"Racist"

There is a convent in the inner city near our office that has been sending kids to camp for many years. The Sisters fundraise about $30,000 to send kids each summer. Camp welcomes about 40 campers each of the first three weeks of summer. With our enrollment as low as it is (some weeks had only 50 out of 155 beds filled), these kids make up a huge percent of campers during those first weeks.

The kids that come from the Sister's are wonderful, sweet kids. But they have had difficult lives. They live in a very poor, violent neighborhood. They have lost relatives to gang violence, have parents in prison, are keenly aware of drugs, prostitution and other terrible things going on all around them. It's tragic, and not fair and camp is a wonderful place for them to come and be carefree kids for a week each summer. Giving kids a life changing experience in an outdoor setting is the reason I work at camp. This is my whole career.

The Board loves to sit around and talk about what good work our camp does, particularly with these kids. They love to tell potential donors about the kids and they love to show smiling happy pictures of groups of campers playing together. They brag about the diversity of our camp and how everyone goes home as best friends. But it's not that simple. The first three weeks of camp are awful. There are nonstop problems in the cabins, staff are overwhelmed and stressed out, and parents complain like it's their job. In the Spring, I did a calling campaign to remind former campers to sign up before summer. At least 10 parents commented that they either weren't sending kids back because of a bad experience the year before, or that they would send their kids back, as long as I would tell them which weeks were the "special" weeks, so they could avoid them. After the first three weeks of camp this summer, I talked to at least a dozen more parents who said, "I'm not racist but, why didn't anyone tell me I signed my kid up during a special week?"

These calls infuriated me at first. How dare people be so racist?! But the more conversations I had, the more I started to understand parents. Our brochure and dvd show mostly white kids, and the other weeks of the summer, 99% of the kids are white suburban kids. So I can understand parents being surprised and a little annoyed that no one says anything about the difference in the first three weeks. And I can understand that when their campers come home and tell them that kids in their cabin were talking about drugs or gangs, suburban parents would be upset.

Camp is a healing place for kids and there were several instances this summer where kids opened up about issues in their lives that other kids, my staff and I couldn't even begin to relate to. How do you silence a kid who starts talking about a recently killed brother or jailed father? You don't. But then you take phone calls from parents who are angry because they don't want their kids exposed to that.

As I plan next summer, I am bound and determined to address this issue. No one wants to have the conversation because everyone is afraid of coming across as racist. But I'm going to have the conversation particularly because I'm not racist, but because I love kids and want this camp to work, and I am WELL aware that it's not, no matter how many times we congratulate ourselves for being so diverse.

"S" runs a local organization that focuses on urban issues and addressing issues relating to diversity. I had coffee with her last week to ask her for her opinion. The idea of separating Sister's kids into one closed week has been in my head, but I was terribly afraid of what people would think if I segregated camp. Within 2 minutes of the conversation, "S" summed it up and then for the next hour, we had the most empowering, exciting conversation I can remember having. She said, "this isn't a racial issue. You have a disproportionate number of traumatized children. Yes, the majority of them are minorities, don't deny that, but if you had a busload of minority children from the suburbs, you wouldn't have this problem. These are kids that witness violence and are not going to counseling afterwards. They are not average kids, they are deeply wounded kids. And you will always have problems when you try to mix traumatized kids with average kids and think they will all just blend." After she said that, we talked about the idea of separating them and during that week, bringing in some specialists to help facilitate break out sessions, healing conversations, and deal with issues. My staff are 20 year olds with little experience. I will never be able to get educated, professionals to come for a whole summer, earning $200/week, but I could get them for one week. Lots of camps separate out weeks for kids with illnesses, parents who are in the military, etc. Why not have a special week for these kids?

I spent the week feeling so excited. I started researching grants, and thinking about just what a huge difference we could make by being intentional with our focus. And then I had breakfast with Sister.

