cross-legged in the dim light

I have the proof time is not linear. I discovered it it two months ago, that weekend on the windy bluff over Lake Michigan. Sleeping in a bunk next to the camp diva and across from a captain I considered an adult, even though she's only two years older than me, diagonal from a duo I'd never guess would have formed the most lasting friendship, huh.

The worst way to wake up, then and now, is metal clinks and the faint pawing for swimsuits. I couldn't believe I was hearing it in my 30s. "What are you doing?" I groggily begged from under my blanket. "Dipping!" the gung-ho crew cheered. I didn't think we were going to do the old thing--wrap in towels and run down the beach steps and jump in. But turns out people were, and I am people.

I have four or five thousand takeaways from the precious days, but if I had to chose one I might say caring is contagious. Like on Friday night when the evening activity was bombardment and yes, I got dressed in yellow, and yes, I laced up my sneakers, but I did not expect to try. Only when you're split into your ride or die teams and on the courts with aggressive sisters from every generation, what choice do you have? Or like when we had to make up intro chants and council fire. I surveyed all the clumps, every face  serious, every brow furrowed. Every person on the dinky talent show stage giving everything. Anyone invited to the Mafia circle buzzed with glee. No one didn't try.

Re; generations, if I were afforded two takeaways I might say generations of women are just important. They just are. I need to see women older than me having fun. I need to hear women younger than me. I need to be who I am. All of us need each other, by the way.

What else? Canoeing through the silver tube for the last time ever. It makes me want to cry if I think about it too much, so I can't. I forgot my glasses before the talent show. I did as a teen too. My same legs ran from the top of the hill down the wood chip grove to grab them. Singing on the bus. Singing on the deck. Looking out over the long road from the meadow, after we zip lined but before we hid under the evergreens.

Fine! If I were afforded three takeaways, I might also add nothing last forever besides everything you've ever thought about. ____ gives me a petoskey stone, my first, and says her truth. Like the first star did at midnight. Like the most annoying girl did too, what, twenty years ago? And I see you still, when I look out to the manitous from the perch. Like a projector plays you walking by. And if no one else comes to the show,  I'll be an audience of one, until the erosion is too quick to contain and every cabin sinks into the water.

Selective

I love a mystical story. A man finds a childhood photo of his wife, and he is in the background on vacation with his grandmother. That kind of thing. Everyone has one. A moment from the past that makes sense of the present. A baby picture of a pop star holding a microphone or a talk show host at age ten reading an Archie. Thirty years later she interviews an actor from Riverdale.

It's fun to think we are our own crystal balls, 8 balls, Ask Zandar balls, but more likely we sift through our endless experiences for the sense. It's a good question I guess. Is there magic, or is it only selective memory? There is something earthy about selective memory too, I know. Even then, way back then, some beating piece of ourselves chose to cling to this moment in a sea of moments as important.

Last week Diablo was talking to me about her amnesia, and I got to wondering, did she remember how we met? And truthfully she didn't. I admire her? Perhaps? How did she know we were close? I wrote a play she was the lead in. In was spring 2014 and she didn't remember it. She even asked if I was mistaken. I showed her the photos. Nothing. She had even commented under some of them on Instagram. No bells rung. When we met up a few months ago in LA we talked all night like old friends do but why did she trust me? We even dove in deep. Maybe her nervous system sent waves up even if her hardware failed.

My memory used to be airtight. It's murkier now. I have been the person random people would text and ask, "Who was that person we met at the party one summer? There were tiki torches?" I would give a library of intel. Today on our walk Shant reminded me of what I said last night at a party we went to. I had forgotten. Names? No. And so what are the support beams now? Who am I, and is there evidence or just a feeling? Or is the feeling the evidence?

I hallucinate in the mornings and don't know if the worry that pings me mid-afternoon was from a dream or from logic that felt like a dream. Have you written an email--not simple send-off--but a long hearty personal email, and then written it again a few days later?

