I turned on the t.v. on Monday night to watch the Home Run Derby. I originally wanted to watch it on mute because Chris Berman, you know. But I'm so glad I didn't. What I witnessed was not only a pretty brilliant display by Yoenis Cespedes but a pretty brilliant interview in both English AND Spanish by the ESPN reporter. The reporter was clear and efficient, asking the question first in Spanish, receiving the answer, and then providing the translation for both the question and answer in English for both the at-home viewers and those in the stadium. If you didn't know, Cespedes is Cuban and has been in America only since 2011. Consequently, he still struggles with English. I've taken 4 years of Spanish, but if you forced me to stand in front of 40,000 people, with cameras broadcasting to millions of homes, AFTER I'd just belted 25 home runs and asked me Spanish-only questions, frankly, I'd probably crap my pants before I could even stammer out a simple greeting. So to me, it was not only an impressive move by the reporter but also a kind gesture.
Apparently, parts of America didn't think so. You can read a pretty great article by Gregg Doyel here. He says what I feel probably a great deal better than I could.
What bothered me most about reading Doyel's article or seeing it on Deadspin was not just seeing America show its panties one more time (because America does some ugly shit a lot of the time) but that the majority of tweets and messages I saw were from young people. In my mind, I kept looking for the skinhead or the toothless redneck or the 85 year old granddad who "just doesn't know any better". But that's SO NOT WHO I SAW, and I guess the fact that I was looking for those types of people reveals my own stereotypes and prejudices to some extent. Or just a misconception that somehow we are growing more tolerant with each passing generation.
Any time I hear someone grumbling about "English-only America" I hear the struggles of my students (and their parents). When I read messages that proclaimed "You're in America, learn to speak English" I see these mothers and fathers, sitting in a parent conference, heads bowed in shame or indecision, trying to understand as their 12 year old straddles two worlds. I see their fear in coming to school because they feel that they can't interact. I see my students who struggle to remember nonsensical English grammar rules while still maintaining fluency in their own home language, whatever it may be.
So, needless to say, I was infuriated by these tough guy tweets and all of their bravado and ignorance. I am so tired of talking to kids about bullying, day in and day out at school, only to see that they really aren't the worst offenders.
Some of these people, whether they're spewing hate about Yoenis or someone else, will say that they're just kidding -- that they're just trolling for a fight or a retweet. Others will proudly stand behind their freedom to say whatever the hell they want. Others might just be finding their courage from a keyboard and relative anonymity. Whatever the reason, I personally think it's pretty laughable for some 25 year old loudmouth to wave the First Amendment as permission to tell another human being to "speak English or go back to jibber-jabber land".
Actually, the only laughable part, to me, is that almost every one of those English-only demands, in fact, contains multiple and glaring grammatical mistakes. And you're speaking IN YOUR OWN NATIVE LANGUAGE, YOU JERKS!
Note: This is where you should hear me giving a huge, defeated sigh.
So just as I was about to give up on America there on an unassuming Monday night, this video rolled across my Twitter timeline. By the way, I adore my Twitter timeline. I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again. If Twitter is really an echo chamber, I'm glad that I found a group speaking what I like to hear. It's about a 9 minute video, but I promise you, it's worth your time. (I should also note that it came across my Facebook feed as well -- thanks Taylor Fratina for posting. I like what she says too!)
I really do believe we are growing more tolerant generation by generation, but like with any other struggle, there are bumps along the way. And sometimes those bumps are getting all the press because they're the loudest and most insane (to me at least). But I've got a lot of hope in the crop of kids coming up. Don't let me down, kids.
For the record, I never noticed that they were a mixed-race couple. I want to think that it has to do with my ability to look past such outdated prejudices but it might have just as much to do with my lack of paying attention. Also, I'd like to know when the girl in the aqua tank top will be old enough to run for President. She's totally got my vote.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
They Grew in Their Hearts
Last Friday was a special day for my family. Last Friday, the number of Nazworths in the world increased by one more. Set your clocks backs, world; we tend to run a little late. And we're kind of stubborn. Deal with it.