I knew it was going to be a tough sell. She has been sending kids to camp for a LONG time and change is never easy. I also knew she felt strongly about giving them a "normal" camp experience (wtf that means, I dunno...). But I was so excited and didn't know how she could argue with helping kids who need it.

1. Deny that they are any different than any kid and that they don't need help.
2. Claim (in the sweetest voice and calmest manner) that the Camp Director needs to develop tougher skin and learn to take criticism from parents, rather than trying to change things.
3. Claim (in said sweet manner) that the Camp Director is racist.
4. Explain to Camp Director that diversity is important and that by putting them all together in one week (rather than three weeks) that the diversity of camp will go down. When Camp Director agrees that diversity is important but points out that three token weeks doesn't really count as a "diverse camp", reiterate to Camp Director that diversity is important (pretending she didn't just say that back).
5. Tell Camp Director that her staff are not very well trained and need to be taught to listen to kids and facilitate difficult discussions.
6. Tell Camp Director camp is ABSOLUTELY NOT the place for any type of therapy.
7. Tell Camp Director that there are great problems in society when it comes to race and that camp needs to fight those battles.

Speechless.

1. "Traumatized" isn't me judging. I can tell you 8 specific stories of things campers told me about drugs, gangs, violent deaths, and lost parents. That doesn't include what my staff dealt with. These kids need help. Don't deny it.
2. I have thick skin, but when an issue comes up again and again, it's my responsibility to address it. In addition to trying to deal with this situation, I am also going to get a ladder for the dock and trail mix at the camp store. you know why? Because they were REOCCURRING comments and so I will respond. When parents tell me the same thing over and over again, I need to do something about it.
3. I'm not racist.
4. I want camp to be diverse too, but 3 weeks of diversity and then the rest of the summer with almost zero non-white campers isn't diverse.
5. My staff were awesome and very well trained. But they were also 20 years old, in their first or second year of higher education, and have never been traumatized. What exactly do you think I can do with them in 6 days of training to prepare them for a busload of traumatized children?
6. Camp is a great place for therapy because it's a healing peaceful place where kids feel safe and loved and able to open up and be themselves and share their feelings.
7. Yes. There are problems in society with race. But what are we accomplishing in 6 days of camp with untrained staff and unsuspecting kids? We are further alienating these groups because they walk away with a negative experience.

Towards the end of the conversation, she kindly suggested that maybe she should take her kids to a YMCA camp... Um, excuse me? Yes, that's what she said. She threatened me. She threatened me with $30,000. And me and my deficit-ed budget can't say a word about it. Because with $30,000, she calls the shots. I asked if she was considering the Y because they had a better suited program or because she disagreed with my suggestion (I used to work for the Y, I know what they have to offer). She sweetly explained that if I decided to make this change, it would be against her principles and she would have to pull her campers.

The end. There is absolutely no reasoning with that. There is no convincing her otherwise, because my whole argument is based on her kids needing something more and she flat out denies that they do, so there's nowhere for that argument to go.

I walked out feeling shocked, numb, powerless, defeated and frustrated. I'm the one who gets to deal with three weeks of camper issues, three weeks of staff stress, angry parent phone calls, and the knowledge that we have potential to do great work but we aren't. And on top of choosing not to help, our choice is actually the more difficult option, so it's sort of a double whammy.

I understand that money= power, but I still expected that good would be chosen over idleness. I don't know where to go from here, but I feel so completely deflated, I am not sure where to draw renewed motivation from.

Pumpkin Expolsion

In the spirit of fall and with Halloween around the corner, I decided to make pumpkin soup. I've never actually eaten it before, but I was reading a book and in it, they were eating pumpkin soup and the recipe was even included, and it sounded great. I imagined myself in a warm sweater, sipping soup, watching the leaves turn color and fall to the ground, and the whole thing sounded great. So I bought a pumpkin and cleaned it out and prepared to make myself some delicious soup.