A few weeks ago I couldn't shake this wooden beam. I was 11. I was told I might go on a trip that summer. Possibly to Australia? How, I am not sure. But somewhere I got the idea I might be going to Australia. I went to an acting camp at a local Catholic school instead. In my mind I chose it, but it's more probably there was no trip. I liked the camp. We did musical theatre numbers. My class did "Mame." I did improv for the first time. (I actually only played one game, got out very quickly, and the teacher never picked me again. But I remember watching the "older kids" play a genres game at the final showcase and being very impressed with a girl who could do a jazz radio dj character.) But this counselor (I wish I knew what age) overheard me tell a kid, "I was going to Australia this summer, but then I came here instead." The guy (in my head I'm clocking him at 30) interjected, "You could have gone to Australia, but you came here? That was stupid."

This sticks with me maybe because we have no control of what sticks with us. Or maybe because I felt to betrayed by an adult. After all, he was the one teaching me these skills for this thing that I loved. He was selling something he didn't buy. That's a weird wake-up. Or maybe because I have always feared I will make a wrong choice--typically in reference to theatre/entertainment opportunities. I have missed out on so much of life because of comedy commitments many people would say are stupid. I haven't regretted it. I have made a life from it. We all miss out, is the thing. All of us are missing out. We can't not. But then we have what we have, and if you're even half true to yourself, it's probably good.

But occasionally a choice stings. I'm still cleaning my most recent wound. I have the maturity to know that sad adult summer camp counselor in the suburbs is the stupid one. But I don't have the faith to know it's not completely untrue.

Kavanaugh Hearings

I am so full of emotions I don't even know where to begin. I am grateful I work in a mostly female office and we could watch and yell at the TV. I felt truly scared by Lindsey Graham. This is who we have governing us? This angry, powerful toddler? How dare you ask if the probably assaulter has gone through hell. His life is not ruined. At the end of this he will be in charge of my life or be filthy rich and underemployed. I do not feel sorry for you.

My brain does not compute this level of lying. He must have forgotten? There is an alternate reality? I believe Dr. Ford. Why would she lie? Have I lied before? Have I been confused before? He is so sure. I was raised to think people are good, so when people lie so confidently I start to believe them too. A girl I went to summer camp with was a kleptomaniac. There was proof on proof of everything she stole. Our counselors had us sit in a circle with her. I still don't know why--hoping for confession? Hoping for forgiveness? She lied and lied and cried and lied and I said, "Okay, I believe you. I am sorry. I believe you." There's no way she didn't do it. I just didn't understand how she could be so strongly dishonest. I could never. I don't understand.

I don't care you got into Yale and have good grades. I don't care you have friends who are girls. You'll notice your victim didn't need to spend an hour reading letter from people saying she is honest. Because that's nuts. She is honest because it didn't occur to her she wasn't. I hope your lies eat you from the inside like mold. You couldn't stop yourself from lying even to admit you watched Ford's testimony. It came so easy to you. You want to control my body. You lifted weights and had difficult football camps. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

I asked my co-worker, "What would you do if you were him and it was true?" She said kill herself. I say I'd step down. If it weren't true, if it might be true, if I don't remember I'd step down. This is bigger than you. The country doesn't revolve around you. You are lucky to have been considered now can we please have someone Good? It's not fair. You would know that if you hadn't been given every privilege in the book. Sometimes you don't get the job for a reason you can't control. Sometimes you don't get the job for the best reason there has ever been.

I try to organize my new bookshelf but I lay down and read all the women coming forward with their stories. It is disgusting we have to band together to share our traumas to make some people believe there was a possibility Ford experienced hers. A writer shares her rape on Instagram in the morning and smiles coming in an hour later. It's our job to make you know we are okay. I don't want to be seen as overdramatic or too gloomy. I cry on the bed and when I finally come up for air I say, "I'd be down for a Purge."

