What I Learned in Summer Camp

Some kids find their people at summer camp. I found out that I was not one of those kids.

Introducing “Growing Into It”

We talk about growing up but not nearly enough about growing into.

Into our voices. Into our true selves. Into the lives we dreamed of and were meant for—not the lives we went to school for.

This thread, Growing Into It, on The Art of After 50 is about the ways we’re still learning and growing in midlife and beyond, from the lessons we actively seek and the ones life hands us out of the blue. From the lessons of the past that are just unfolding for us now, and the lessons presented to us every day. If there’s one thing I definitely know, the learning and growing never stops.

Growing Into It: What I Learned at Summer Camp

Getting on the bus to go to summer camp was one of the worst days of my life.

I’d never felt so wronged—so betrayed—by my mother, who’d arranged for this special torture of two weeks at some grubby excuse for a summer camp, with no one I knew. OK, the first week, I went with a girlfriend from my neighborhood, and I was still paralyzed by anxiety. The second week, I was on my own, and petrified.

Just to twist the knife, my mother did this to me not once, but twice. Two summers in a row, when I was in elementary school.

I never told my mom how much I hated those weeks at camp, how terrifying it was for me to be among all those kids, who not only knew each other, but knew all the games and chants, knew exactly where to go and what to do at what time, knew all the adults.

I blocked much of my memory of the experience. I remember it poured buckets the first day, the sky so dark it seemed day never fully arrived. I remember girls I didn’t know pinching me, reminding me I was an outsider. I remember being such a good swimmer that I was put in the highest levels for swimming lessons, which meant learning how to do a backward dive (not useful) and swimming to the rocks in the middle of the lake. Fueled by panic over what could be swimming beneath me—fish, snakes, snapping turtles—I was always first to arrive at the rocks, out of breath, my heart pounding against my ribs.

And then we had to swim back to shore.

I know what you’re thinking: Really? Traumatized by summer camp? Maybe for you camp brings back nothing but fond memories: friends made over arts and crafts projects, three-legged races and egg-toss competitions, and splash fights in the lake. But for me, camp was not fun or joyful. I was so incredibly lost, lonely, and scared, and so bad at making new friends that I didn’t make even one.

Now I know this is because I’m an introvert, and I probably had some social anxiety when I was a kid because of this. As I grew up, I developed coping mechanisms for these traits. In college I always had a book with me to read before classes started, so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. I learned second hand that an underclassman thought I was too cool and aloof to talk to, when really I was just shy. New social situations still make me antsy, but at camp, I wanted to crawl out of my skin and run.

Years later, mom and I discussed her decision to send me to camp. Or rather, I accused her of sending me to summer camp as if she’d shipped me off to do hard labor. “I know you hated it,” she readily admitted. “But I had no choice. I needed a place to put you for a couple of weeks. I was working. What was I supposed to do?”

And that is why Gen Xers are the way we are. Our parents did what they had to do, and we kids persevered.

My son could not be more different than me. In friend-making and socializing, he is the complete opposite.

When he was three and four years old, on the playground, he’d walk right up to kids—kids much older than him—introduce himself and ask to play. I’d watch, poised to intervene when the interaction went south, but it typically worked out fine. They either played together for a while, or not and he continued on doing his own thing.

I saw him stand in the middle of a group of older, much bigger boys once, and give them instructions on how they were going to play superheroes, who was going to be which character, and how the game would go. And I wondered, “Why are these big kids listening to him?” But they did and they played along.

He went to summer camp for the first time in first grade, and he’s loved it ever since. The first few years were one week of day camp toward the end of the summer. Then he made the leap to a week of sleep-away, without any hesitation. I never could’ve done it at that age. He’s gone every year, spending his week last year as a counselor in training.

He often never knew anyone at camp with him, and this never fazed him. He always came home with a collection of new friends, along with his collection of bead buddies and other arts and crafts. These friends were kids I’d never heard of before.

Summer camp only lasted a week, so I had to find other things for him to do—because I had to work and I needed a place to put him, like art camps at the art museum. And there, too, he never hesitated to walk into a new situation with all new people he didn’t know. He never clung to me. In fact, he was eager for me to leave most of the time. OK, all the time.

I cried the first day dropping him off at preschool, because I knew the world would get to him, and I couldn’t protect him anymore. And I cried the first day of kindergarten, because it felt like such a big step, and he seemed so much older than ever before. But I never worried about him making friends and fitting in. I worry about plenty of other things, but not that. Having a kid is wonderful for someone who worries as a hobby.

This year my son is spending his entire summer at camp, working on the kitchen crew. He’s thrilled to be able to spend his summer at his happy place. We drop him off Mondays and pick him up Saturdays, for laundry, good showers, and rest. He’s already planning how he’ll spend weekends with friends, and I have to keep reminding him that he will need to see his family. Sorry, not sorry.

I’m proud of the way he can so easily navigate social situations, how he can make friends and also be a good friend. I’ve had to learn not to project my own shortcomings onto him, to not pass on my own anxieties about being in a room full of people I don’t know.

We were at a family wedding a year ago, and he mingled among the guests, hanging out with his cousins, flitting from group to group, making conversation. So many relatives and friends commented about how social he is, how he just fits right in with everyone.

I was a little jealous, but way more grateful and proud. He’ll never accuse me of sending him to summer camp years from now. Instead, he’ll accuse me of making him have tutors and making him read (the horror!). He’ll complain about chores I made him do, and how I never let him spend his money on what he wanted.

All lies, of course.

But that’s OK. I can take it. I’m a Gen Exer. I’m resilient. I persevere.

I learned that at summer camp.

Here’s to what’s next,

Judy

Is there something you had to white-knuckle your way through, either in the distant or more recent past, that taught you something you value now? I can think of more than one example myself. How about you? Share in the comments if you’re up for it!