A long time ago, some doctors told my sister-in-law, Becky, that due to her cancer treatments as a child, she'd not be able to have children. What those doctors didn't know is that people like Becky are MADE to be mothers. I've never met a kinder, gentler, more caring soul in the world. And the fact that she not only puts up with my brother but loves him intensely adds so many points in her Heaven column.
(Don't worry, I love my brother too, but it's my little sister duty to give him Hell even when I'm supposed to be being nice. He'd expect no less.)
And you know what? My brother surprised the sh*t out of me by being a spectacular dad. I don't say it to be mean at all. He will be the first to tell you that most people frustrate him/drive him crazy. But I guess if those people are little enough and cute enough, he'll cut you a few breaks. I'd like to think that he cut his parenting teeth, bossing me around all those years. However he did it, though, it worked. Those boys adore him.
It hasn't been easy. When Jim and Becky decided to adopt through the foster care system, I worried. A lot. I've worked with a great many kids in the system, mainly through camping, and their stories aren't easy. As a friend of mine says, "You don't get in that system for nothing." They don't take them away for feeding the kids Pop-Tarts and not making them wash their feet. I worried about the emotional strain. I worried about the guilt in wanting to save them all. I worried about what would happen if kids were sent back to their bio parents. And some of that happened, and it was devastating.
But it didn't stop my brother and sister-in-law. They knew that somewhere out there, there were kids who needed them. Kids who deserved them. Kids that they could save from some pretty severe circumstances. And there were. And they did.
I can't even begin to imagine the leap of faith it takes to trust yourself to be a parent -- either through birth or by adoption. I don't know if I could risk my heart the way that Jim and Becky did not once but several times. I was in awe of their courage to go after their dream of being a family. I'm still in awe of it.
On December 21, 2012 -- a day that most people predicted an ending for our world, Jim and Becky's world began anew. This is the day that they officially adopted Isaiah. When the judge asked my brother to hold up his hand to be sworn in, Isaiah immediately gave his dad a high five. It was so fitting, I think, and such a clear picture of Za's personality.
And this past Friday, Isaiah's little brother, Jaxson got his day in court as well. I don't know that high fives were exchanged, but there was some serious attempted foot-eating that occurred. That's Jaxson with the attempted foot to mouth maneuver.
Due to changes in the foster care system, Jim and Becky had to be very private about what they shared about the boys -- including pictures -- on social media. Nothing makes me happier now than to see them brag, just like every other parent, on Facebook. I waited until Jaxson's adoption was final before posting; it just didn't feel right to mention one without the other.
More Jaxson:
This morning, Becky posted that today it hit her that she was "finally a MOM" and included the phrase, "they grew in my heart". I loved that; it is so very true. And I'm so glad that she and my brother kept planting that dream. The world's a much more beautiful place with those boys in it.
A long time ago, some doctors told my sister-in-law, Becky, that due to her cancer treatments as a child, she'd not be able to have children. What those doctors didn't know is that people like Becky are MADE to be mothers. I've never met a kinder, gentler, more caring soul in the world. And the fact that she not only puts up with my brother but loves him intensely adds so many points in her Heaven column.
(Don't worry, I love my brother too, but it's my little sister duty to give him Hell even when I'm supposed to be being nice. He'd expect no less.)
And you know what? My brother surprised the sh*t out of me by being a spectacular dad. I don't say it to be mean at all. He will be the first to tell you that most people frustrate him/drive him crazy. But I guess if those people are little enough and cute enough, he'll cut you a few breaks. I'd like to think that he cut his parenting teeth, bossing me around all those years. However he did it, though, it worked. Those boys adore him.
It hasn't been easy. When Jim and Becky decided to adopt through the foster care system, I worried. A lot. I've worked with a great many kids in the system, mainly through camping, and their stories aren't easy. As a friend of mine says, "You don't get in that system for nothing." They don't take them away for feeding the kids Pop-Tarts and not making them wash their feet. I worried about the emotional strain. I worried about the guilt in wanting to save them all. I worried about what would happen if kids were sent back to their bio parents. And some of that happened, and it was devastating.
But it didn't stop my brother and sister-in-law. They knew that somewhere out there, there were kids who needed them. Kids who deserved them. Kids that they could save from some pretty severe circumstances. And there were. And they did.
