I have spent my last nine summers at sleep-away camp. I was a camper for five years, a CIT (counselor-in-training) for one, and a counselor for three. I don’t remember how non-camp people celebrate the Fourth of July. I don’t know how to celebrate my August birthday without wearing a sash and plastic tiara from the Dollar Store and dancing on a dining hall table in front of the entire camp. For years, my summer uniform has consisted entirely of Nike shorts, old T-shirts, sneakers, and my hair in a messy bun.
This summer, I am fulfilling my lifelong dream by interning at a publishing house in their children’s imprint. I will be living in New York City, completely on my own, accompanied by only a few friends from college and high school who I know will be in the city too. I will have to buy “grown-up person clothes” fit for a career-driven twenty-something and live in a world where spontaneously bursting into song is not the norm.
I am unbelievably excited for this summer and the opportunities in store for me. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not filled with anxiety about the adventure to come.
Camp is a place where everything is familiar. I can walk through the gates and immediately I’m home, surrounded by memories of past summers. I’m always greeted by familiar faces, whether it’s those of former campers, bunkmates, or counselors of mine. Especially in a work environment, camp is a place where I feel that it is okay to make mistakes. And I did make mistakes during my three summers on staff. Lots of them. But because my camp family has known me for so long and watched me grow from an awkward eleven-year-old, I know that I will always be given another chance. At camp, a mistake is another opportunity to grow and better yourself, not only as a counselor but also, and more importantly, as a person.
When I think about it, camp is a lot like Kenyon. It’s in a small rural area in the middle of nowhere, and a trip to Wal-Mart, the Dollar Store, and the gas station is a five-minute journey by car but can easily be the highlight of the week. There is one main dining hall and nighttime snacking options are extremely limited. My camp’s Cabana, exclusively for counselors, serves huge milkshakes and grilled cheese sandwiches to those of us not on duty at night, and is our equivalent to the Cove (RIP). Everybody seems to know each other (and know each other’s more private business, which is certainly a detractor). We have traditions that sound crazy to anybody on the outside, but that we cherish wholeheartedly (signing the matriculation book or First-Year Sing is to Kenyon what CIT Campfire or bunny hop lunch is to camp).
I don’t know how ready I am for the independence that New York offers. It’s crazy to me that I can just leave my apartment, walk a block in any direction, and find numerous drugstores, eating options, and clothing shops. I won’t need to wait for my mom to send me shampoo or deodorant because the kind I use isn’t sold at the market and I don’t want to take the shuttle to Wal-Mart or pester my friends with cars for a ride. Everything will cost money and will all be expensive, and I’m going to have to control my spending without the convenient budgeting system that the K-Card offers. Plus, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with the anonymity of the big city. I’m so used to being one of a couple hundred, surrounded by smiling faces. NYC is severe, and both camp and Kenyon have been nothing but nurturing to me. I’m afraid of making mistakes at my internship or in my apartment with my new roommates in a place where second chances are less easy to come by. And, most importantly, I’m afraid of leaving my past nine summers behind, when so many of my friends, colleagues, and former campers will be having another amazing summer at camp without me.
Camp and Kenyon are both extremely special to me. Just because I am not going back to camp this year doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hold a significant place in my heart. I just hope that, by the end of this summer, New York City will become special to me as well.
Image Credit: Katie Friedman