Girls Need More Secrets

After two weeks devising work with young women attending summer camp in Maine in 2017, I have some new thoughts on girlhood. The 4th and 5th graders fought to the death for single solo lines and the high schoolers refused to perform. I want to know what happens to girls in middle school. I want to know why one girl started most scenes with "I should have listened to my mother. I hate you." I want to know if she thought that was funny, or if it's all she could think of. I want to know if that's still a joke in her mediasphere or if her family is old school and watches black and white TV. Or if her mother really should have listened to her mother. I want to know why the 2nd graders wanted to do all their own original choreography and the 9th graders wanted to be set like china for dinner.

I want to know what it is about a secret, whispered between two teens, that makes even me want to know the juice. And I want to always remember what it feels like to be the third girl they beckon in and the fourth girl they don't.

Smidge and I were in a corner of the gym before Poms practice vowing to tell each other our crushes. We each spoke a boy's name (same boy) and screamlaughed, intoxicated in our good taste. We skipped around the three-point line singing The Sound of Music. It didn't matter we were in "competition." We weren't. We were in 8th grade. When "going out" didn't mean going anywhere. It was how we showed our loyalty and our love, these private passings.

It had been this way a long time. I didn't fully trust my best friend because she would never admit to loving her obvious affection-target. She was my favorite person, but I watched her carefully. In fourth grade someone said she didn't have any crushes. "But you have to," we pressed. "But I don't," she insisted. I can't remember if I really didn't believe her or if I just didn't want to, but we pushed until she practically yelled, "OKAY FINE IF I HAVE TO, I LIKE ____ HAMPSTER!" There was a boy in our class named _____ Hampson. In her total distress she had misspoke.

Later, once we had boyfriends, the new secrets were about us. Who said what about who to who and who retold. We ate our own tails in gossip and serious nods. I see a past of closed mouths and deep deep treasures of family darkness. I see wives of important men with tight lips. I see a future where a lack of bragging saves our butts. Where female generals refuse to disclose and never lose. But to prepare, first, girls need better secrets.

G v G, Age 9

I'm not sure how you felt about your girlfriends growing up, but there was an intensity between mine. I did not form supportive bonds until I was probably in college. I loved my girlfriends, but we also hated each other. In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't question this more or even ask for help. Maybe because my tribe was still a tribe--despite having inward slashes? At the end of the day, we would still always be against other girl tribes (a whole different issue).

When I sniffled because I thought another girl was better at cheerleading than me, my mom said, "Well, she's a dog." Meaning, maybe she can do a backflip, but in ten years I would be beautiful and she would still be woof. I googled her two years ago to see if it was true. I don't blame my mom. It was her job to make me feel better, and in desperation that's what she landed on.

In middle school it was always someone's turn to be hated. I didn't mind this cycle because I had about six friends, so five weeks would be good and then one would be bad. That was okay odds. I had respite in my summer camp group, but there were weekly awards we all secretly hoped for, so? Once a girl in my bunk said she struggled with math. I told her I liked math and she said if I went to her school I'd probably have worse grades than her. When I was 17 one of my camp friends exploded at me yelling I always when were 12 I always purposely ate dessert slower than everyone else to make them feel bad. Ridiculous if it weren't true.

My gang was academically-driven, so we competed with grades and whispered when someone turned in homework late. We wanted to be the best. I'm trying to determine if the media influenced me in this way. I guess. It was always Christina vs. Britney never Christina & Britney. Betty v. Veronica. Most TV I watched didn't have girlfriends. Patti Mayonnaise. Rugrat Angelica. Spinelli. Lisa Simpson. They were loners. I read Betty Tasty and Tib or whatever those dumb books about growing up in the 1930s were. Samantha the American Girl had a friend, but she was mainly a metaphor for poverty. The Disney Princesses were loners.

