Camp, part 1

As a Japanese American child growing up in Gardena, California, I did not know anybody who went to camp. At least not voluntarily. "Camp" was someplace where a handful of my uncles and aunts spent some time during WWII, and where a few of my cousins were born. It was located someplace out in the middle of nowhere, and you weren't allowed to take anything there that did not fit in your suitcase. During the '70s, when customers of a certain age group would come to my mother's yarn shop, there was always the question, "Were you in the camps?" followed by, "Really? Which one?" which was followed by either: (a) "Ara maaa! I know you! I'm ___! Do you remember me?" or (b) "Hmmm. Are you related to ___? Honto? (Really?) That's my uncle/aunt/cousin!" Some connection within a few degrees of separation was almost inevitable, and I could hear the camaraderie in people's voices as they reminisced about a time when they made the best of a terrible situation, adapting to their new homes behind barbed wire.

Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.

Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.

As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.

I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.