages of a brutal cancer.
Thank God the humour nullified some of the angry brat and reminded one of the universal misery that we have all gone through at some point. And brought moments of joyous reflection.
Camp seemed less awful in golden sepia memory. That I liked.
That said, Counsellor Closet WAS a jerk and I hope he learned some compassion. Or died a slow, firey, painful death.
Oops. I thought I was better.
Oh well.
PS. It's cut off a bit, but there is a lovely 'PS I hate you' along the side.
