My fellow writers and me (far left) at Arts World.
When I look back on some of my summer vacations, I remember a lot of wasted time. I definitely hadn’t appreciated the luxury of time like I do now; what kid does, really? There’d been too many hours spent sleeping. There was that summer my brother Dan and I had discovered re-runs of “Gidget” and “The Partridge Family” – although they were pretty darn funny, they sure were time suckers. Even though we hadn’t had have cable (and cell phones, the internet, and Netflix were still in “The Jetsons” stages), I’d still managed to find plenty of ways to while away the hours. To my credit, however, I’d taken tennis lessons a couple of days a week. Since we’d lived three miles out in the country I had to ride my bike there. I would play tennis for a couple of hours, and then ride all of the way back home. For a few summers, I would even ride a couple miles further to my summer babysitting gig.
Ah, yes … babysitting. I’d pretty much hated it, but all those Forenza and Outback Red outfits from The Limited weren’t going to buy themselves.
To be fair, I had one pretty sweet gig, and that was for our neighbors down the road. They had two grade-school-aged boys who thought I was pretty cool because I would play kickball with them, and the youngest boy apparently had demanded that only I could be his babysitter. (That’s a pretty high compliment from a 7-year-old who proudly counted his hard-earned scabs like they were medals of honor.) Overall, the boys had been pretty well behaved and quite entertaining, but what really had made the job great was that: 1) Their parents stayed out really late, and 2) They had really good snacks. Once the kids were in bed, I had a good three or more hours of quiet time to watch TV, read, and tackle their fully stacked snack area.
I can’t say that my other babysitting jobs had been quite as dreamy; the kids had been usually brats, and I’d been paid an abysmal $1.25 an hour. The worst gig was when a “friend” of mine had given my name to a couple with two little girls. Their house was in a fairly nice neighborhood, so I’d figured what was the worst that could happen. I knew I was in trouble that first night when one of the girls told me to “stay out of that corner over there because that’s where the cats like to pee.”
I don’t think we really need to revisit my problem with that entire situation.
But besides the whole cat issue, there’d been a bigger problem. I always had been taught that when I babysat part of my duties was to clean up, as well. After all, most of the time I was going to serve the kids dinner, and the polite thing to do would be to actually clean up afterward. I’m not sure exactly when that practice ended, but from what I hear from my friends with young kids, this rarely happens today. More often than not, my friends are coming home to find their kitchens looking like the aftermath from “Top Chef: Twelve Courses Edition.” They basically end up handing over 10 bucks an hour to someone who spent the night texting and ignoring the kids.
Back in the late ’80s it was reasonable to clean up after dinner and to clean up after any messes the kids and I’d made. However, in that case, every time I babysat the kitchen would already be completely full of dirty dishes. We’re talking piles and piles of dishes, as if they’d saved up the entire week until the cheap maid service (me) arrived. I think there was even a dishwasher, but it didn’t matter; the dishes, pots and pans had far exceeded its capacity. There was no lounging at that gig; I’d glance longingly in the direction of the living room (no open concept, folks), where surely I was missing the best “Saturday Night Live” episode of all time. I literally had spent most of the evening washing and cleaning up their kitchen. Eventually I’d felt that they were taking advantage of me, and I conveniently became too busy to babysit for them until they must have gotten the hint.
The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, there hadn’t been as much time for babysitting. Even though I hadn’t really planned it, I’d ended up going to three different week-long camps. They weren’t sports camps (I don’t think that should come as a surprise), but rather the kind of camps where I had to actually apply and interview. Local service organizations and/or non-profits had paid for my expenses.
The first camp hadn’t technically been a camp, but, rather, something called Badger Girls State. It was a government and leadership conference run by the American Legion Auxiliary, and I’d been selected by my school’s faculty to represent my school. To be truthful, I knew very little about Badger Girls week; all I knew was that I’d be learning about how government works.
So in early June 1990 a handful of girls from other area schools and I had piled into a school bus and headed out to the University of Wisconsin-Madison, our state capital. I’d never been there before, and I was excited to see a new city.
On paper, I seemed to be the ideal candidate for the experience. I had straight A’s, I was well behaved, I was respectful, and I wasn’t afraid to talk about politics and government in the classroom. However, within a few hours of arriving I knew that the entire week wasn’t going to be my scene.