Anyway, the world is different now? Frozen? Is Frozen saving us yet? Well. In improv class the students' favorite game is Four Corners. I stand in the middle of the room with my eyes closed, count to ten, and then call out a corner. Anyone in the corner is "out." I recover my eyes and repeat until one student remains: the new caller. So this Girl wins the round and excitedly stands in the middle of the room. After she counts to ten she spins around surveying the room with her eyes "closed" and then calls a corner. I ask her to put her hands over her eyes. She puts them up, gaping cracks between each finger. I let it happen. I watch her pick off the people she doesn't like corner by corner. Until its her best friend, someone she doesn't care about, and a boy I suspect she sort of likes. Her friend wiggles in excitement of potentially winning the game and then, boop, Girl chooses her corner. Best Friend Out. Girl poorly acts surprised and then tried very hard to hide a devilish little smile. I don't judge her. I remember feeling so horribly happy when I was hanging out with a group of girls I didn't know that well and they started making fun of one of my tribe. It was completely base--I'm better than her, but still so shameful. The Girl then proceeds to make the boy she likes win. He jumps around and screams, very proud of himself, announcing he is the best at this game.

Back Pocket

Everyone knows there are things money can't buy,
but there are also things success can't give you.
There's always the back pocket plan.

Friends since 1999.

Moss: Part III

We hiked The Porcupine Mountains, the collective crew of Counselors in Training--big and small, blistered and bouncing. I was afraid to go on the trip because what if I didn't hike fast enough? And I had to carry the pots in my pack. And I hadn't gone to REI like the other girls for those special swishy trail pants. And we weren't supposed to wear t-shirts. Well how was I supposed to know?! I had been wearing a t-shirt for literally occasion of my high school life!

On the third day we made it to Lake Superior. It was too cold to swim, but the water brought a newness. A sense of accomplishment and a marker that we were halfway there (oh-oh-livin on a prayer!) and the trip couselors could use a break too so they basically went to bed as soon as we had put out the fire. Tee, Rench, KHo and I were up, determined to get on that lake if not in.

We wobbled atop a path of rocks just peeping from the water's surface. Tee pointed down at a very mossy one. "Slick," she said. I stepped as delicately as I could but I still flaked for a moment before sticking the landing.

The sun was setting and Rench listed all the schools she visited and which she was applying for and the ones her friends were going to which were just short of disgusting. Rench was the cabin dum-dum but she had a million polos and chacos in the way that made it seem her intelligence would have little to do with where she ended up at school.

"Where are you guys going?" In the distance a tiny boat squatted just under the pinking clouds. KHo came from money too. She pressed her. "I don't want to talk about it." KHo said. "Can't this be the one time in our lives we don't talk about it?" The orange floated away, we tip-toed to shore.

Memories of Girl Scout Day Camp, 1997

The summer after third grade a bunch of my friends went to a Girl Scout day camp together. I have very few memories of this experience, which is very strange since I remember most things entirely. I did not make any new friends, nor did I forge stronger, better friendships with my troupemates. When I think back on the one or two weeks it's a haze of popsicle sticks, one very obnoxious multiple-verse song that was eerily satanic, and standing inside a lodge while it rained. I told Peppermint, "At least the mosquitos will be dead now," and she explained it was actually just the opposite.

Two things though. One is that on some afternoon our counselor told us there was going to be a talent show, so our group would sing some lame song in front of everyone soon. Once we arrived at the talent show it was painfully clear that other groups had spent all morning preparing and had funny skits and choreographed pieces. Our counselor had, instead, decided we would do a craft with egg cartons, which we didn't have, and spent the AM shift lying on a picnic table while we, in a big pod, walked from campsite to campsite begging for craft materials like some weirdo forest urchins. During the talent show I was absolutely horrified to follow a group of girls who did a cool interpretive dance with hula hoops. We stood in one line screaming that terrible devil song because it was the only one we all knew. I saw we would be awful and tried to hustle everyone to find a different common tune even moments before we "performed." "What about Phantom of the Opera? Don't we all know Phantom of the Opera? Look, it's not hard. I can teach you." I was murmuring to everyone in line. My cousins were visiting that week, and when I got home I recounted the whole disaster to one of them who grew extremely agitated to be listening to my patter. It was the first time I realized that not everything about me is interesting by a very very long shot.

