Job
My first job was as an assistant camp counsellor. I was 17, and they asked me not to tell the girls my age because I would be as little as a year older than some of them. And I would be put with the oldest group. This should have been my first clue, but I would have needed experience to have seen it. Of which I had - none.
I arrived, having never myself been to camp. We had a week to get the camp clean and ready, and I threw myself into the work. We swept and cleaned and toured the area. It was beautiful, right on the Lake Huron shore. I would sleep out for the first time in my life. We picnicked on the beach in the evening, dipped into the June frigid water briefly, slept on the beach until the cold woke us early and stiff. We ate bad food, learned first aid, settled in. Saw Deliverance the last night before the girls arrived. Someone had a mean sense of humor. My first job, I thought, I can do this.
Then the girls came. Not quiet, smart little girls who liked me and looked up to me, but tough inner-city girls, about 60-70% black to the all white staff. Teenagers with hostile attitudes, one who I would now probably diagnose as a psychopath- a natural leader with violent tendencies. I had trouble remembering names, a failing I still have to own. But this was read by them as bigotry, and I read it in myself as such then. I had grown up in a mixed neighborhood and school, but not many were black. Mostly Mexican - who had been in Detroit for generations. Lebanese, Armenian, Polish, still recent enough that Grandma did not speak English. My parents had moved from Canada. I had little exposure to black kids, and none to poor black ghetto kids. I went through culture shock and deep homesickness, and handled myself poorly, inadequately. I was determined to keep trying.
They mocked me when I read out loud to them, a scene from Ice Castles of a make-out session- of which I had no experience either. I prided myself on being a good reader, and they popped that bubble. Over the week the harassment got worse, I was disregarded and I panicked to hear of plans for nighttime forays. My older counselor in my cabin tried to reassure me, but she needed me to be an adult, and I wasn't one.
We had an overnight excursion, camp out. Only the girls who were not trouble went with us. The One Girl was not there. Got to put on fireman gear and join in holding a fire hose, local volunteers were in the park where we took the girls. It stormed that night, and I shepherded and comforted our troops, they huddled around me in an ego building fashion. I had my moment of triumph, I was good as a comforter.
The next day back at the camp, lead by the gang leader, I was openly hated, and threatened. I was afraid and unable to stop crying. As I did my laundry, I called my mother from the only phone, and asked her to come pick me up. I quit. I had failed. I found out I was racist- I hated the black girls who had tormented me. My reality, miserable as it was living with my father, had been shattered, and I had no replacement. I was terrified. I had failed.
I eventually figured out that I was set up. I should not have been hired and then expected to lie about my age- looking mature and being mature are very different. At very least, I should have been put with younger children where it wouldn't have been such an issue. I learned not to trust an employer who will take an unqualified employee. I heard later that there were problems at the camp, a rape, thefts, police called. Not surprized, though I never heard the details. I learned that prejudice is very real, and I was not immune. Not an excuse to excuse it in myself, just knowing that I had to fight it even in my own heart. That idealism is no defense against reality. That I have no talent for kids, save to be a comforter. That I have no natural leadership talent. That I was nowhere near grown up. I think of it now as being a baby adult. At 18, I was a newborn into a world of responsibility- and had a lot to learn to be a real, mature, adult. That I could fail, and still keep going.
I would get hired at my local library within the month, and work there for two years through high school and radio broadcast school (another story). My boss was black, and I liked her a great deal. Dear Barbara .... oh dear. I cannot remember her last name. Give me a while, I'm sure it will come back to me.....
Bowen, I finally remembered.
I arrived, having never myself been to camp. We had a week to get the camp clean and ready, and I threw myself into the work. We swept and cleaned and toured the area. It was beautiful, right on the Lake Huron shore. I would sleep out for the first time in my life. We picnicked on the beach in the evening, dipped into the June frigid water briefly, slept on the beach until the cold woke us early and stiff. We ate bad food, learned first aid, settled in. Saw Deliverance the last night before the girls arrived. Someone had a mean sense of humor. My first job, I thought, I can do this.
Then the girls came. Not quiet, smart little girls who liked me and looked up to me, but tough inner-city girls, about 60-70% black to the all white staff. Teenagers with hostile attitudes, one who I would now probably diagnose as a psychopath- a natural leader with violent tendencies. I had trouble remembering names, a failing I still have to own. But this was read by them as bigotry, and I read it in myself as such then. I had grown up in a mixed neighborhood and school, but not many were black. Mostly Mexican - who had been in Detroit for generations. Lebanese, Armenian, Polish, still recent enough that Grandma did not speak English. My parents had moved from Canada. I had little exposure to black kids, and none to poor black ghetto kids. I went through culture shock and deep homesickness, and handled myself poorly, inadequately. I was determined to keep trying.
They mocked me when I read out loud to them, a scene from Ice Castles of a make-out session- of which I had no experience either. I prided myself on being a good reader, and they popped that bubble. Over the week the harassment got worse, I was disregarded and I panicked to hear of plans for nighttime forays. My older counselor in my cabin tried to reassure me, but she needed me to be an adult, and I wasn't one.
We had an overnight excursion, camp out. Only the girls who were not trouble went with us. The One Girl was not there. Got to put on fireman gear and join in holding a fire hose, local volunteers were in the park where we took the girls. It stormed that night, and I shepherded and comforted our troops, they huddled around me in an ego building fashion. I had my moment of triumph, I was good as a comforter.
The next day back at the camp, lead by the gang leader, I was openly hated, and threatened. I was afraid and unable to stop crying. As I did my laundry, I called my mother from the only phone, and asked her to come pick me up. I quit. I had failed. I found out I was racist- I hated the black girls who had tormented me. My reality, miserable as it was living with my father, had been shattered, and I had no replacement. I was terrified. I had failed.
I eventually figured out that I was set up. I should not have been hired and then expected to lie about my age- looking mature and being mature are very different. At very least, I should have been put with younger children where it wouldn't have been such an issue. I learned not to trust an employer who will take an unqualified employee. I heard later that there were problems at the camp, a rape, thefts, police called. Not surprized, though I never heard the details. I learned that prejudice is very real, and I was not immune. Not an excuse to excuse it in myself, just knowing that I had to fight it even in my own heart. That idealism is no defense against reality. That I have no talent for kids, save to be a comforter. That I have no natural leadership talent. That I was nowhere near grown up. I think of it now as being a baby adult. At 18, I was a newborn into a world of responsibility- and had a lot to learn to be a real, mature, adult. That I could fail, and still keep going.
I would get hired at my local library within the month, and work there for two years through high school and radio broadcast school (another story). My boss was black, and I liked her a great deal. Dear Barbara .... oh dear. I cannot remember her last name. Give me a while, I'm sure it will come back to me.....
Bowen, I finally remembered.
Posted by Zhoen on Thursday, April 28, 2005
0 comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home