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by Stefanie Klaus
When a caterpillar reaches a point of imminent metamorphosis, it enters
another world, a fleeting but fundamental microcosm of its everyday life
of tree branches and windowpanes. The caterpillar is meek and inexperienced
to the sights, sounds, scents, and tastes of life. It is restricted to the
narrow confines of its own eyes, having no wings to fly to other destinations
and see its peripheral sights in full view. When it enters its chrysalis,
it is sequestered in a setting that still encloses it from reality; however,
unbeknownst to the caterpillar, this setting is the spring for a new tide
of understanding. Paradoxically, it is when the caterpillar is the most
removed from the real world that it undergoes the most remarkable growth.
After a month-long evolution, the caterpillar emerges as a butterfly, an
enlightened form of its past self. True, the metaphorical use of a caterpillar's
transformation is clichéd, but this is not a metaphor. I really did
live in a Cocoon for a month.
It was with apprehension, even dread, that I approached my first summer
at Camp Kamaji, an all-girls camp in northern Minnesota. Despite my dad's
romanticized stories about his boyhood camp days, a Kamaji video for prospective
campers that promised nothing but fun, and my own futile attempts at self-assurance,
I couldn't allay my fears. What if nobody liked me? What if I got
made fun of for not knowing how to sweep a cabin or do laundry? I had seen
African American girls in the Kamaji video from the previous year, and what
if I lived with one of them?
Surely I wouldn't be able to relate. In my hometown of Hudson, Ohio,
an affluent suburb where I had lived my whole life, homogeny was the standard,
and although I would never admit to having any qualms with other races,
I was tentative to live with people who just seemed so different. Moreover,
I was worried that I wouldn't be accepted. My best friend in fifth
grade was extremely domineering and that combined with the emergence of
classroom cliques really lowered my feeling of self-worth. How could I be
liked by the fun, exuberant girls in the Kamaji video? They would snub me
because I was a picky eater and couldn't braid my own hair; at the
very least, my timidity would prevent me from forming any bonds deeper than
acquaintanceships.
My worries encumbered me all the way to The Dirt Road, the landmark signifying
to returning campers that Kamaji was less than a game of Crazy Eights away.
As the veteran campers erupted in cheers of excitement, their infectious
laughter temporarily muffled the disquiet in my mind. The bus passed the
"Welcome to Camp Kamaji" sign, revealing an idyllic setting
beyond a pine tree-lined gravel path. Golden sunlight illuminated the campgrounds
like a treasure trove bearing childhood jewels: tetherball courts, emerald-green
trees, and throngs of waving counselors. The closest thing to industry was
the cylindrical gas tank painted like a pig.
Floating through the sea of elated reunions, I made my way to the lodge,
where campers were being directed to find out our cabin placement. I sat
on the dusty oak floor with my new friend Becca, a fellow newcomer from
Cleveland with whom I engaged in nervous chatter on the bus. A stuffed caribou
head mounted on a stone fireplace oversaw the activity, watching its silent
winter sanctuary awaken with life. Mike Jay, the camp owner, brought the
happy din to a murmur by beginning the announcement of cabin placements.
"…And in the Cabin Cocoon, we have . . . ." Mike rattled
off names in his trademark jovial bellow, ". . . and Stefanie Klaus!"
On tremulous legs like those of a newborn calf struggling to find its footing,
I made my way over to the group of eight other campers and three counselors.
Three girls seemed to know each other from home, as did another two, and
two of the girls were black and clearly from the city. I smiled, hoping
that my positive veneer would convince my cabinmates, my counselors, and
myself that everything was fine.
That night, I shuffled my spaghetti around on my plate; it wasn't
the way Mommy would have made it. I silently cried myself to sleep the first
few nights, deeply inhaling the scent redolent of home on the pillowcase
that soaked up my tears. My role in the cabin was that of the sweet, quiet
girl, and although everyone liked me, I knew that my cordial façade
was a white picket fence, a euphemistic barrier between me and the world.
And then, about a week and a half into the summer, something changed.
It was not a marked event that brought on a sudden epiphany, nor was it
a conscious process of small steps towards a desired goal. I just came alive.
