Dedicated to DYWC, my true home.
I have been at this camp for six years. I have had five different counsolers. I have had four different roommates. I have met my three true sisters here. I have had two camp crushes. and I have had one true home. They always tell you that home is where the heart is, and my heart is permanently nestled within the cinderblocks of the too-cold dorm rooms and the overly painted bench in front of Randolph. 343 days out of the year I am homeless and naked. I have made countless numbers of friendship bracelets and have learned to open up and be vulnerable with people in the short span of twelve days. I have discovered the place that helped me find my vice, my art, and my passion. The upper campers have heard my stories and seen my tears. I have discovered where I am not only accepted and open, but I am happy. I can walk into the campus feeling completely invisible and leave feeling fufilled and fresh. Each person I have met here is a freckle on my shoulder and I will carry them with me for the rest of my life. I have given the best and worst of myself to each tiny fragment of foundation within the program. I am elated to say that I have been molded by a system of people that not only know what they're doing, but love each moment of it. I have surrounded myself with some of the most honest and beautiful people that exist and know that every moment, every footstep, and every word I wrote on cheap notebook paper will stay with me. This camp has not only changed my life, but gave me a home. Goodbye.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Untitled
Written for my Writing the College Essay class at camp. Summer '08.
I was never really one for wearing stilettos for big events other than weddings or a graduation. Impressions never really included how much height I added to my already 5'6'' frame until the perfect pair of black patent leather peep-toe heels were gracefully given to me by a close friend. They cradled my feet perfectly and made my calve muscles appear superhuman, giving me the supermodel legs I had always coveted. As they rode with me to writer's camp last summer I automatically knew in the back of my mind where they would come into play. Celebration is the final night of the camp session where a large amount of people sign up to read their work and showcase the talent of the group. This year I had chosen to read a longer piece of my own, prose, and very personal. The nearly two-hour ceremony would take place in front of the entire camp, as well as parents and other relatives that decided to come into town for the event. As I slipped on my heels I knew I was destined for the powerful, confident stride across the stage, where I would reach the podium, read my piece, and walk away happily, my shoes clapping along with the audience. But as I walked with the group to the auditorium, only about 200 meters or so, my arches began to tingle a bit. Up the stone steps and into the auditorium only proved worse. The entirety of both my feet were now screaming bloody murder, dying to be freed from the clutches of patent leather hell. But I smiled and sat down in my seat, a short rest for my parts. I writhed in the red velvet chair as the sharp sides rubbed against my skin, creating red blotches of what I knew would be boil-sized blisters in the morning. I waited nearly an hour for my name to arrive in the program, standing triumphantly and beginning my painful hobble towards the podium. Step one, smile. Step two, bite my tongue. Step three, cringe a little. Step four through ten was a near pregnant-waddle as I struggled to reach the wooden frame where I would clutch the sides, almost trying to pull myself off the ground as to float away from the daggers on my feet. I stopped, pulled the words out from the back of my throat, and stomped off stage in a near run, back into the plush velvet cushion. Collapsing, I kicked the buggers off and pushed them under me, defeated. If beauty is pain then I'll stick to being average.
I was never really one for wearing stilettos for big events other than weddings or a graduation. Impressions never really included how much height I added to my already 5'6'' frame until the perfect pair of black patent leather peep-toe heels were gracefully given to me by a close friend. They cradled my feet perfectly and made my calve muscles appear superhuman, giving me the supermodel legs I had always coveted. As they rode with me to writer's camp last summer I automatically knew in the back of my mind where they would come into play. Celebration is the final night of the camp session where a large amount of people sign up to read their work and showcase the talent of the group. This year I had chosen to read a longer piece of my own, prose, and very personal. The nearly two-hour ceremony would take place in front of the entire camp, as well as parents and other relatives that decided to come into town for the event. As I slipped on my heels I knew I was destined for the powerful, confident stride across the stage, where I would reach the podium, read my piece, and walk away happily, my shoes clapping along with the audience. But as I walked with the group to the auditorium, only about 200 meters or so, my arches began to tingle a bit. Up the stone steps and into the auditorium only proved worse. The entirety of both my feet were now screaming bloody murder, dying to be freed from the clutches of patent leather hell. But I smiled and sat down in my seat, a short rest for my parts. I writhed in the red velvet chair as the sharp sides rubbed against my skin, creating red blotches of what I knew would be boil-sized blisters in the morning. I waited nearly an hour for my name to arrive in the program, standing triumphantly and beginning my painful hobble towards the podium. Step one, smile. Step two, bite my tongue. Step three, cringe a little. Step four through ten was a near pregnant-waddle as I struggled to reach the wooden frame where I would clutch the sides, almost trying to pull myself off the ground as to float away from the daggers on my feet. I stopped, pulled the words out from the back of my throat, and stomped off stage in a near run, back into the plush velvet cushion. Collapsing, I kicked the buggers off and pushed them under me, defeated. If beauty is pain then I'll stick to being average.
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