My friend Ick and I became completely obsessed with the friendliest and prettiest counselor who went by "Star." "If only we had Star as a counselor," we'd pine while watching her group run around giggling. We'd turn back to our counselor who was still trying to get her cd to work so we could "listen to it and be quiet." We wrote Star fan letters and stalked her during all-camp festivities. During the Friday luau she was nowhere to be found. I noticed another counselor, Froggy--a fat white guy with an ever sweaty red face--looking suspicious. He entered a telephone booth sideways. I darted over. An exhausted Star was in there too! I watched through the glass. She would make some tired motion, he would say a couple things, she would laugh hysterically--nearly crying. Her eyes sparkled like her namesake. I finally knocked on the glass. Star turned around and recognized me as one of those psychotic children who chased her down every day. She just put her finger to her lips, so I walked away. I still don't know what that meant--the sign she gave me. Don't tell I'm not doing my job? Don't tell I might be in love with Froggy of all people? Just don't say anything, you whacko? I think of them every couple of years and hope they are married.

So Why Am I, Why Am I, Taking Them Still

It was only three weeks ago that I was still very much in charge of a gaggle of high school sophomores. I lived in a wood box where I had no privacy or time to think for myself. The two minutes I was putting on my pajamas while the girls were still washing their faces in the bathhouse were precious. Sacred. I just want to think about myself for five minutes I pleaded to no one. And then one would be there. At the edge of my bed. Leaning on it and excitedly telling some story about the soccer game she played or how welding that silver charm went, and it wouldn't be so bad. In fact, it'd be nice. But some days I'd still clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze.

But some days I wake up in this desert, and all I can do is think about myself. And wish I didn't have to. But it's just me in my rectangle. The shower curtains are blue ships, sailing away.

Rainy day in MI.

Give me somethin' to believe in, a breath from the breathin'.

So write it down. I don't think that I'll close my eyes.

'Cos lately I'm not dreamin', so what's the point of sleepin'?

And at night I've got nowhere to hide.

French Toast Goldfish

That good ol' Bisque sent me a care package chock full of staff meeting snacks for all da ladies. The high amount of Pop-Tarts both proves his understanding of me and served as the basis for his name among other counselors: "Mr. Pop-Tart." There have been worse nicknames.

One item was French Toast Goldfish. I had a few at the 'sler meeting and found them delightful. Sugary, genuine, thick graham cracker texture, cinnamony. Not sure how they got the eggy subtlety, but they did.

 Then something happened called While Writing My Final Reports I Ate Half a Bag. And now, even the thought of these fish snacks make me want to barf a million times.

Fun while they lasted, but when I smelled real french toast after the fact in the dining hall, I truly did almost flip a table in disgust.

I know a product's quality should not be measured by the quantity the reviewer was able to comfortably consume, but, come on, Pepperidge Farm. What did you think would happen? Lacing those little sea creatures with coke and smiles.
B+

Down the Line

Sunset last night. Lake Michigan.

I. We should be healthy not just to be healthy but because our health affects our feelings and our feelings empower or disable our actions. Our actions are our relationships with others, our world.

II. A camper shared this with me: Think beautiful thoughts and you will choose beautiful actions. Beautiful actions make a beautiful life.

Breezeway

2003 was my favorite summer at camp. There were twelve of us in the cabin of Breezeway. They were all my dear friends—each one. Each one. We all—as a collective, with no additions or subtractions--came back two more summers. These were my sisters. And it began in Breezeway 2003.  We lip-synced to “I Want You to Want Me.” Our bathhouse duty was to Windex the mirrors and sinks. KHo would spray and I would paper towel.  The second to last night of camp we slept on the beach in sleeping bags. We took so many pictures, and when summer was well-over, when I was back in AP Euro and doodling around the sophomore locker bay, I got them developed—lots of up-close blurry eyes and braces glints.

