Revenge of Camp Stories: Monday, July 26.

Yesterday campers signed up for their second week of classes.  I was worried about my World Travel class, because though it got a lot of students, it wasn't the first choice for most of them.  So I expected apathy and lack of participation.  But they were lively, fun, and very resourceful with today's warmup game, a simple charades assignment (communicating phrases like "Where can I find a taxi?" or "Do you have any soap?" with only gestures and a nonsense syllable).

The exercise is intended to get them thinking about interacting in a country that has a lot of non-English speakers, but the resulting discussion goes in a different direction.  I have one student who was born in Mexico and two who were born in Haiti, and one of the latter talks about what it was like to come to the US with absolutely no English education.  His experiences speak louder than anything I could say.  (My favorite of his anecdotes:  "When I saw a girl that I liked, I would say, 'I love you!' But then they told me, 'No, don't do that.'")

I feel a little awkward having them in the class, honestly.  I've targeted it at US kids who want to go to other countries, and I know some of the stuff I have to say will sound a little weird or obvious to the ones who come from other countries.  I mean, the campers from Haiti don't need to be told they can pack fewer clothes if they wash them by hand and hang them up to dry.  That's standard procedure in Haiti.  The guy from Mexico already knows it's wise to dress nicely and be respectful when interacting with customs officials.  I am concerned about excluding and about stepping on toes, and I'm not sure what to change about my lesson plan to make it better.  I hope I don't mess this up too badly.  It's okay for me to feel awkward, but I don't want them to feel awkward.

* * *

This afternoon we begin a simulation that hasn't been done at camp for about five years.  It's preceded with a speech from head teacher Shane: "Do you want to get closer to God, even if it's painful and difficult?"  There is hesitation from the campers before they loudly assent.  He explains that they'll only get something out of it if they play along and take it seriously, and for those who know or think they know what's going on, he has only one request: "Shut up. Let other people work it out for themselves."

I know what's going on; five years ago was my first year here, and I remember it vividly.  The camp is divided into social groups, loosely based on the culture of Jesus' time.  Certain (male) staff are given the role of Pharisees and Rabbis; they wear robes and call the shots.  The majority of the campers and staff are instructed to play the role of "righteous Jews."  And the remainder are assigned some sort of infirmity or stigma. Some are "blind" or "mute", "crippled" or have a "maimed" hand.  A couple are even "paralyzed", unable to move from a stick-and-blanket stretcher.  Then there are the outcasts: Gentiles, tax collectors, "known sinners", and lepers.

I'm one of two counselors assigned to the lepers, and I'm relieved to learn that Joe is the other.  He was also here last time we did this, so he knows what's in store as well as I do.  Also, though outside of camp we don't have much in common, he's someone whose company I enjoy.  This is convenient, because we're going to be spending a lot of time together.

Here are the instructions received by all lepers:

Until further notice, you have leprosy.  To fulfill your role in society, you must...

• Wear this cloth over your face -- be sure to cover everything from your eyes down
• Avoid coming within 50 feet of anyone who is clean
• When approaching clean people, you must cry out "Unclean! Unclean!" while making sure you get out of the main walkways and allow them to pass
• Sit on the fringe of each class so as not to cause a clean person to become unclean
• Eat last, outdoors, and only with other unclean individuals
• Sleep on the porch or some other area designated by your cabin as undesirable

Frankly, I'm relieved to get this assignment.  Last time we did this, I was "mute", which was hugely inconvenient when it came to keeping order in the cabin or teaching a class.   This time, as I see it, I've been assigned a specific group to hang out with, and as I look at the 7 male and 8 female campers wearing leper-bandanas, I have a hard time complaining.  I like these people.

Still, I'm thrown off by the news that we're repeating this simulation.  I remember it being... worthwhile, but intense, and I'm on edge emotionally at the prospect of repeating it again.  The leper-campers are uneasy too, not knowing what this assignment will mean for them.  Several are confused about what leprosy is.  I distract them and myself by sharing what I know of the history and physiology of the disease.  Many of them are horrified.  I tell them about the lepers cared for by Mother Theresa in Calcutta, and about the remote colony I sort-of-almost visited on Molokai, the time my cousins dropped anchor just offshore for the night.

We've stationed ourselves in and around a couple of tiny play cabins, off to one side of "the hill" where the other campers are spending their free time, but we see them passing by, and shout "Unclean!" through our bandanas when they get too close.  Some of the campers look at us sympathetically, or mouth "I love you!  Be strong!" at their leper-friends; others throw sticks and pinecones (they were instructed to do this, but some really enjoy it).  The level of discontentment varies widely from leper to leper; some (myself and Joe included) are playing cribbage and laughing about being called "leopards", while others chafe against the enforced separation from close friends.  One normally docile leper says, "I feel like being a bad leper, and rebelling!"

"How?" I ask her.

"I don't know.  I just feel rebellious!"

Dinnertime is when it really starts getting rough.  Tonight's meal is a cookout, but we can only approach at the speed of the paralytics (whose carriers keep having to set them down and get them resituated).  Again and again we advance a few steps, then halt to maintain that 50' (-ish) barrier.  No lepers brought bug spray, so we sit on the trail slapping and complaining, particularly when we notice others going through the food line multiple times.

At last some compassionate campers bring us bug spray, and later, a plate of hot dogs and brats, another of celery, condiments, and bags of chips and buns.  Cups of water and lemonade, too.  One leper is sulky and tearful, and sits far back on the path by himself, refusing to eat.  Others are borderline belligerent and keep trying to push closer to the "clean" crowd.  I try really hard to keep them reined in (although, in retrospect, that may not have even been my responsibility).