Perhaps it was the nightly Evening Programs, like All-Camp Gladiator Night,
Disco Dance Party Night, and Country Club Night (in which the male staff
members painted our nails and gave us oatmeal "face masks")
that released my inhibitions and allowed me to relish my silliness. Perhaps
it was the harmonious laughter of my fellow campers, the exhilaration of
learning new skills, and the delectable Toothpaste (mint) Brownies that
overpowered my unease. Perhaps it was a seemingly simple compliment, invitation
to play, or word of encouragement that subconsciously instilled in me a
sense of validity. Perhaps it was my observance of nascent friendships between
girls of all different backgrounds, races, and camp experiences.
Whatever it was, something told me that it was okay to be myself, to take
risks, and to meet challenges with temerity. As the remaining weeks at Kamaji
progressed, I continued to develop within my Cocoon, finding solace in what
used to be sources of intimidation. In the initial weeks of the session,
I had restrained my offbeat sense of humor for fear of ridicule. By camp's
end, I was hosting a nightly "Comedy Hour with Stefanie Klaus"
at the relentless requests of my cabinmates, giving a ten-year-old's
lampoon of everything from the leeches in the lake to the hot commodity
of pocket-sized fans. Whereas at first I was lacking in confidence, I finished
camp with a euphoric sense of achievement that only subsequent camp experiences
have rivaled. Not only did I conquer the feats of sweeping and bed making,
but I also learned how to water ski, sail, windsurf, and myriad other skills
that helped shape me into an adventurous and well-rounded individual.
I returned home a virtual fountain of information, eagerly telling my
parents about, among other things, how to rig a sailboat, how to tie figure-eight
and square knots, and how to tie-dye a T-shirt. Far more significant than
my knowledge of pitching a tent, however, was my expanded insight into acceptance
and human relationships. Gina and Charity, the two girls from inner-city
Chicago who I had immediately judged based on our separate backgrounds,
became two of my closest friends. Beyond face value, we shared genuine similarities
that far surpassed our differences.
During my initial time home in 1996 and every year thereafter, I desperately
wanted to entwine camp within the real world. I wanted to hold onto that
place where the most consequential wars were over who got the last Rice
Krispies® Treat, and the greatest disappointment of the day was not
receiving mail. I wanted to believe that I could carry on that life void
of cynicism and superficiality beyond the cozy confines of my cabin. However,
it was within a few weeks that I realized my friends at home didn't
share my enthusiasm for table-pounding games and camp colloquialisms. They
rolled their eyes and didn't understand; they couldn't understand.
Despite my valiant attempts to extend my Kamaji persona to home life and
bring utopia to suburbia, the two worlds inevitably collided. Kamaji mimics
the good of the real world while providing asylum from the bad. Camp both
imitates and diverges from life, but perhaps life should imitate camp.
The summer of 1996 ended with poignant goodbyes and wonderful memories.
Since then, Camp Kamaji has encapsulated my processes of both realizing
youth and growing up. I returned as a camper through the summer of 2000,
during which I further honed my water skiing, windsurfing, sailing, and
canoeing skills, developed an ever-growing nucleus of friends from across
socioeconomic and ethnic spectrums, and earned a role as "the comedian"
among those friends. Charity and I maintained a deep bond throughout our
years as campers; when it was her fifth year at camp, myself and another
close friend presented her with a miniature canoe paddle and a speech about
our friendship, a traditional rite of passage for those who reach the half-decade
mark. Unfortunately, we have since lost touch, but I know that if we ever
reunite, we will share the same uncontrollable giggles that reverberated
throughout our cabin and across Big Wolf Lake.
As for myself, I was a counselor in 2001 and 2003, and I will return this
June for my eighth summer. As a counselor, Kamaji is a crystallization of
my childhood and adulthood. I now have the privilege of watching other young
girls during their own metamorphoses. For the life lessons I have reaped
from my summers at Camp Kamaji, I am grateful beyond words.
After the butterfly has emerged from its chrysalis, it may glance back
to see the shell of its former self, the caterpillar tensed with insecurity
as it approached the Cocoon. The butterfly may reminisce of its life as
a caterpillar, only able to discern things such as tree branches and windowpanes,
thoughts of a world beyond its visual scope unfathomable. It will have some
fond memories of its life as a caterpillar, but it will not miss it. Being
a butterfly is so much better.
Originally published in the 2004 September/October
issue of Camping Magazine.
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