This summer I counseled the young women of Breezeway 2013. Eight completely unique forces. And from the beginning I loved them. I’ve said I have loved children before, and I meant it. Kind of. Like, everyone “loves” the youth in their experience. But, these ones, they were at times challenging, asked the tough questions, appeared not to listen, absorbed stories and repeated them, sang, asked me to get the mail even if I was sopping wet, cheered for one another, grew impatient with everything, were grateful infinitely for hot cinnamon scones. And I love them. I would do anything for them.

And in the night, or, heck, in the day, sometimes my sisters were there too. Their presence. KDunt was on staff this summer—repping our clan hard. The rest? Well, some I saw at the October wedding, some in college, one not since our last year as campers. But. I feel their lessons and love with me. They carry me on and up. When my kids giggled, so did every Breezeway girl through the years. The rustles around us, the gentle clouds. The sandy wood floors. The lake. This was once my home, now again. There, in the back right corner, that’s where I slept and where all those daddy long legs attached Marns and there, on the back stoop, that’s where I watched the first sunset of the summer with Slou. We told each other all the freshman year secrets.

My campers wrote their names on the walls with black Sharpie and pointed out where mine had been written in red a decade earlier.  I walked the cabin one final time, closing down after they had gone. Excited to be a real person again. Genuinely missing the kids. Tired. I found in a teeny corner: “Alice S_______ is the coolest.” My throat clenches. My heart rises in my chest, overflows.

Two Hearts/ Two More Weeks

When I was in Alaska I drew our initials in a snow heart. I texted him the image, and he responded:

I left AZ June 25th. It has really been too long.

I'm fractured from the fall,
and I wanna go home.
But it takes two when it used to take one.
It takes two when it used to take only one.

Happy Working Song

My sister told me my blog has been too sad. Well, toot. But okay. Some great things about summer camp:

Storm cloud. July 2013. Michigan.

Running the long, quiet road of antique farms just off camp property Monday. Only two girls signed up for an afternoon four-miler. Track stars of course. They smoked me. It was very windy.

My first period Musical Theatre girls kicking their feet to "Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile."

Playing Mafia (I actually love Mafia. Like, a lot. I wish it were still acceptable to casually mention it be played at parties now that I am an adult. Sigh.) in the lake on a very wavy day. Hopping the white caps during accusations.

My campers at the breakfast table every morning. One brings yogurts for all. Another carried cups of water by the bunch. That one always asks for a bowl of Golden Grahams. There is a subtle game of who will get a bagel first--thus becoming the table toaster slave.

And on your lovely woody banks,
we dream beneath the shade,
and offer up again our thanks,
your memories ne'er will fade.

Boys Think They're Funny

Dance often has precedence over Drama in stage usage in the camp Great House on the account of only one sound system. This doesn’t bother me because I like the unenclosed sky of the deck. And. Really. I’m a summer camp counselor behind all the “Mhmm yeeees, I am a resident playwright of children’s theatre.” What, am I going to demand a diamond-encrusted director’s chair and a tech booth? We’ve got, like, some light switches.

However, girls’ Drama starts just as boys’ breakfast ends, so during warm-ups and the beginnings of our rehearsals, an ant line of boys passes us. The campers are actually well-behaved, but seriously every other counselor, not realizing that every other counselor does it, kind of pops into the class—either mimicking what we’re doing or shouting little “To be or not to be!”s at us. Sometimes falling down and saying, “Well, that was dramatic.” A har har har. The girls obviously get a little flustered because warm-ups aren’t exactly confidence-boosters. We’re often making weird noises or stretching or something.

I am very interested in the fact that none of these counselors realize that A) it’s still not funny the fifth time in the week they interrupt and B) half their kind practices this behavior.

