Tales from Jew Camp: An Introduction

I had planned to write this a week ago, started several times, scribbled on a sheet of paper. But I sat in front of this laptop and this blank Blogger screen... and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.

Normally I can let my fingers go on autopilot and cede control of all creative functions to the right side of my brain. Call it talent, call it subconscious, call it whatever you want. It just happens. But this week has produced only a series of words, a jumble of meaningless phrases that don't matter to me in the least.

I guess when you try to write about something that is so very close to your heart, no matter how silly it is, it's hard to be blithe about it. Trust me, I've tried. I'm a firm believer that sarcasm and self-deprecating humor can be applied to distance to a situation, whatever that happens to be. Any regular reader of this blog can attest that many of my entries are rife with that sort of writing style. This, however, cannot, will not, be translated into a light article.

As I write this, I can guarantee that I will be blushing. I suppose I get embarrassed over how juvenile it is (or seems to be). Okay, I'll just say it.

Camp.

A Jewish girls camp, to be specific.

For the last ten years, I have been attending the same camp, either as a camper, trainee, or a counselor. Same camp, same activities, same people.

See? Blushing.

Oh, how I wish I could just sit here and make fun of the whole thing, the whole concept! Like how Jewish parents send their girls to this camp specifically to meet Jewish boys at the neighboring camp and how, ironically, more lesbians come out of the camp than marriages. But then I think about how many camp marriages do last and how many points your cool factor goes up if you are a lesbian at camp... and I can't make fun of it anymore.

Know why? Because that is part of the charm of camp. At camp, I am brave enough to smash gigantic spiders while issuing my shrillest war cry. I can wear the same dirty old hat everyday. I can give a sermon or two at Shabbat morning services. Camp did more for me as a woman than any Spice Girl ever could. And I couldn't be more grateful.

On Tuesday, I leave to begin my tenth and final year at my dear, sweet camp. After three years as a counselor, I need to begin planning for real life, taking internships, travel. I must leave my mountains behind to enter a world where the only mountains I will climb are metaphorical in nature. But I still have one last year. One last fling at childhood before entering a new life.

So, I invite you to join me in my final journey. Though I will not be able to write everyday, I hope to share my stories with you at least once a week. Perhaps I will finally be able to convey my feelings for this place in my own idiom, instead of stilted flowery prose.

Until then, goodbye!

K.

PS. Please feel free to leave comments if you so wish. I hope to be able to check my e-mail while at camp (if their sporadic internet cooperates). I'll definitely respond if I have the chance. :)

"Goodnight, Michelle."

Ever know someone from your childhood who portrays a certain image throughout their lives? And then you meet them later in life to find out that they have taken a 180 degree turn?

Case in point: Bob Saget.

(Warning-- Language.)

K.

Lay Off the Thrills, Buddy

I was going to start my series of entries about Jewish summer camp, but I got seriously distracted by current events. No, not Zarqawi or bombings in Israel or Tropical Storm Alberto-- Ben Roethlisberger.

Yep. That Ben Roethlisberger.

For those of you not up on American football news, Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers' quarterback Roethlisberger was involved in a motorcycle accident a few days ago (Sports Illustrated has a full list of the player's injuries). Roethlisberger has been upgraded to "fair" condition, which bodes well for his recovery to playing condition. The franchise has yet to determine his career future.

Frankly, I don't care about his playing ability. Sure, I'm a Pennsylvanian and I cheered for the Steelers during the Bowl, but whether the kid can ever throw a ball again isn't foremost on my mind. What does irritate me, however, is the fact that Roethlisberger was not wearing a helmet. Not only that, he is not even licensed to operate a motorcycle in the state of Pennsylvania!

Listen up, athletes. You sign contracts for millions of dollars per game with huge franchises for the express purpose of entertaining millions of fans. The football fanatics turn up to games, buy your jerseys, which provides billions of dollars to the franchises. So, in all but the legal sense, you, as a professional football player, are owned by both football fans and franchises. You are obliged to not take such idiotic risks. It is irresponsible not to.

So, Mr. Roethlisberger, I suggest that you think very carefully before taking anymore unnecessary risks. Your value to any professional team with drop precipitously if they believe that they can't count on you. Advertising spots will dwindle away as your bench time exceeds your playing time. Finally, even your fans will abandon you to follow bigger and brighter prospects.

Sounds peachy, right?

Sorry to be harsh, but the sooner you find that out, the better.

K.