I can't even begin to imagine the leap of faith it takes to trust yourself to be a parent -- either through birth or by adoption. I don't know if I could risk my heart the way that Jim and Becky did not once but several times. I was in awe of their courage to go after their dream of being a family. I'm still in awe of it.
On December 21, 2012 -- a day that most people predicted an ending for our world, Jim and Becky's world began anew. This is the day that they officially adopted Isaiah. When the judge asked my brother to hold up his hand to be sworn in, Isaiah immediately gave his dad a high five. It was so fitting, I think, and such a clear picture of Za's personality.
Due to changes in the foster care system, Jim and Becky had to be very private about what they shared about the boys -- including pictures -- on social media. Nothing makes me happier now than to see them brag, just like every other parent, on Facebook. I waited until Jaxson's adoption was final before posting; it just didn't feel right to mention one without the other.
 |
| Baby Isaiah |
 |
| Baby Jax |
More Jaxson:
More Isaiah:
Easter pics:
And Mom and Dad:
This morning, Becky posted that today it hit her that she was "finally a MOM" and included the phrase, "they grew in my heart". I loved that; it is so very true. And I'm so glad that she and my brother kept planting that dream. The world's a much more beautiful place with those boys in it.
Monday, July 15, 2013
See You Tomorrow...
It's been a pretty rough last few years. And this past year, things have gotten a little tougher. As a consequence, I've started to go to counseling. I'd say I've "gone back to counseling", but in truth, seeing someone once, hating them, seeing someone else, hating them, and then giving up entirely is not really the same as "seeing a counselor". I saw them. I just didn't see them for long.
If you know me well, you know this post is difficult for me to write. If you don't know me well, you should at least know what you're in for if you stick around.
1. I'm a pretty private person. I'm outgoing. I have lots of friends. I love to have a good time. And I will talk to you at length about what's going on in your life. Mostly so I don't have to share what's up with mine. This comes from a long-standing "don't put your dirty panties out on the front porch" policy in my family. I tend to swallow my feelings until they start seeping out in other ways (or just exploding all over an unsuspecting friend who just thought we were going out for drinks). It's not healthy, and I've gotten better about sharing -- but, in truth, I'm way more comfortable with my head in the sand.
2. I'm a people-pleaser to the nth degree. (Is that how you say it? To the "nth"? Feels weird.) I'm the baby in the family. I was painfully shy as a child. I have an inordinate fear of making mistakes. I detest confrontation. So, my coping technique of choice, for most of my life, is to just agree. Be polite. Don't cause a ruckus. Take what you're given and be grateful for it. I didn't realize this was such an obvious thing until one day at Whataburger, about 5 years into our friendship, Courtney said, "You know... if you just ask for 'no pickles, no tomatoes', they'll most likely serve it to you that way." It had never occurred to me; I just picked off what I didn't like. No muss, no fuss. I am in awe of people forthright enough to send their food back when it's prepared incorrectly. I aspire to one day just send back the soup.
3. I'm a good listener. I'm not that great of a talker. Talking = sharing, and that's uncomfortable sometimes. Again, I'm so much better than I used to be, but when cornered, I go mute. Most people don't mind. Most people are content to talk away. It pleases them to find a good listener. (Are you sensing a pattern?) It's not that I never talk or that I'm patronizing the speaker somehow and doing a half-ass job.... I REALLY am a great listener, and I am genuinely interested in everything you have to say. It's just that when you go to a counselor, he doesn't really like to do a ton of talking. There was lots of awkward silence on our first visit.
4. I'm a caretaker by nature. I like to fix things. I'm easily frustrated by things I can't fix. I've ruined a few relationships trying to "fix" the other person. I've lovingly dubbed it the "Wounded Bird Syndrome". I'm a sucker for strays, and I struggle with just throwing out broken stuff. I realize now that it's just a way to avoid working on my own shit, but again, it truly does feel good to help someone else. It's like a drug to me. Being needed is my drug of choice. Well, being needed and Diet Coke.
5. I crack jokes when I'm nervous. I'm nervous right now. Hence the lame jokes and parenthetical asides.
I shouldn't be nervous. If you're my friend or if you care even an ounce about me, none of this matters. If you're not, then get lost. I didn't need you anyway. Again, I'm kidding. Please don't go.