On picture night the girls in their navy skirts and white tees bunched in cabins to take charming little photos for their parents to stalk on the camp website. As I waited for my chicklets to be called I watched as every single male counselor left the dining hall, crept up behind the cabin currently posing, made a stupid face, was shooed by the photographer, and laughed themselves out of the shot.

I wasn’t able to see my boys’ improv class perform last week. They had their showcase during girls’ dinner. I asked them how it went. “Amazing,” they said. Amazing. One, particularly adorable and willing to learn, said, “Oh man, Alice! We played Emotional Rollercoaster and we were mad, and then we got ‘blissful’ and I just changed my voice, and everyone cracked up! Including us on stage! We couldn’t finish the scene! It was the funniest thing ever.” I nod. Mhmm.

When I start girl’s musical theatre class I ask, “Who has performed before,” and we hear about high school and jr. high productions of yore from each individual. One girl was the lead this year. “Oh yeah?” I ask, “How was that.” She says “I think it went well,” but she has the tiniest corner of her lip upturned so we know she thinks she was good. And we all hate her for it.

Living with Eight Fifteen-Year-Old Girls

One girl walks around the cabin in undies that say "YOU'RE SO HOT RIGHT NOW." Who are those for? I ask. She shrugs. I hate you, Abercrombie. Another asks me earnestly, "What do you think about push-up bras?" while her cabinmate clips one together in the background. I have to appease and paddle through honesty: "Well. I don't own one. And, well, ideally we don't see our worth or beauty as measured by...that. But, if it makes you feel more attractive, then, that can bring confidence, and, so..."
The girl in the Wonder answers, "It doesn't make me feel attractive. It's just what boys want."

You know, I think a lot of people think we've mastered certain aspects of feminism, but then a child says something that breaks your heart, or your camper cries because she has too much acne, or another asks, "How can I feel like I am equal to boys when we've never had a president?"

Last night I crept into the cabin after the staff meeting to find all my kiddos huddled in the corner, one flashlight on, sweating out the hot night in sports bras and gym shorts. It had been Lights Out for a while. "Can we talk for just thirty more minutes?" they pleaded, and I said yes. They can go to war in three years, I think they can stay up past ten.

"We're talking about PMS," the mop-top one said. And we laughed about emotive yelling and sitting down all the time and one was like, "Yeah, and then whenever you tell a boy something he doesn't want to hear, he says it's your period!" And I did not laugh anymore. And we whispered in the dark, just over the wild Lake Michigan winds, about culture and shame and confidence and they were like, "Oh, really?!" And I was like, "Yes, really!" And being in high school is amazing! These kids remind me what enzymes are and know about Marie Antoinette but also Burma but ALSO misuse the word "ironic" and when you ask if they've seen Chicago they say, "That's the one with 'STELLA!' right?" And you shake your head and they say, "Oh, yeah, I just saw that on Modern Family." Their minds are so open and they're so eager and so confused and truly beautiful despite/because it all. I want so badly for them to see themselves how I do, and I wonder if this is how the women in my life have always viewed me. If it pains them when I accept the pain I think is my burden.

"Okay, now it's really time for bed," I say. They nod and hug. I hop up onto my bunk. Their flashlights click off. One by one. Waves crash from the beach below. "Innocence is never lost": my last thought. Before sleep pulls me into the undertow.

A Thing I Kind Of Get (But Only Kind Of)

Before I even got to camp my first summer, I wanted to learn how to sail. Then, when I arrived, I learned you had to be thirteen. I was twelve. Blast.

There was something ABOUT those little boats on the lake. They looked so peaceful, but also fun, and also colorful! I wanted to be on them. We (collectively as children) had been drawing them with triangles and half-circles for years on penciled waves.

