The following is my tentative, in-progress miniature origin story for my writing class. Please feel free to critique or offer suggestions - constructive feedback only please; my poor little ego can't handle a beating.
I rang my clammy and shaking hands as I waited at the door in full counselor attire. It was hot for May that year. My shirt clung to me like a
frightened child to her mother in a room filled with strangers. Condensation
dripped from the toilet tanks. Lethargy crept up on us while fear of the
unknown kept it at bay. It was the first day of the camping season and my first
day as a camp counselor. In retrospect, it was a day filled with firsts: the
first time I’d been to camp, the first time I’d worked with people with
disabilities, the first time I’d done personal care…
12:55 pm. Any minute the campers and their caretakers
would inundate the Beehive, leaving us scrambling to find out who they were and
where they would be staying for the next 10 days. I looked around at my
colleagues, half of whom had done this all before; they laughed and carried on
as though this was nothing, a mere formality before routines could be
organized, plans could be made, and fun could be had. To me, it was
overwhelming.
As the day wore on and campers trickled in, I schlepped bags
and gear to our cabin, introduced myself to parents and family members in a
vain attempt to ensure their children or siblings were in competent hands for
the week. Our group was classified as having moderate to severe cognitive
delays; I guess easing us into the job was not a high priority.
Parents and caregivers soon departed, leaving their campers
in our questionably capable hands. I search for an ally, someone who looks as
nervous as I felt. I feel a tug at my sleeve – a camper. Is she in my cabin? I
check her name tag. Yes, she’s in the Castle. She attempts to sign something to
me, but I don’t understand ASL. I call for a veteran counselor who quickly
recognizes the sign: bathroom.
“I can do this”, I tell myself. It isn’t as though they’re
asking you to perform open heart surgery. I wheel her to the cabin, grabbing
another counselor on my way out. There’s no way I can do this alone.
Good for you, something on paper or internet as the case may be! Love the clinging shirt metaphor. Looking forward to talking our writing over in class. Hardest darn work I've done in a long time. I am echoing, with determination, your line "I can do this, I can do this." Sometimes it seems those little things are not so little, like taking kids to bathrooms or writing origin stories. Now I must go off to google "psychotherapist" "Halifax". :)
ReplyDeleteSee you Friday, Kathy K (sorry I'm signed in as HildaRose, oops, talk about origin problems)