6. I don't feel like I NEED counseling. I feel like I should be able to handle my own problems. I'm a grown-up; I should be able to figure this out and just deal. My brother says I'm full of crap for this. So do my friends. And, in fact, if any of them were struggling, I'd advise them to -- guess what -- go to therapy. Talk it out. It will feel better. Maybe I am sort of full of crap. I'll tell you what, there's nothing like being on the edge of out-of-control to really open your eyes to your own control issues.
So several things have led me to finally try making a change. This past year at work was one of the most pressure-filled and emotionally intense times of my life. And the upcoming school year will surely only bring more moments under the microscope. I have had to take a much bigger role in my family. I don't get to be the baby anymore, letting my parents just make decisions and worry about themselves. I am still learning to deal with the physical and emotional changes that my father's illness has brought about not only within himself but within all of us. I am living the first July in 18 years with nothing to keep my attention. Every other year, I ended school and within 24 hours I was working at camp. I would end camp, and within 48 more hours, I was back at school. Not only was camp my home, but it kept my focus 24 hours a day, 6 days a week -- especially the last 5 years. I managed June with summer school, but once July hit, I really started to notice some traits I didn't care for. I noticed that the one glass of wine I wanted at the end of a long day was turning into several that I felt like I needed. I stopped wanting to go spend time with people that I really, really love because their joy was just too overwhelming for me. How effed up is that? I love these people; their joy should reflect within me. I found myself smiling less, talking less, celebrating less, and I hated it. I was becoming like so many people I didn't want to be -- that I swore I'd never be.
When I finally started talking on that first visit, and I expressed some of this, it wasn't a surprise -- not to me or to the counselor (duh). We talked about several things that I do that make me feel better (other than a box of wine). I expressed that I love to write and that I had a blog. The next question was how long it had been since I wrote anything on it. I honestly couldn't remember (It had been almost 4 months). And my only conclusion was that I didn't feel like I had anything good to say. For me, I've tried to be one of two things a majority of the time on the blog -- funny or hopeful -- because that's what I wanted to hear. It's what I was desperate to hear. I didn't want to be controversial because I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to be sad because I didn't want to bring others down and heap my problems onto everyone else. I didn't want to put my panties on the porch because what if someone read what I had to say (i.e. my family) and it hurt them? And I was so emotionally exhausted that I didn't know how to be funny. And everything else seemed so bleak that feeling hopeful just felt fraudulent.
And then he reminded me that people wouldn't come here to the blog if they didn't care. Or if they weren't interested. Or if they couldn't relate. And if they didn't like what I had to say, they'd close the page. Maybe they'd be back, maybe they wouldn't. But if I'm writing to make myself feel better, why the Hell am I worried about anyone else?
Well. Huh. I hadn't thought of that.
Because I won't see him often (which is sort of okay to me -- that silence was painful), he asked me to choose one thing that made me feel better (writing, going for a walk, seeing friends, reading, etc) and then challenged me to do it every day for a month. I might not make it (and that's okay which minimized my fear of messing up and missing a day), but I'm going to try. I started a couple of days ago, intending to post at least once a day, but I realized that I'm the kind of person who needs accountability. I'm famous for my procrastination and leaving unfinished projects, and I know this about myself all too well. So that's why I'm writing today; to let you (whomever you may be) know that I plan to be here every day. It might not be a long post; it might not even be a great post. But by midnight every night, there will be a post here. And it's okay for you to text me or message me or tweet me and goad me on if you see me slipping. I do better with someone antagonizing me. I'm competitive that way.
I'll try not to make every post sad or angry. I'd still much rather have a laugh or a smile any day. But I need you (whomever you are) to know that it's a possibility that I might be frustrated, I may hurt your feelings, I may even make you angry or sad sometimes. I'll try not to, but sometimes what needs to be purged isn't pretty once it comes out. (That image wasn't pretty either -- sorry.) And if I do any of those things, feel free to hit the big red "X". I'll never know.
My next post will be about something really good -- the adoption of my two sweet nephews -- which was completed on Friday. There will be many cute baby pictures, I promise. It's important to celebrate a little, I think. And just breathe.