Things hadn’t gotten off to a great start when I’d met my roommate. She was a perfectly nice girl but seemed a bit too desperate to fit in with the cool crowd. It was as though the moment she’d discovered I wasn’t one of the popular girls she’d decided she wasn’t going to spend too much effort on me. We were cordial but didn’t really hang out together too much.
Despite the slightly disappointing roommate situation, I’d kept my head up. After all, there were hundreds of other nice girls there to hang with. I’d made my way to our first big floor meeting. Everyone seemed so pretty and articulate and smart, and they’d all seemed to know way more than I did about how the week would work. Some girls had been particularly elegant and dressed up; I’d felt like a schlep in my t-shirt and shorts. Wait – were we supposed to dress up? I was so confused.
My floor represented everyone with last names A through D or something like that. We all had been part of a mock government for the week, so we’d learned about our city, county, and state. We’d also learned that we would be part of the Nationalist Party; in later meetings we would decide what to include in our party’s platform, even though it all turned out to be so vague that it seemed to fit everyone’s beliefs.
An older woman in her late 60s or maybe early 70s had been in charge of our floor. She was a cross between a drill sergeant and Mrs. Garrett from “The Facts of Life.” I’d been slightly scared of her, and I think she knew it. She was one of those people who had the sixth sense to pick out the most timid person in the room. I knew that to be true because when she’d asked us to introduce ourselves and tell everyone what we would hope to learn or achieve during the week, she’d very suddenly turned to me, pointed her finger, and said, “Starting with YOU.”
I’d started to say my name, town, and school, but she swiftly interrupted me.
“Stand UP!” she’d barked, moving her arms in an upward motion.
I’d quietly told everyone in the room about myself, which was already one of my least favorite things to do. I gave the most un-original answer about my goal for the week, mumbling something about learning more about government. It had been an insincere answer; a pat answer I’d write on an application. As other girls had started to get up and speak, they all mentioned how they were looking forward to meeting new friends. Why couldn’t I have just said that?
Right off the bat we’d held our first elections, and for whatever reason I’d decided to run for school board. Again, we each had to stand up and give a little speech about why we were running. I don’t remember what I’d said, but I’m sure I hadn’t come off as charismatic as the other candidates, given my fear of public speaking. When the election results were posted, I’d come in dead last with 16 votes. Ouch.
After that first election, I didn’t run for anything else. For one thing, everyone else seemed to know parliamentary procedure, and I didn’t – although as the week went on I’d definitely gotten the gist of it. The other reason, which should come as no surprise, was that I wasn’t exactly a campaigning sort of gal. I’d watched as others put tons of effort into their campaigns; one girl even had dressed up as a nerd the entire week and made up an entirely new persona. As everyone else ran for office and got elected to their coveted positions, they all got some sort of special sticker to put on their badge. As I walked around campus, I saw only one other person whose badge was blank like mine. Well, no – actually there were two others. My roommate, the desperate one, had been made fire chief. However, that position did not come with any sort of special sticker. Never mind, though … she’d ended up making one herself out of construction paper.
I can’t even …
When the time had come to elect the ultimate top office of governor, the girl who ran my party had ended up winning. She was an outgoing, pretty, and sophisticated Asian girl who everybody worshipped. On the evening of the swearing in, she’d actually worn little white gloves like she was Jackie Kennedy. It was as if she’d orchestrated the entire week perfectly and everything had worked according to her master plan.
As for me, I’d just been happy to have met some new friends, get a little taste of college life, and walk around Madison during our two whole hours of free time. When I’d gotten home the following Saturday I hadn’t had much time to recover; I’d washed my clothes and packed up for the next camp: Arts World.
I’d ended up at Arts World because one day my English teacher had approached me with its pamphlet and told me I’d be a good candidate. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded fun, and I was happy that she believed in me enough to tell me about it. The camp was a week at a college campus where I would study writing; other students would concentrate on music performance, acting, theater set design, or dance. Only 100 students in the entire state would be chosen. I’d submitted the required application and a writing sample, and much to my surprise I’d gotten accepted.
