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It’s raining, again. Outdoor activities canceled, again. No swimming, no tennis, no horseback riding. I want to ride Scout, my horse. I do NOT want to play jacks or make any more lanyards.
My bunk is unheated and it’s cold and gray.
I am 11 years old. Finally, proudly, I am a Senior Camper, now entitled to many privileges, none of which I remember. After several rainy days in a row, perhaps fearing a Senior Camper mutiny, the directors rent a yellow school bus and drive us into town. We are going to the movies! The bus bristles with excitement as we sing Peter, Paul and Mary songs, braid each other’s hair and talk about the boys who sit at the back of the bus.
With a warning to behave quietly during the movie -OR ELSE- we find our seats. On comes The Days of Wine and Roses, a movie about the destruction of a married couple who spiral into alcoholism. This devastating drama has no happy ending. I had never seen anything like it; I am mesmerized.
My fellow campers are having none of this stupid movie. While they laugh as the couple’s lives deteriorate, I sit quietly, wondering why. Why do they drink so much? Why can’t they stop? Why do they hurt themselves and the people they love? Why am I so intrigued?
During that 2-hour film I realize more than ever that I am not like the other kids. What’s new is that I don’t want to be. I am a different kind of Senior and, even if it’s a struggle, I’m beginning to learn to be okay with that.
It was at this movie, without my realizing it, that my psychoanalytic self was born. I wanted to understand. I still do.