Watch Pearl Jam "Just Breathe" on PBS. See more from Austin City Limits.
So, with that knowledge, I'll see you here tomorrow, friends.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Just a Little Trip to Target
There are few things I love in the world more than Target.
Target is a spiritual experience. It is my Mecca. Seriously. I see God in sunsets, in the faces of children, and in the bed and bath aisles at Target.
It's right next to my nail salon, so it's a favored option to wander and sober up after a few too many glasses of the free wine. Even sober, though, I can meander around for hours, shopping needlessly, and never feel bored. This is a problem since it's also the only acceptable grocery store near me. It's also a problem because I've been on a fairly tight budget recently.
So today, I went in with a game plan. In my hand, I had a list of groceries. In my heart, a solemn vow to stick to the grocery list. With such a sound plan in place, I hoped to get out in under $75 or 30 minutes whichever came first. It would be a monumental point in my life, a turning point if you will. Finally, I'd be a responsible grown-up.
And then I saw the firemen. Sunday afternoons are like Firehouse shopping day or something. They're always in there on there. Typically I don't mind this at all. In fact, some Sundays, I fantasize about setting a fire on Aisle 12. Not because I'm a firebug or anything, just because, you know... Wowsers. So I got a tad distracted.
I also realized today why I usually just listen to a podcast while I shop. There's no need to sing along with a podcast. Especially to sing along at an unusually loud volume with JT. A few people got a pretty good performance of "Mirrors" while I browsed hair care products. I might have even danced a little. If so, I'm sorry, Target shoppers.
And, yes, I am the weirdo with ear buds in while at the store. I find it deters salespeople and small talk -- two things I'm not good at avoiding otherwise.
I did allow myself to take one quick browse outside the grocery aisles just to snap a few photos of wish list items. Plus, one of the fire guys was investigating a new bath mat. I swooned a little. Not gonna lie. All in all though, I'd call today's Target adventure a success -- $80, 45 minutes, no fires, and only slight humiliation.
This responsible grown-up stuff ain't easy, y'all.
Target is a spiritual experience. It is my Mecca. Seriously. I see God in sunsets, in the faces of children, and in the bed and bath aisles at Target.
It's right next to my nail salon, so it's a favored option to wander and sober up after a few too many glasses of the free wine. Even sober, though, I can meander around for hours, shopping needlessly, and never feel bored. This is a problem since it's also the only acceptable grocery store near me. It's also a problem because I've been on a fairly tight budget recently.
So today, I went in with a game plan. In my hand, I had a list of groceries. In my heart, a solemn vow to stick to the grocery list. With such a sound plan in place, I hoped to get out in under $75 or 30 minutes whichever came first. It would be a monumental point in my life, a turning point if you will. Finally, I'd be a responsible grown-up.
And then I saw the firemen. Sunday afternoons are like Firehouse shopping day or something. They're always in there on there. Typically I don't mind this at all. In fact, some Sundays, I fantasize about setting a fire on Aisle 12. Not because I'm a firebug or anything, just because, you know... Wowsers. So I got a tad distracted.
I also realized today why I usually just listen to a podcast while I shop. There's no need to sing along with a podcast. Especially to sing along at an unusually loud volume with JT. A few people got a pretty good performance of "Mirrors" while I browsed hair care products. I might have even danced a little. If so, I'm sorry, Target shoppers.
And, yes, I am the weirdo with ear buds in while at the store. I find it deters salespeople and small talk -- two things I'm not good at avoiding otherwise.
I did allow myself to take one quick browse outside the grocery aisles just to snap a few photos of wish list items. Plus, one of the fire guys was investigating a new bath mat. I swooned a little. Not gonna lie. All in all though, I'd call today's Target adventure a success -- $80, 45 minutes, no fires, and only slight humiliation.
This responsible grown-up stuff ain't easy, y'all.
Questions Without Answers
All my life I've wondered about the ways that events occur, how people come together, where paths intersect. Is it God's plan? Fate? Destiny? Coincidence? Dumb luck?
When something incredible happens, we're quick to call it part of God's plan or the Universe smiling upon us. Yet in tragedy or despair, we cry out at the unfairness or blame our bad luck. We are Fortune's fool. Later, in processing our grief, we might still arrive that this is all part of a Master plan in which we are being tested, our strength and weaknesses revealed.