Let's be really clear. These little fantasies involving me being domestic need to end. There is a reason my mother and grandmother burned their bras and sought higher education. It was so that future generations of women didn't have to stay at home making homemade soup. And in the future, I need to remember that liberated feminist= enough sense to go buy homemade soup from a nice restaurant or a high end grocery store. But I did not remember that today. Today, I played 50s housewife in the kitchen... And reminded myself the hard way why I don't want to be that.

Pumpkin soups sounds easy. The basic idea is that you combine vegetable stock with milk, add spices, dump it all into the cleaned out pumpkin, toss the whole thing in the oven for two hours, stirring occasionally to get the mushy pumpkin inside mixed with the liquid. In the end, you should have creamy, pumpkin-y soup inside a pumpkin.

At the end of two hours I had mushy pumpkin filled with something that looked a lot like runny vomit. But I had high hopes that if I stirred it and it sat a minute or two, maybe I could still have my little Autumn fantasy with soup and crunchy leaves and goodness.

And then I watched the pumpkin drain rapidly, ignoring the foil I had wrapped around it (to prevent dripping into my oven) and gushing all over my the floor, under the stove, into the drawer thing on the bottom of the stove and even getting into the heating vent next to the stove. Luckily I had pulled the metal oven rack out to check the pumpkin and so my hot (hard to clean) oven was spared from the majority of the drainage. Be aware: a half gallon of liquid can cover a kitchen faster than you can react to the soft pumpkin it was cooking in collapsing. It was a pumpkin explosion.

It took longer to clean up pumpkin soup than it did to prepare it. And I never actually got to taste it. And I'm pretty sure that for a while, every time the heat goes through the kitchen vent, it will smell like pumpkin. Lesson learned.

More Pottery

I continue to make squished little pots that sort of resemble pottery but actually look more like a three year old's Play-Dough project. I'm usually such a natural artist, so this is a surprise. But I'm not bitter, nor unhappy even. Because every time my pottery teacher asks if he can help and guides my hands, I am filled with peace and my heart gets the same content feeling that you get when you are cuddled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot cocoa on a really cold day. I don't think I've ever been attracted to someone's spirit, but I am to his, and so I gladly exchange bad pottery for moments of bliss. Perhaps it's been too long since I last dated. But that's not really the point. I don't know that I could even date someone like that.

At my last class, as he watched me center a piece of clay (like a pro, despite him watching thank you very much) he commented that he thought I had gotten much better. I gave him a look of, "dude, you have to say that, you're being paid to be nice and teach me pottery" and he said, "you've learned to connect your energy to the clay's energy and you seem much more focused and less manic." That part made me laugh out loud because it wasn't the first time I've heard "manic" to describe me. It's been 6 pottery classes but he's pretty much got it. I think I must sign up for pottery class for the rest of my life and continue to drink in his warmth, letting it wash away mania, leaving peace in it's place... And providing me and everyone I know with ashtray/bowl/mug hybrids.

Mail-Merge

I love this job because I get to create exciting, interesting experiences for kids. Experiences they won't have at home or school or anywhere else. Experiences that will stay in their memories until they are old because they had never done anything like that before. I get to provide them with opportunities to learn something new, see something in a different light, grow their self confidence and have fun. At the same time I get to work with kids, I also get to work with staff, which, the older I get, the more I consider to be just older kids. Staff decide to work for camp because "sing songs, play games and work with kids" sounds like a really fun, easy job. Within the first hour of actually being responsible for kids, new staff have a look of complete bewilderment as they realize the job is not as easy as they'd expected. Fun yes, easy no. And with that realization comes the challenge of their life. But also, growth and learning and a completely life changing experience.

In my job, I oversee all of the growing and learning, sometimes guiding, sometimes cheer leading, but for the most part, just making sure that everything is running smoothly so that all of the campers and staff can be affected in the way camp is supposed to touch their lives. It's an incredible privilege to be part of that. In the off season, I work on all of the details of "running smoothly". It annoys me beyond words when people ask what I do during the other 9 months of the year. Do they think that I show up on the first day of camp and everything is just in place? Do they think that well-run programming happens spontaneously? The more effortless it looks, usually means A LOT Of effort went into creating it.