If Only Ignorance Was Always This Funny

While catching up on the comics that I missed from this weekend, I stumbled across this query in "Dear Abby":

"Dear Abby:

I have reason to believe that a young man in my family may be gay. (He is 15.) I have been thinking a lot about this lately, and have been wondering if circumcision would cure it. What do you think?" --Grandmother in Missouri

Uhhhh...

Thankfully, Abby (Jeanne Phillips) had this to say:

"Dear Missouri Grandmother:

Homosexuality is not an illness, and therefore there is no need for a 'cure.' I predict that your family will be happier if you accept you relative exactly the way he is, love him, support him, and stop trying to think of ways to cure him.

PS. Circumcision is a sacred rite of the Jewish religion. If your theory were valid, then there would be no Jewish homosexuals. And yet, among the successful, gay, Jewish men who are 'out' are Harvey Fierstein, Michael Finestein, Barney Frank and David Geffen-- to name a few. (Oops! And let's not forget Isaac Mizrahi.)"

Right on, Abby. Right on.

K.

Joys of Jersey?

And then there was silence. The violin legs of the crickets ceased their sawing; the croak of the bullfrog was utterly absent. Within this magnitude of quietude, a still, small voice was heard:

"Oops."

Yes, before my travels into the Garbage-- uh, I mean Garden State-- I irresponsibly neglected to ask what kind of internet my hosts used. Sadly, it was dial-up. E-mail did not get checked, entries did not get blogged, and valuable time that could have been spent looking up articles to make me giggle was lost. Pity.

Not that my trip to New Jersey was ruined by my lack of internet connection in the least. I perused the boardwalk of Seaside Heights, was berated for my lack of knowledge about carpentry in Allair State Park, and managed to watch nine Johnny Depp movies in the first annual Depp-athon. Even the facts that (1) Six Flags Great Adventure was shut down for some Boy Scout shindig, and (2) I was actually having fun in Satan's trash heap of a state didn't lessen my enjoyment of the long weekend.

I still reserve the right to make fun of their full-service gas stations.

K.

PS. I mean, really, why can't these people pump their own gas?

Signs of the Apocalypse

I admit it; I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Today is June 6, 2006, otherwise known as 6/6/06. Many Christians and "Revelations" analysts maintain that the number 666 is the mark of the Beast, otherwise known as Satan. The coming of the Greatest Scapegoat's favorite day has spawned at least one movie premiere, endless Satanist parties, and-- the most evil event of all-- the arrival of Ann Coulter's new book. Now, it would be completely irresponsible if I didn't comment on an event that only happens once a century, even if every other blogger has already had a whack at it.

Since I am not an expert on numerology or New Testament theory, I cannot give anyone a fact-laden essay about 666. Therefore, I decided to do something different.

Inspired by Sports Illustrated's weekly quote, I present...

Signs of the Apocalypse

• Brought to you by Dave Barry's blog, here is The PhotogenicMask. Leave it to the Japanese to think of one of the creepiest things imaginable. I'm sure the end of days will include souless people with souless faces walking around. (Don't worry, you can press 'cancel' if they ask you to install a Japanese language pack.)
• A man, sure that invoking the name of G-d would protect him from danger, was mauled by a lioness. Before the fire falls from the sky, G-d will definitely ignore the pleas of the faithful, especially if the faithful are stupid enough to CRAWL INTO A LIONESS'S CAGE!! G-d don't hold with no idiocy.
• I had an article from MSNBC about people finding eight heads in a box in Iraq, but the article magically disappeared from the site. Apparently, MSNBC knows that the Devil's house-warming gift before the end of days begins is a nice set of heads in a box. Here's a different article about it, anyway.
• After examining a jarful of rainwater, scientists have concluded that the red cells within the water are aliens. "Revelations" has got to have something about killer red aliens falling from the clouds, right? Anybody?
• CNN is now teaching children how to rob banks. Clearly, Satan has contracted Ted Turner to turn our kids into sinners in order to counteract Hell's population drop after the Baby Boomers move through.

And there you have it, folks. These are just several signs of the impending apocalypse! Do you have your Homeland Security-issue duct tape and plastic sheets? Good, you should be alright. then.

Good luck!

K.

PS. As lawsuits have a habit of flying about on the internet, I totally credit Sports Illustrated for "Signs of the Apocalypse."

PPS. Don't take this seriously. That makes babies cry.

Confirmation Agitation

This morning, my family and I sat down for the most superfluous ceremony in a young Jew's life: confirmation. More specifically, my brother's.

