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A Cry Heard Round The World: Kim Sun-Il died desperate and alone, but he did not die unheard.
Looking At And Longing For Mars: Reflections on a childhood dream.
A Robot May Not Harm a Human Being. Is The Opposite True?: Thoughts on the future rights of artificial intelligence.
Long After The Boys Of Summer Have Gone: What makes a relationship work?
Winter Of Our Feline Discontent: What the cat wants, the cat gets. But what DOES it want?
To Tell The Truth: There may be no honor among thieves, but can't we find it even in a few good men and women?
Should The Human Brain Retire?: We know that we cannot win forever. We know that machines will continue to improve. So why don't we let the human brain retire gracefully now, with honors?
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Published: Sep 16, 2005 01:40 PM
Sun - January 18, 2004
My Big Fat Camp Wedding--Part II
This post is the second part of an
absolutely true three-part story. It won't make much sense unless you've read
the first segment, which you'll find here.
Kessler
investigated the theft with fearsome zeal. His interrogations of fellow
campers, conducted with all the passion of the Red Scare Hearings, might have
been amusing if he had only lost a cookie and not his mind. Yet something was
clearly wrong. His property had been violated, yes, but the thief had also
challenged the source of his power over others and realizing the precariousness
of his social position had left him even more unbalanced than
usual.
He told no counselors what had happened. Instead, he waited three days until they were away for a half hour at their weekly staff meeting, then gathered us at his bunk, shoe box and accusation in hand.
"I know who took my cookie," he said.
"Who?" we all cried.
"YOU!" Kessler pointed at me. "You took my cookie and now you're going to pay!"
I protested my innocence, demanded his proof.
"There's your PROOF," he jabbed me in the gut. "You're the FAT KID. Who ELSE would have taken it?"
I was not guilty, and the inference from my weight seemed farfetched even to my child self. But Kessler could not be dissuaded. "You took my cookie," he repeated, "and you're going to PAY!" He held the shoe box above his head like the Ten Commandments. "I'll give two cookies to anyone who helps me hold Ron down!" Two cookies for bringing a thief to justice? Two cookies and the potential for more? My cabin mates set upon me like wolves. In moments, I lay pinned beneath a half dozen bodies.
A physical attack that injured me might have brought the counselors' wrath upon him. So Kessler opted for psychological torture. Above my protests, he dispatched two boys to run around the camp spreading rumors about me. I don't remember most of them, but the rumor in chief was the meanest, nastiest gossip a boy could imagine: That I was in love with a girl and wanted to kiss her. "Tell them he's really in love," Kessler screamed. "Tell them he wants to marry Pluto!"
The female subject of this rant—no god of the underworld—was a counselor in her late teens who worked in the cafeteria. I don't know her real name because counselors at Beaverbrook chose "indian" names to use while working with the campers. These so-called "indian" names usually had no connection with Native American culture at all. Some counselors selected popular brand names, such as "Ajax," "Levi," and "Harley". Some used city names, like "Detroit." And a few chose the names of mythological figures or cartoon animals. Hence, "Pluto".
In twenty minutes or so the damage was done and my cabin released me, physically unharmed, to face the embarrassment of living in a summer camp abuzz with tantalizing rumors. The first few days were the hardest. Wherever I went, kids pointed to me, giggling. Whenever I used the cafeteria, I avoided Pluto's line. My face burned with embarrassment whenever girl campers looked at me and puckered their lips, which was often. I felt miserable. But of course, I told the counselors nothing of my predicament. Tattling was worth than theft. Tattling was akin to kissing girls. Strictly verboten. Yet even as adversity chained my tongue, my pain set Kessler free. Although he had nearly exhausted his cookie supply to make it possible, seeing someone else ostracized unfairly made him feel safe again.
This might have been the end of the story had one counselor not noticed my plight and taken me aside to ask what was going on. "Squeegee" was one of the elder counselors, well-regarded by staff and by campers alike. He looked and acted like a teenage John Ritter: Soft spoken and understanding, with a flair for humor and a hint of impishness. I told him nothing at first. But when he offered me candy, promised not to tell a soul what I shared with him, and swore not to punish anyone no matter what I said, I sang like a bird.