Two summers later, I finally grabbed one of the coveted six spots in the sailing double period. The counselor sat us in the sand and explained the very very very basic overview of the sport. I was completely lost, the terms "mast" and the effects of wind on cloth sailing over my head. (Pun unavoidable.) We hefted those gnarly wooden blocks out to sea, awkwardly slumped into them, ducked, leaned, and I never signed up to sail again.

What compels us to set sail? The freedom? The wind? What's so good about wind anyway? Is it the Jesus thing? The walking on water? (This is all true of waterskiing too--which is glorified standing that people flip for.) Water: it's what we're made of. It's free in every restaurant. We want to be on it.

This is a thing I can only kind of get.

My first Michigan sunset of 2013.

And somebody told me that this is the place

where everything's better and everything's safe.

Walk on the ocean. Step on the stones.

Flesh becomes water. Wood becomes bone.

A Thing I Don't Get

Riding horses. On a hike yesterday one of my campers told me she has been riding since she was one. Okay, what? How does an infant ride A GIANT BEAST. This girl (13) also owns a horse. I had previously assumed that only richo girls from the Hamptons owned horsed, but apparently it's NBD?

Camp has six horse. Which 87643 girls want to ride. I didn't get this as a camper, and I don't get it now. Where is the appeal? Is it a subconcious power thing? Like, "I can't control my life, but I hold the reigns on this"? Surely it's not a cute thing. Horses aren't cute, right? Is it a princess thing?

I have ridden horses before. I never found it thrilling or cool or even very interesting. This is a thing I don't get.

Summer Before High School

Jimmy Eat World was always in my Discman. I wrote the lyrics on my arms. I wore my baby blue tee with wings on the back. The Princess Diaries trailers intrigued me. I loved the song that played. It was by Myra. It felt happy and hopeful and I liked this new Anne Hathaway chick. Fran promised not to see it until I was back from camp. I found the novel and read it hungrily in my cabin. My bunk was right next to Wizzy's. She would throw her towel into the rafters and swing on it to practice her pointe. I decorated a root beer bottle with magazine cut-outs. It was supposed to represent parts of me, and I would look at it when I was trying to fall asleep. The bold, "LET'S GO CRAZY" and the Britney Spears ad. My favorite shorts were light pink. I wore them the night I babysat for five kids. That night _____ had called my cell phone four times and hung up before finally staying on the line and asking if I wanted to see a movie. "Have you been calling and hanging up?" I asked. He responded too quickly No. But that fall in Honors Biology, by the microscopes, he told me the truth. He was already going out with ____ _______ by that time. I didn't know what to expect. I felt excited. The girls all swam at Peppermint's pool by day and watched American Pie 2 in her basement by night. We invited the boys, who would ride over on their bikes for Truth or Dare. Everyone liked everyone, but I was over the kids we knew. I was the worst student in the summer improv intensive. I never volunteered. I was too quiet to be heard. That one kid sat on my lap on the bus ride home from Second City. He said he'd get up when I had a conversation with him. I didn't. He did. No one spent any money. We were fridge-funded. I could never eat anyway because my braces hurt. I asked for red, white, and blue. There were so many graduation parties, but what did we even do at them? We were fourteen.

I don't need wings to help me fly.
Miracles happen once in a while when you believe.

Stuck to You Like Glue, Baby

My dear dear dear friend Kath has been staying with me since Saturday. It's been such a wonderful visit full of poolside sunshine, root beer, and joooookez. If this were my high school Deadjournal, I would have a giant list of things that made us laugh that no one else would care about. So, instead, a couple of the best ideas:

-See the person you want to see!

-We (and others) do things for good and bad reasons, but give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

-It's okay to support friends but not okay to have projects.

-The most important thing is Trying to Be Good. You might hem and haw, but, like, if you look down at your feet and you're on a path of Trying to Be Good, you're doin' alright.

-Be happy. You won't regret being happy.

She like tannin', I like stayin' in.
She like romancin', I like rollin' with friends.
She said I'm caged in, I think her conscious is.
She watchin' that oxygen, I'm watchin' ESPN.