So it's the off season and I am busy working on the annual campaign to get money so we can operate, ordering camp store items, updating the website, planing programming for next summer, recruiting and hiring staff... the list goes on. I like having my fingerprints on every last detail of camp, and I know that I will be able to do my job even better during the summer because I have personally been involved with EVERY tiny thing about this camp, and in fact, have probably had a LONG conversation, exchanged emails with a Board member, gotten frustrated and vented to my best friend about most things that everyone will assume happened spontaneously. I'm not complaining, but I'm in awe of how much really goes in to everything. I know it will be worth it this summer as I watch campers laugh and have fun and as I watch the counselors literally grow before my eyes.

And I have to remind myself of that because the details are tedious and make me want to bang my head against a wall. Yesterday I had several, very long conversations throughout the day, with multiple people about mail-merge. Mail-merge is the process of taking a list of names and addresses and getting them into a mailing so that each person who opens the letter will see his or her own name and think, "wow, they care so much they wrote to me personally."

No one really thinks that though, because mail-merge is standard. "Standard" should not be confused with "easy" because it was not an easy process to go through. I think it's supposed to be, but we don't do anything the easy way here, and so it required me to spend many precious hours of my life talking about and agonizing over it. The Board President, who, in real life is the Vice President of a major investment banking corporation, and has two Secretaries to do all tedious mailing tasks, for some reason wants to be very involved with said mailing from yesterday. I appreciate his interest and I appreciate that he offered to have his secretary print all 2500 double sided copies in color at his office. That will save us an obscene amount of money. But he doesn't really know anything about sending a mailing of this size, nor does he know anything about printing, mail-merge or any of the things that he wanted to be involved with. And so he was making so much more work for us with each email and phone call. I eventually decided to bypass him and speak directly with his secretary and try to leave him out of some of the details, but even still, it was a ridiculous process for a letter most people will throw away.

This is not what I envisioned when I dreamed of a career in camping. I pictured much more kayaking in the sunshine and s'mores around a fire, and far less tedious office tasks...

Back to the Woods

On Thursday, I headed back into the woods. I was excited to go back to camp and excited to skip two days of work. My office has been stressful lately- economic problems haven't hit us yet, but they are coming. We are in the beginning stages of our annual campaign and everyone is stressed out about it, because we need that money to operate. Will people be in a giving mood this year? I don't know, but I'm stressed about what will happen in the months ahead. Further ahead than that, March-May looms like a black cloud. Will people be able to spend $500 for Junior to go to camp for a week? I don't know, and it makes my stomach hurt to think about. My hope is that people who saw a value in donating money will still feel that way and give, despite the state of the economy, and that when it comes time for camp, people will make their children a priority.

My therapist would say that worrying about the future is pointless and to live in the now, blah blah... And I'm trying. So I headed into the peaceful North woods.

The leaves on the trees were bright yellow, orange, and red and camp seems to have a golden glow. It was breathtaking and very calming. My dad had a fire roaring in the fireplace of his house and also outside, so everywhere I went had a really nice smoky fire smell. He's been working hard clearing trees and brush, getting rid of the random junk that still needed to go, organizing and changing camp from a run down trailer park yard into a beautiful woodsy retreat.

He showed me around and pointed out all of the projects he's done and we talked about the projects he would be working on in the future. We share a similar vision for how camp should look and when we get on a roll with planning, we tend to build off each others' energy until we are both so excited we can hardly stand it. By the time May comes, we are going to have this camp looking better than it has in years. I'm so thrilled. It makes all of the stress and hard work worth it.

Pottery

Everyone on my Christmas list is getting an ashtray. I'm not trying to encourage smoking or anything, it's just that that seems to be the only thing I can make (check the picture... it's just a random image off the internet, but it looks just like mine... you know what I searched to find it? "BAD POTTERY"... it popped right up).