And what happens when joy is born of grief? When something beautiful is born from ugliness? How does one reconcile that paradox? How do you celebrate something that is only yours as a result of incredible sadness? Was that terrible day pre-ordained, its sacrifices sealed? And if so, does the guilt ever fade? The guilt of the gratitude for what you now have?
Will that shine ever lose its shade?
And should it?
When something incredible happens, we're quick to call it part of God's plan or the Universe smiling upon us. Yet in tragedy or despair, we cry out at the unfairness or blame our bad luck. We are Fortune's fool. Later, in processing our grief, we might still arrive that this is all part of a Master plan in which we are being tested, our strength and weaknesses revealed.
And what happens when joy is born of grief? When something beautiful is born from ugliness? How does one reconcile that paradox? How do you celebrate something that is only yours as a result of incredible sadness? Was that terrible day pre-ordained, its sacrifices sealed? And if so, does the guilt ever fade? The guilt of the gratitude for what you now have?
Will that shine ever lose its shade?
And should it?
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Letting Go
I'm a camp girl. It's true. I am.
I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.
If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.
I spent four summers as a child at camp. I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995. And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another. Until this one. For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.
How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now). It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss. But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt. I've run out of room for the hurt.
I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard. They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage. And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup.
I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago. I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words. I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie. Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me. It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength. It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever).
There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.
Sometimes, I don't think of it at all. And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia
And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp. See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends. So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.
It was pretty amazing.
The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp. Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.
On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer. They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge. To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.
As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history. I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all. I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart. I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.
But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz, I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.
And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.
I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.
If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.
I spent four summers as a child at camp. I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995. And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another. Until this one. For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.
How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now). It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss. But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt. I've run out of room for the hurt.
I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard. They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage. And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup.
I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago. I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words. I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie. Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me. It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength. It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever).
There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.
Sometimes, I don't think of it at all. And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia
- the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
- the sound of the bell at mealtimes
- Flag Medley
- the thrill of finding a friendship rock
- the tepid water of July creek walking
- the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
- the smell of cedar
- the sound of cicadas
- the shake of the swinging bridge
- the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
- the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
- the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
- the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
- the cool breeze through the chapel
- the singing, the laughter, the tears
- Diet Cokes and picnic tables
- the sweating at Council Fire
- the sweating at lunchtime songs
- the sweating at rest time
- the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
- My God, the sweating. Always. The sweating.
- the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
- sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
- Screened in cabins
- Screech Owl
- The Big White Truck
- The lock on the CC
- The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there. Nobody could open that damn safe.)
- dancing on desktops in the office
- late night programming
- 2 AM all-camp planning
- Montana's cheese fries
- trail rosters
- circle-up
- the Blackmon-Mooring van
- the Live Oak grove
- the Redwood 'Hood
- the Horizmen
- fireworks on the Brazos
- secret campfires at the point
- secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
- Pig-Out Day
- the glare from the road
- the shade of the trails
- dance parties
- kitchen raids
- ice cream on the back porch
- and on and on and on...
And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp. See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends. So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.
It was pretty amazing.
The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp. Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.
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| Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time. I love the casual hand in the pocket. No big deal. |
A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge.
Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"
Hayrides up to middle camp.
A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking
something inside the new lodge.
Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.
There's still water in Fall Creek. It's obviously not July yet.
The new equestrian center.
The new lodge.
The new office.
Marcus making friends.
Tyler, just dealin' with it.
Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney. And a little photobomb by yours truly.
Sweet giggles.
This is the old bell. It is a fixture in the life of camp.
These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.
18 years in the blink of an eye.
The new "old" bell. But still old friends. They're the best kind, you know.
As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history. I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all. I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart. I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.
But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz, I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.
And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Just Me and my Daddy Dean
Today is Father's Day. After 37 of these things, you'd think I'd get better at remembering to send a card. But in true Nazworth fashion, I wait until the last minute and always wind up late. So instead of a card, it will be a blog post dedicated to my Daddy Dean. That's what my grandmother always said I called him. I don't remember it, and I don't know where I would've gotten it, but I like it.
