When I was in I think kindergarten and first grade, my brother and I went to Day Camp during the summer; I think this was one of my mother’s futile attempts to force me to be outgoing.  She put me into these painful social situations that were, for other kids, more opportunities to bully me, and, for me, more opportunities to make a complete fool of myself and feel rejected.  From what I recall, day camp was not as painful as being at school, because kids were actually fairly nice to me at day camp, although I certainly wasn’t the social butterfly.  I do remember a girl who walked alongside me and talked to me, although I didn’t speak.  And  I remember sitting on a bench with a girl who had what looked to me like a horrible disfigurement on her knees, a strange pale texture, and she explained what happened—I think it was an allergic reaction to something.

On a more negative side, I remember playing the game Red Rover that I was terrified of, both in day camp and in school.  It involves two rows of kids facing each other and holding hands, in two chains, and one side would say, “Red Rover, Red Rover, now come on over,” or something like that.  A kid from the opposite row would run over and attempt to break through the chain, pushing into kid’s arms and hands.  I didn’t like this game because it was painful on my hands and arms, so I was always very scared when it was time to play this game.  I recall sitting on a large tree stump in the distance while the other kids were playing it in day camp; maybe I had refused to play and a teacher labeled me “willful” or “stubborn,” but at least I wasn’t playing that painful game.  I remember in school other kids figured out that I didn’t hold on very tight (after all, I figured if I held on loosely and let them break the connection, then it would be less painful.  Ironically, since other kids figured out that I held on so loosely, they took advantage and aimed for my arm and hand.  I not only felt physically hurt, but also emotionally; my team members no doubt didn’t appreciate my loose hold and labeled me a wimp and a loser.  Again, I was completely unaccepted and rejected and ridiculed when I wanted to be accepted and appreciated.

On the last day of day camp during our first summer, parents were allowed to go to the farm and see what went on in day camp.  My parents, or at least my mother (since my dad was largely absent throughout my childhood) participated and walked around in the woods.  Strangely, I felt more confident than usual and actually spoke a little, and I remember a boy my brother’s age being really surprised and excited at finally hearing me speak.  Going by my memory, there wasn’t any malice in his behavior, and I think it surprised me that he wasn’t being mean or malicious like boys normally were.  Plus he was an older boy at that, and I always looked up at older kids and assumed that they were superior to me and of course smarter than me, since everyone "knew" I was incredibly stupid. 

I’m not sure why having my mother there made me feel more confident; maybe this because it was such a pleasant surprise to have my mother actually showing interest in what I did all day. 

I remember that out in the woods there was a big, brightly colored target for archery.  We were expected to try archery in day camp, even though I tried it as an adult at an SCA event about a decade ago and discovered that it’s really hard to do even if you’re an adult.  In day camp, I don’t recall the actual process of my attempting to use the bow and arrow, but I do remember looking down and seeing an arrow stuck in the dirt, before I pulled it out. 

In the car one day, my brother told my mother what colors he got on the target.  My mother asked me what colors I hit, and I said, “Green and brown.”  My mother was a little slow to figure out that I was referring to grass and dirt, but when she knew that was what I meant, she thought it was hilarious. As usual, I felt like I was being compared to my brother and labeled inferior; on top of that, my mother was laughing at me.

My mother told people this story, and I do remember her talking to me about it years later and saying that it seemed like such a clever thing for a six-year-old to say.  I was probably a teenager when she told me this, and even then I didn’t speak up to point out that I found the whole thing deeply humiliating.  How could she not think that I found this humiliating?  Easy:  she never took my emotions into account, never considered my emotions or my perspective, never admitted that I even have a right to have emotions.  I certainly didn’t know how to express myself in speech; I only knew how to express myself artistically, and I was extremely escapist, living in my dream worlds.

 

The worst memory I have concerning day camp was an incident on the bus from the day camp site; we took a bus from the YMCA in town to the day camp farm out in the country.  On one of the occasions that we were riding the bus to or from the summer camp, I remember the bus was very crowded and I was perched on the edge and sitting sideways with my legs in the aisle.  I turned to look at the kids in the seat behind me, and I had seen them several times before:  they were two blonde boys and one blonde girl. 

Since these three kids looked a lot alike, they were probably siblings, but I didn’t realize that and was weirded out by the fact that these boys were willing to be friends with a girl.  I thought about how it was so strange that some people could so effortlessly get acceptance, while I could never be accepted, could never be treated in a nice and friendly manner by anyone.  I could never have friends, while for other people it seemed so easy to have friends.  Where these three kids were concerned, I didn’t see how they fit in with the usual misogyny that boys vented on me, and I felt very sad about this; I don’t think I felt truly jealous.  Apparently I must have looked at these blonde children for more than thirty seconds while I was pondering about all this, namely about why boys with their bizarre delusions of superiority would associate with this particular girl.

I had already noticed that, for no apparent reason, boys had a completely inexplicable contempt for girls just because we were girls.  I had already noticed misogyny by the time I was six years old!  It’s not as though subtle.  So there I was on the bus, looking at these kids and wishing boys and people in general were nice to me and accepted me and would be my friends instead of my enemiws—although I don’t think my mental dialogue put it into those words exactly. 

Suddenly, one of the boys poked me in the eyes.  This was excruciatingly painful, and I closed my eyes tight and quickly turned away and hung my head.  I heard what I think was a girl objecting to this sadistic boy’s behavior, and him defending it, saying, “She was staring at us.”  I didn’t want to be there with those people on that crowded bus.  I wanted someone motherly to comfort me, but I don’t remember anyone doing so.  Nobody cared.  

That’s when I stopped trying to make eye contact with people and started hanging my head or at least casting down my eyes, as if I were in a continual state of shame.  I remember some of my childhood photos show me with my eyes cast down and hair in my face.  I did not seriously believe the outrageous and insane lie that boys are better than girls; it’s just that I didn’t want anyone to hurt me, either physically or emotionally.  I wanted to be safe.  I still have trouble making eye contact with people, and I tend to be uncomfortable if someone looks at me without blinking, even when they’re not hostile.

 

Day Camp wasn’t the only situation where my needs and emotions were completely dismissed by the adults in my life, but it is a vivid example.  I find it disturbing how normal it is in our culture for people to have children and, by the time the child is about one and a half years old, to completely disregard the child’s needs and emotions.  At about that age, we realize that we’re on our own and begin to wear a mask, a persona, in a futile attempt to get acceptance from the people around us, especially our parents.  Safety is a very basic need, right after water, food, and shelter, and yet most people in our high-tech society are struggling with safety, thanks to what happened in their early childhood.  This is something that definitely needs to change in our culture.

 

Recommended Reading:

Miller, Alice.  The Drama of the Gifted Child. (And anything else by this author.)