It's not my fault though. I'm 100% blaming the teacher. Why? Is he not teaching? No, in fact, he is just the perfect combination of inspirational and informative, and I think, under different circumstances, I could be a pottery genius just from listening to him. The other students in my class seem to be learning, they're cranking out pottery like it's their job.

But no. Something about him has me smitten, and the smitten-ness is not allowing me to create pottery. It is allowing me to start great pieces, and then when he comes near me to encourage and inspire, I get all jittery and the next thing you know, my clay is squished into a little mess. Not cool, fun or fabulously sexy like on "Ghost". Just sorta frustrating actually. So I have been letting my family and friends know to expect ashtrays and to start preparing their excited/impressed faces, because I created art for them under great duress. I am normally a pretty crafty person, so being the worst in class is not easy. I'm concerned he is going to tell me I need to register for remedial pottery next session and that I will be in class with 8 year olds, blind people and people who have lost their arms and now use their feet for everything. I don't know if I will be able to handle it if I flunk community ed, non-graded, pottery.

Why am I smitten with my pottery teacher? I DON'T KNOW. That's the worst part. He's not big or ripped with muscles, he doesn't seem to be emotionally unavailable and he's not interested in hockey or ultimate fighting, boxing or any other sport where someone could get killed. He is short, bald, pale and quite skinny, soft spoken, extremely kind, positive and encouraging, calm, and smiles a lot... I know, who would be into that? Ick. It's a dumb crush, because, as I am the most high strung person on the planet, his peaceful calm would never work for me. Additionally, I could never be with someone who was more crafty than me. So, I'm getting over it. But people are still getting ashtrays...

Shopping in the City

All of my recent dressing up inspired me to go through my closet and evaluate my wardrobe. I ended up cleaning house and getting rid of 2 garbage bags worth of stuff. Now my closet echoes when I go near it.

So I decided to go shopping, even though I can't think of anything worse I could possibly be forced to do. I have spent the last week psyching myself up, motivating myself and doing my best to prepare.

So today I went to the mall determined to walk out of there with 2-3 pairs of nice dress pants, 3-4 nice dressy shirts, a trendy pair of jeans, some new undergarment things, and if I was really on a roll, maybe some dress boots. I haven't gone shopping with a list like that in years. Sometimes when I go to Super Target I sometimes stroll through the clothes section and pick out random shirts or pants if I am in need. Which is probably why I almost always look borderline homeless. You aren't supposed to get your clothes from the same place you buy dental floss, laundry detergent, CDs and peanut butter.

I have a grown up job and while I may not always feel like it, I am at least going to start dressing like it. Today was the day. I was going to go to a nice store and spend a lot of money and walk out with full shopping bags.

I walked into the mall and immediately felt my skin crawl. I hate the smell, the way it feels, EVERYTHING. I purposely went in the middle of the day so there wouldn't be any crowds, but it's the whole environment I hate. It's fake and icky and overwhelming and AWFUL. But I pushed through, determined to get everything on my list, reminding myself that I was mentally prepared after a full week of thinking about it.

My best friend X shops like it's her job. She LOVES to shop. Unfortunately, she is busy being an almost doctor's wife in another state, leaving me without access to her extensive closet and without her moral support and tough love that I require when shopping. I did my best to channel her spirit though, picking out trendy looking things that I didn't necessarily like, knowing that sometimes when you try things on, they actually look good and saying things to myself like, "this is nice fabric."

But after 5 minutes in the store, my head hurt and everything looked the same and made my eyes blur and I was hot, hungry, tired, and totally bored with the project. I couldn't find anything I liked, and then when I did, I realized it was because I have a very similar looking sweater or pair of pants just like it at home. And while I fully believe that expensive clothes are worth the cost because they are nice material and fit well and are high quality, anything over $10 seems like a waste to me. My favorite fleece sweatpants cost about that much and I can't think of anything better, so it seems silly to buy $100 pants if I'm still going to like the $10 ones better.