My dad taught me many things in my life.
He taught me that most things can be fixed with duct tape and WD-40. And if it can't be, then I should just call him.
He taught me to check the oil and tires before I leave on any trip and that you should plan to leave by 1:00 if you're really shooting for 4:00.
He taught me to pitch a softball, make a freethrow, sink the 8 ball, and shoot dice. He taught me to ride a bike and roller skate and he tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift (or how to read the owner's manual and figure it out on my own).
He taught me that humor is a common language, and he helped me master the art of a well-timed one-liner.
He taught me about working hard and playing hard. He taught me that you have to earn a win and that by earning it, it's even more meaningful.
My dad could shoot pool with either hand, play 18 holes one-handed, or beat you at dominos giving up a 50 point advantage.
He loves babies, animals, fried fish, and Little Debbie snack cakes. He always wore a pearl snap shirt, lambchop sideburns, and a baseball cap. He's still rarely seen without a ball cap. He's flawed, just like the rest of us, but his imperfections and struggles have never stopped him.
He's been a farmer, a night-club manager, a small business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a pilot, a race-car driver, a long-haul trucker. But mostly he's just been my dad. And I'm pretty damn thankful, every day, for that.
This is my dad.
My dad taught me many things in my life.
He taught me that most things can be fixed with duct tape and WD-40. And if it can't be, then I should just call him.
He taught me to check the oil and tires before I leave on any trip and that you should plan to leave by 1:00 if you're really shooting for 4:00.
He taught me to pitch a softball, make a freethrow, sink the 8 ball, and shoot dice. He taught me to ride a bike and roller skate and he tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift (or how to read the owner's manual and figure it out on my own).
He taught me that humor is a common language, and he helped me master the art of a well-timed one-liner.
He taught me about working hard and playing hard. He taught me that you have to earn a win and that by earning it, it's even more meaningful.
My dad could shoot pool with either hand, play 18 holes one-handed, or beat you at dominos giving up a 50 point advantage.
He loves babies, animals, fried fish, and Little Debbie snack cakes. He always wore a pearl snap shirt, lambchop sideburns, and a baseball cap. He's still rarely seen without a ball cap. He's flawed, just like the rest of us, but his imperfections and struggles have never stopped him.
He's been a farmer, a night-club manager, a small business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a pilot, a race-car driver, a long-haul trucker. But mostly he's just been my dad. And I'm pretty damn thankful, every day, for that.
This is my dad.
My dad was the first in his family to graduate from college. I was the second. And I'm proud to have graduated from his alma mater.
This is my dad and my mom. Although it's Father's Day, I feel like she needs an appearance too. He'd be the first to tell you that without Wanda, there is no Dean. They just celebrated their 40th anniversary last month.
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My mom, dad, and mom's best friend, Aunt Patti. They were not the "stay at home" kind of crowd.
Dean with a beard. Still looks weird to me.
Cuddling with the catch of the day.
Dean, the farmer. They're probably just fixing it with some WD-40.
The next four pics are of my dad and my brothers. The first two are my oldest brother, JD. And the next two are my other brother, Jimmy Ray.
   
I had to crop this photo to avoid indecency charges. Put a diaper on, man.
One of the things I'm most proud of, however, is that those boys turned out to be pretty spectacular dads of their own sons.
JD and Hunter: Way Back
Hunter and JD: Closer to now.
3 generations of Deans -- James Dean, Roy Dean, and Hunter Dean. And a Wanda.
Jim and Isaiah
Naptime. Dads are good at that.
My favorite picture of Jim and his favorite tiny superhero.
My dad is a goofball. Although he takes great pictures, the ones I love most of him are those with goofy faces.
  
As you can tell, goofiness -- much like our tardiness -- is a family trait.
  
My dad can sleep anywhere. Including in the middle of feeding me.
 
Luckily, by the time Hunter Dean arrived, he was a little better at it. Or maybe we just snapped the picture too early.
This is my dad today -- whipping me at dominos. He'll admit that he's not quite as fast or young as he once was, but neither am I and that's okay. Because no matter how old I get, this is how I see us.
Just me and my Daddy Dean.
Happy Father's Day, Dean-O. I love you bunches.
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