"Well," said Squeegee when I had finished. "I guess you'll just have to go through with it."
"Go through with what?"
"Marrying Pluto, of course."
Marrying Pluto! Was he daft? Had he understood nothing I'd told him? I would sooner rip my heart from its rib cage than to—
"When life throws you a curve ball," Squeegee interrupted, "you have to make the most of what you've got. I'm your friend. I don't want to see you hurt. And believe me, the best thing you can do right now is marry Pluto. Trust me on this."
His sincerity and my desperation left no room for disagreement.
[Second of three parts. Read the conclusion here.]
He told no counselors what had happened. Instead, he waited three days until they were away for a half hour at their weekly staff meeting, then gathered us at his bunk, shoe box and accusation in hand.
"I know who took my cookie," he said.
"Who?" we all cried.
"YOU!" Kessler pointed at me. "You took my cookie and now you're going to pay!"
I protested my innocence, demanded his proof.
"There's your PROOF," he jabbed me in the gut. "You're the FAT KID. Who ELSE would have taken it?"
I was not guilty, and the inference from my weight seemed farfetched even to my child self. But Kessler could not be dissuaded. "You took my cookie," he repeated, "and you're going to PAY!" He held the shoe box above his head like the Ten Commandments. "I'll give two cookies to anyone who helps me hold Ron down!" Two cookies for bringing a thief to justice? Two cookies and the potential for more? My cabin mates set upon me like wolves. In moments, I lay pinned beneath a half dozen bodies.
A physical attack that injured me might have brought the counselors' wrath upon him. So Kessler opted for psychological torture. Above my protests, he dispatched two boys to run around the camp spreading rumors about me. I don't remember most of them, but the rumor in chief was the meanest, nastiest gossip a boy could imagine: That I was in love with a girl and wanted to kiss her. "Tell them he's really in love," Kessler screamed. "Tell them he wants to marry Pluto!"
The female subject of this rant—no god of the underworld—was a counselor in her late teens who worked in the cafeteria. I don't know her real name because counselors at Beaverbrook chose "indian" names to use while working with the campers. These so-called "indian" names usually had no connection with Native American culture at all. Some counselors selected popular brand names, such as "Ajax," "Levi," and "Harley". Some used city names, like "Detroit." And a few chose the names of mythological figures or cartoon animals. Hence, "Pluto".
In twenty minutes or so the damage was done and my cabin released me, physically unharmed, to face the embarrassment of living in a summer camp abuzz with tantalizing rumors. The first few days were the hardest. Wherever I went, kids pointed to me, giggling. Whenever I used the cafeteria, I avoided Pluto's line. My face burned with embarrassment whenever girl campers looked at me and puckered their lips, which was often. I felt miserable. But of course, I told the counselors nothing of my predicament. Tattling was worth than theft. Tattling was akin to kissing girls. Strictly verboten. Yet even as adversity chained my tongue, my pain set Kessler free. Although he had nearly exhausted his cookie supply to make it possible, seeing someone else ostracized unfairly made him feel safe again.
This might have been the end of the story had one counselor not noticed my plight and taken me aside to ask what was going on. "Squeegee" was one of the elder counselors, well-regarded by staff and by campers alike. He looked and acted like a teenage John Ritter: Soft spoken and understanding, with a flair for humor and a hint of impishness. I told him nothing at first. But when he offered me candy, promised not to tell a soul what I shared with him, and swore not to punish anyone no matter what I said, I sang like a bird.
"Well," said Squeegee when I had finished. "I guess you'll just have to go through with it."
"Go through with what?"
"Marrying Pluto, of course."
Marrying Pluto! Was he daft? Had he understood nothing I'd told him? I would sooner rip my heart from its rib cage than to—
"When life throws you a curve ball," Squeegee interrupted, "you have to make the most of what you've got. I'm your friend. I don't want to see you hurt. And believe me, the best thing you can do right now is marry Pluto. Trust me on this."
His sincerity and my desperation left no room for disagreement.
[Second of three parts. Read the conclusion here.]