Unlike Badger Girls State, Arts World was held at a very small private college in the middle of Wisconsin farm fields. Things had gotten off to a shaky start when I’d checked in. As luck would have it, I’d picked the exact same time to check in as two “veterans” who had known each other from the summer before. It turned out that Arts World was full of these repeat attendees. I’d stood there awkwardly as the overly dramatic theater girl squealed in delight as she hugged some skinny kid who was there for writing. My roommate was also a writer, but she was far from introverted like me. She bubbled over with excitement and passion about everything. As she would talk, she would cut pictures out of magazines and mesh them together in sort of a kaleidoscope fashion using scissors and a glue stick.
I’d spent the week vacillating between wanting to hug people or slap them. On one hand, many of the kids there were “my people.” They were so easy to talk to and get along with, and we all loved and appreciated art in all of its forms. But then there were those who took their art a bit too seriously for my taste. My mind silently sang a chorus of WTFs as I watched some teachers perform an interpretive dance. The acting people especially bugged me; they all craved attention like a herd of Rachel Berry’s.
We’d had showcase nights where anyone could perform; not surprisingly, I never did. I didn’t see how someone reading a poem could compare with someone who played the piano or did a dramatic reading. I had admired everyone who performed though, even if I thought their poem made no sense or if their performance was overacted.
The one kid with a mullet had ended up liking me. (Weren’t all serious writers supposed to have ponytails or man buns? Wasn’t that in “The Writer’s Handbook”?)
I can’t say that I’d learned a whole lot about writing during that week, but it was very refreshing to be around others who enjoyed writing as much as I did. Most people back at my school whined every time there was a writing assignment, while I relished it. If anything, the week gave me plenty of time to simply practice writing and make time for it.
In the end I couldn’t escape giving some sort of performance. We all had to recite at the “final show” a poem that we’d written. Parents had been invited, as well, but luckily mine couldn’t make it on time; I think I would have died from embarrassment. We all had to form a line on stage, where one by one we would read our poem. I wasn’t exactly a poet, but given our timeframe I couldn’t exactly stand up there and read an entire short story … so there I was, poet for a day. I’d volunteered to go first since I didn’t want to suffer in agony any longer than was necessary. Appropriately enough, my poem was titled “Intimidation.” It basically described my panic attacks and how they would completely engulf my body. I’d selected that poem because it was the most sincere one in the pumpkin patch. I’d managed to choke out the words without sounding too petrified, and then I’d abruptly stopped and passed the microphone to the next person. The audience wasn’t quite sure what to do, so they’d clapped a little awkwardly. I’m sure that was the first time many of them had been to a poetry reading, and they weren’t sure about the protocol. I hadn’t minded; I was proud of my poem, and I could then say that I’d performed an original work of art.
If Badger Girls was too full of high-achievers and Arts World was too full of drama, then Business World was too full of hormones. Even though I’d applied to the camp through the local Chamber of Commerce, it had seemed that the application process was pretty lenient. Most kids had treated it like a brick and mortar sleepaway camp.
As for the “business” part, we’d all gotten divided into teams that would run a business simulation game; I think it was an airline. (Seriously folks? An airline? Everyone knows how often airlines fail to make a profit!) The kids on my team weren’t the brightest, and most of the time I would just sit back and watch the bleach-blonde kid with the puka-shell necklace flirt with the drama-filled girl who gave the Arts World kids a run for their money. Our adult “counselor” had been too hung up on his glory days at the University of Wisconsin to teach us much of anything. Since we were Team P – every team had been assigned a letter – he made sure that our team yelled out “O Sucks! O Sucks” at every assembly. (Apparently back in his day at university football games, stadium Sections O and P would yell at each other. Nowadays, the Wisconsin games have gotten much more R-rated; one section yells “Eat Sh#t!” While the other yells back, “F*ck You!” It makes no sense. Ahhh … tradition.)
In addition to the simulation game, our team had to pick a product that started with “P” and market it. Our team had chosen pickled peppers. I wanted to run from the room in exasperation. (Purses, people! Purses!!)
If the Summer of the Camps had taught me anything, it was that I could hang with a wide variety of people and survive. But if I had to choose one group … it would be my right-brained friends. Sure, they could get a little too artsy-fartsy for my taste, but they would understand me … even if I didn’t have a sticker on my badge.