I've never been a fan of confirmation, even four years after my own ceremony. The synagogue itself doomed the rite for me. Back in the day, a rather jaded seventh grade Sunday School teacher informed my class the concept of a "confirmation" was nicked from America's Christian community during the fad of Jewish assimilation. Before that, he said, the concept of confirmation wasn't practiced at all in the European Jewish populace. Whether this is true or not, I quickly added this to my arsenal of reasons why confirmation wasn't necessary to become a mature Jew.

Who can blame me? I had been attending Sunday School for eleven years. Every week, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, dragged in for one hour of Hebrew lessons, then subjected to two hours worth of exceptionally dry history. (Granted, many other Jews have to suffer Hebrew School multiple times a week, to which I doff my cap. I don't think I would have survived.) To be told that I need to complete yet another year of instruction in order to take part in a ceremony not vital to Judaism was just too much.

To make matters worse, the confirmation class was taught by the Rabbi later in the evening. Make no mistake, I have a great affection for my Rabbi. His wisdom and welcoming presence has helped me during the most trying periods of my life. Even my brother, the sullen teenager, holds a tremendous respect for the guy. However, no matter how many talents my Rabbi has, none of them include the ability to speak to a group of teenagers. He just doesn't understand that no one in the confirmation class really wants to be there, no matter how engaging the conversation is. The problem is only exacerbated as kids nod off during class, causing the Rabbi's mood to move from "frustration" to "un-holy rage." Fun times.

As most dreaded events do, my confirmation passed uneventfully. Thirteen teenagers slouched on the bima in front of a sanctuary full of parents and relatives who, though unsure of what a confirmation officially entailed, firmly believed that anything that kept sixteen year olds out of trouble all those Sunday evenings couldn't be that bad. All of us, clad in white robes that seemed to be cast-offs from some church's Christmas pageant, leaned against the podium to deliver two speeches, one entitled "Why I Want to Be Jewish," the other on a subject of the Rabbi's choosing. The "Why I Want to Be Jewish" speeches were short and cliched (sixteen year olds, though they are loathe to admit, actually don't know anything and therefore cannot give ground-breaking explanations on why they picked one religion over another). The other speeches, however, were Proustian tomes. By the time the service reached my one-paragraph explanation of G-d and nature (I've always know my audience), the congregation had reached a operation-quality stupor for which anesthesiologists are usually paid the big bucks. Two hours later, the entire assembly collapsed into a chocolate-covered strawberry bacchanalia, relieved that the whole ordeal was over.

You would think that my parents, who had to sit through the whole debacle four years before, would have wisely allowed my brother to skip the whole thing. Consider said lesson unlearned. All year, my brother sat in confirmation class, gamely trying to keep his snores from interrupting the Rabbi's frenzied attempts to spark an intelligent discussion. Then, many months later, there we were, watching as my brother stubbornly refused to smile in the face of a professional photographer's antics while waiting for the service to begin.

As I look back on it, I realize that I did learn quite a bit from my stint in Confirmation Prison. The exact particulars escape me now, but I'm sure that some bit of information managed to wedge itself into my gray matter during that time period. One thing's for certain: if I have my own children, I will immediately enroll them in a confirmation class. Why? Because one thing that I'm not going to let my kids get away with is experiencing less misery than I did.

And that's promise.

K.

New Haveil Havalim Up!

Love it. Want it. Need it.

K.

Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

A bit of homestead upheaval has thrown off my blogging groove.

I've now been at home for a little more than two weeks. In that time, I've researched, relaxed, cleaned, relaxed, packed, relaxed, unpacked, relaxed... I've also, apparently, been getting in the way of my family's established homelife. I guess I can understand. For months, my parents and little brother have been going through life without me, then suddenly, there is a twenty year old lump in the house.

I have an over-blown sense of entitlement, I suppose. It's not that I want anything out of my family; I just kind of want to sit and let the activity flow around me. I've been at the center of so many disputes and effort in the last couple of months, so I just want to shut down. Luckily, I have been very adept at letting my body veg on the couch and allowing my mind to go somewhere else.

Unfortunately, my parents have a different plan for me. To them, there are now three adults in the house, so there will be three adults doing three adults' worth of work. So we have two conflicting goals.

I think I've forgotten how to live with a family and that lack of knowledge is showing more and more everyday as I steadily become more exasperated. All the little niceties of a well-run home have become quite foreign to me. I'm now used to living with my own requirements, by my own rules. However, that's not how things work anymore. I'll just have to get used to it.

As a peace offering, I traveled with my mother to Boiling Springs to meander through a craft fair. Afterwards, I made some badly-formed cheese blintzes with my father. I guess I just need to survive until I leave for camp.

Just keep thinking happy thoughts, Kate, happy thoughts...

K.