Eventually, I found some very nice, very expensive black dress pants that fit like they were made just for me and made me feel like giving a presentation right there in the dressing room, so I knew they were a good choice. It pretty much fell apart from there. Besides my beloved sweatpants, my favorite pants (that I wear at least 3 times a week... don't judge, they don't get dirty sitting in an office) are a pair of chinos I bought last year at that same store, and I found the exact same pair in a different color today. I also found a cool long sleeve shirt that isn't dressy and looks like 3 others I have at home, but it was on sale and in a color I don't have. And then I was done. I couldn't do it any more. I paid for my three items and RAN away, screaming "LET ME OUT OF HERE" as fast as I could.

As I flailed my arms and sprinted out of the mall, X's voice popped into my head and calmed me down enough to ask myself, "What Would X Do?" and so I stopped and went into another store. More crawling skin, blurred vision and discomfort, but I got a really nice sweater and a dressy sleeveless thing that I will never actually wear, but reminded me of something you'd see on a TV show where women dress in business dress clothes.

After that store, I crawled, whimpering out of there, desperate to get to my car and out of the mall, promising myself no more torture. At this rate, it will take 12 shopping trips to just get the basics on my list. I will obviously die if I have to do that again any time soon, so it's not looking good for my wardrobe. I'm wearing a zip-up fleece vest as I type this if that's any indication of just how badly my fashion situation is. But I don't care. I hate to shop and will hold out until May when all of the new tee shirts arrive for the camp store and I will take one of each of those and be set, just as I did this year. Not exactly a dress blouse or anything, but I think it will pass as business casual.

A Camp Thing

If I die in the next day or two, it will be because of an incident that happened yesterday. And yes, when you read what I did, you will judge, but, I want the chance to defend myself.

My house is really clean, I scrub floors and dust every week and I always take out the garbage. I shower daily, I wash my hands regularly. I would describe myself as a hygienic person.

But here's the deal. When you work at camp, you are dirty all the time. As soon as you wake up. As soon as you get out of the shower. I was literally dirty for 4 months and there was no amount of cleaning that could help (and believe me, I tried). It's also really busy, and so, after a few days of running around like a crazy person, eventually, you just don't have time to worry about when the last time you washed your hands was. After nine summers of camp, I have never been seriously ill and my immune system has been conditioned to fight off even the worst germs.

So yesterday, after a LONG day in the office and a late meeting still looming, I was starving and had about 10 minutes. So I dashed across the street, picked up some sweet and sour chicken and rice, DASHED back to my office to eat it and get on with the other million things I had left to do. Right as I stepped in my office door, all of the random things I'd brought in with me from my car (including my food) were bouncing around in my arms until I managed to drop everything, including my dinner.

The rice stayed in the container, but ALL of the chicken landed on the ground. So I scooped it up onto the cover of the container, and carried it in. I wasn't planning to eat it of course. I don't have ANY idea when the floor was last washed. But the chicken is the main part! So I poked through it to see if there was any hair or sand or dirt and it looked fairly clean. And so I ate it.

I think if I spent my career in an air conditioned, regularly cleaned environment, maybe I would have thrown it out and gone hungry. But I have eaten more than one sandwich that had fingerprints on it because I'd been in arts and crafts before lunch and I have cooked MANY meals over fires with a stick as my only utensil, so germs I couldn't even see didn't seem to be THAT bad. I guess I will have to wait a few days to see if I end up with a tapeworm or some awful stomach thing...

Highs and Lows

Monday High- I totally rocked my pottery class, making THREE actual bowls that in a few short weeks, once they've been fired and glazed, I will be enjoying any number of bowl needing foods out of them. I am positive that ice cream will taste sweeter, macaroni cheesier, and soup, um, soupier, knowing that my hands created the bowl that I'm eating out of. Also, I made my dreamy pottery teacher laugh several times, which was a nice addition to my successful evening of potting.

