Timothy Noah says we’re the same person now that we were when we went to camp.
People (like myself) who didn’t enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we’re extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists. The common thread is an outsider mentality. A self-flattering analysis, I know, but such is my privilege as author of this article.
Some people hated camp so much that they made their parents bring them home. These people should not be confused with the outlaws described above. There is nothing outré about not being able to endure summer camp. The come-and-get-me set grow up to be neurotic and needy. These are people who can often be heard on C-SPAN’s early-morning call-in program Washington Journal, filibustering from a time zone still blanketed in predawn darkness, until the host says, “Please state your question.”
In my case, as a camper I was klutz/nerd, so I think he’s right. I won the award for neatest camper — as in best at making my bed. I still have the award, too, as if you needed reassurance on that part.
Even now, 55 years later, I feel humiliated remembering my trial before camp-wide kangaroo court for stealing sand from the beach. It wasn’t my fault — the beach set me up.
What about those of us whose parents were so incredibly paranoid about child molesters, kidnappers, lice and all other unnamable BAD THINGS that we just weren’t allowed to go to camp? (Or sleep over at anyone’s house, or even eat there. . .)
We didn’t imagine we went to camp. It was too horrible to imagine.
Those kids grew up to be Norman Bates.
Hmm. That explains a lot about me.
What does it mean when you wished you could stay at camp all summer instead of just one week? I went to the most un-church-y church camp for 8 years in a row. Back in the 60s and 70s things were just different.