We're sent back to camp ahead of the rest, as the path is too narrow for everyone to pass us at the required distance.  "Where should we go?" we ask, and the reply is "Somewhere on the hill" (the open area at the center of camp activity).  So we pick out a nice swing and bench to occupy.  One of the Pharisees orders us to move, so we switch to a different swing and take the bench with us.  There's a definite undercurrent of rebelliousness among the lepers that, at this point, I sympathize with too strongly to quell.  One of the girls starts singing "Well I Feel Good," and most of us join in.  It's a blatant act of resistance, but we figure, how can they get mad at us for praising God?

We keep singing, one upbeat song after another.  We do feel good, and we sound good, too.  Then Pharisee Shane takes us aside and sternly chides us for not taking the activity seriously enough.  I'm pretty mad about this.  I get out my list of prescribed leper behavior and tell him we've been following it to the letter.  I'm about to tell him about how the lepers of Calcutta are by all reports a far from somber people, but somewhere in there I realize that I'm a leper sassing back a Pharisee, so instead I finish off with "...so thank you for explaining how we can do better."

After he walks away, I'm like, fine, whatever, we'll play cribbage out here with the mosquitoes, I've had worse evenings.  Then I look over at the other lepers.  One girl, who was among the most defiant earlier, is sobbing, so I go and sit with her.  After a moment I realize the girl on the other side of me is weeping too.  I am a sympathetic sniffler, and this is altogether too much for my tear ducts.  Around the small amphitheatre where we're sitting, nearly all of the girls and several of the guys are crying.  (The other guys are playing cribbage with Joe.)  A knot of lepers is holding hands and praying in broken voices.  One of them later tells me: "My normal response to something like this would be to rebel, but we couldn't do that. So my second response would be to make the best of it.  But then he told us we couldn't do that either."  What's left?  No wonder they cry.  It's hard not being able to tell them, it's okay, I've been through this and it all comes out right.  But I'm humbled by how much more willing they are to put themselves in this painful place than I am, to really confront the situation instead of just gritting their teeth and rolling their eyes until it ends.

A handful of non-lepers wander over to try and cheer up the exiles, but their efforts are rebuffed.  "We can't talk to you," sniffs one of the girls.  Others avoid eye contact, playing possum until the "clean" ones leave.  They are inconsolable, and the tears continue long after I've wiped mine and slid over to watch the cribbage game.  I can still hear them talking, though:

"I hate this."

"I just didn't realize how hard it would be."

"I miss camp!"

One of the male lepers, clearly anxious about the amount of crying going on, whispers to me, "They're just making it worse."

"Girls... have a different way of processing things," I say, which is a lousy explanation, but the best way I can think of to say, "It's okay, they need to be doing this right now."

The emotions of female-types are not Joe's strong point either.  "Just don't ask questions," he tells him, shaking his head.

At devo, the polyester-robed Pharisees and Rabbis lead songs from Old Testament scripture, such as a minor-key setting of the Sh'ma Yisrael.  There is a scripture reading from one of the books of prophecy, one clearly chosen for ironic effect: it is one that foretells the sufferings of Christ.  Prayers are self-congratulatory proclamations of righteousness.  Seating is segregated by gender, and only the males are allowed to sing.  We lepers straggle at the back, guys and girls intermingled, and sing if we feel like it (but not too loudly).

I'd been notified the female lepers would be sleeping that night in an empty cabin, but given no info about when we should go back to the cabins to get our things.  When devo ends, I realize that's not going to change.  We're the first to retreat from the amphitheater, to allow the "clean ones" to leave, so I tell the girls to run back to their cabins to get their things for the night before anyone else gets there.  I thought they'd dally, but I was wrong.  They sprint, hoping to avoid contact with cabinmates.  One who isn't quick enough comes back crying.  "The way they were looking at me was just..." she sniffles, "I don't know... I couldn't stand it."

I let them take as long as they like settling in.  Being outcast like this has a silver lining: no one is watching you too closely to make sure you don't fudge the rules.  I've spoken to head women's counselor Janet, and she agreed the leper girls could go up to the bathhouse after the lights-out bell.  (The leper guys haven't even been assigned a place to stay; Joe takes them down to the Great Hall for the night.)

One of the "clean" campers delivers a forgotten item to one of the leper girls at our cabin.  Through the screen door, she says, "I am also unclean," and leaves.  One girl sobs, "I don't know if she was trying to make us all cry, but it worked!"  Actually, it didn't for me, but I'm the only one, so I keep my mouth shut.  This entire episode is one long exercise in not talking for the staff; we've been told even before the introductory speech that we should let the campers figure things out for themselves, rather than trying to lead them to conclusions.  Hard as that has been at times, I love this aspect of it.  Hearing the leper girls process their experience, particularly this evening in the cabin, is both painful and amazing.  By this point they've stopped fighting, stopped wallowing in helplessness, and have started really putting their brains and hearts up against their situation.  I let them talk until they decide they're done.  Two of my favorite comments make it into the journal:

"Now I know what it's like to be a social outcast.  I feel so bad for those kids at my school... and I never did a thing to help them."

"I wish they'd all be mean to us, because this nice thing is just not working out for me."

Thanks to emotional exhaustion, they stop talking (and crying) before it gets ridiculously late.  But man, I hate trying to sleep with a stuffy nose.  I toss, turn, and finally go to the nurse's cabin for a Tylenol to take the edge off my tension.  Nurse Carol is still up, having just dealt with a sick camper, and she sits me down for a chat, as concerned about my emotional health as my physical needs.  I give her a brief rundown of leper life and reassure her that we'll all be fine.  I realize as I say it that I'm also reassuring myself.