Tuesday Low- Started as a high, as I congratulated myself on working out with such great intensity. There I was running, sweating, feeling the burn. And then I looked over and realized that the woman next to me was going significantly faster than I was and she was at LEAST 6 months pregnant. So obviously, I increased my speed and secretly started racing her. Until she beat me... by a lot... without really even trying... and while simultaneously growing a child inside of her. Fine. I was going faster than the old guy to my left though. So, in terms of fitness, I would say I'm somewhere between crypt keeper and pregnant woman. I think that's a low. Whatever.

Wednesday High- For the second time in a very short amount of time I'm rocking the dress pants and heals. I feel very business-y and hardcore. It seems a little silly to dress up for myself, but at the same time, I feel powerful and professional and ready to make some deals, talk numbers, and command a room. Yes, the room is my office, and yes, I am the only one here. But I am totally empowered.

It's sunny and the breeze is blowing and life is good. I'm glad I'm not in the woods right now, but I am definitely missing it more by the day. Yesterday, my camp director friend M and I were talking about how we can both feel camp pulling us a little more each day. It's not a bad feeling.

Playing Executive

This morning was the monthly Executive Committee meeting, so instead of sweatpants like I usually wear on Fridays, I had to dig out some dress pants and heals. The meeting was at the Board President's Downtown office, where he is the Vice President of a banking corporation. He works in a fancy office, with people in suits who say, "good morning sir" when they pass him. We met in a boardroom that was bigger than my house, with a shiny table I was afraid to touch and leather chairs that probably each cost more than my car. I got several odd looks from employees that were my age when I said, "hi J. How are you this morning?" Apparently they're not on a first name/ friendly small talk basis with him.

The meeting included me and five men in business suits. All of them are old enough to be my father or even grandfather, all of them work in banking, and all of them have more spare change in their back pocket than is in my entire bank account. Small talk before the meeting was all about the recent happenings on Wall Street, which could have literally been a conversation in Swahili.

"Blah blah blah blah blah blah money" (me- oh, I know that word!) "blah blah blah bank" (me- oh, I've been to one of those!) Blah blah blah blah..." I smiled and nodded and agreed and did my best to not look as clueless as I felt. I expected that at any moment they would all turn to me and say, "okay hun, the big people are going to meet to talk about grown up stuff, why don't you run along and play with the other kids for a while."

But they never did. Instead, they pulled out their files and papers, and I did the same, and we talked about budget and projected income and other important stuff, and even though I still see myself as an awkward 15 year old, somehow, when I opened my mouth, well thought out, clear, intelligent conversation came out. I am always a little bit surprised and after the fact, wonder how it happened, but none of them seem to notice my shock, and instead ask me questions and responded to my comments. And at the end of the meeting, instead of patting me on my head and handing me a quarter (which is also what I expected), they shook my hand and told me they were impressed by my hard work and optimistic about the future and happy to have me on board. And I smiled confidently and told them that all is well or something and then went back to daydreaming about reality tv and ice cream.

I don't know when all of this happened. I don't know when I went from being a little kid playing dress up to being an adult. I feel very much like I am playing Executive Director and it absolutely blows my mind when I sit through a meeting like that and realize that they're all buying it and I've got them convinced. Maybe I need to be more confident, but their money and power and experience and age are intimidating to me. If I really thought about it, I bet I know at least 100 camp songs. You want to have a jello fight or set up an Olympic competition? I'm an expert. Unfortunately those qualifications didn't make me feel like I was one of the boys this morning. And so when they defer to me on things or tell me I am the person to take the lead, to make the call or that I should just go ahead and run with my ideas, I find myself fighting the urge to look behind myself to make sure they are really talking to me.

The men I met with this morning are great guys who couldn't be more encouraging or kind, and I think that I will learn a lot from them. And maybe, after a while, meeting with them won't feel so weird and being an adult will come naturally. Until then, I will continue to pretend to be confident while I silently remind myself to "be cool, you belong, do everything the adults do and just blend in."