Chinese Youth Camp is over.
When I applied for UT, I had to write two essays. One of which the topic I chose to write about was "defecation." And I wrote about camp in the other one.
This year was my last and I can't sum up this week in one entry or any of the years in one entry. But I can say that I will miss the children more than anything else.
I didn't take the crapload of pictures that I did last year and I'm betting I'll regret that later. I didn't bond with my group as I did last year and I hope that didn't ruin anything for my campers. But I will still miss the chaos, the butt-tag, the cuteness, the winning streak of my group (cuz GROUP 7 JUST CANT BE BEAT), and my cafeteria-lady friend =).
We were standing in the empty auditorium, the campers all signed out, the advisors and staff gone. The seniors cried and cried and hugged and hugged and took pictures of our disgusting selves. And now I'm back in Houston (awaiting those "reunions" in Sugarland (because that's where all you whores live) and missing it all.
From childhood, attending Chinese Youth Camp became a defining aspect of my life. Chinese Youth Camp, better known as CYC is an annual weeklong camp created twenty years ago by the collaboration of all the Greater Houston Area Chinese schools. Children ages 9-18 gather together for a week to learn Chinese culture, play, and socialize. I have attended camp for nearly a decade, starting at the age of nine. For the last two years I have served as an Assistant Counselor and Counselor. Needless to say, it is something I look forward to each passing year. This summer will be my last year, which leaves me both excited and depressed. Camp is something that I complain about while I am there but return to year after year. Last summer I was assigned to care for the youngest group of campers, who were nine years old, adorable, huggable, loud, vibrant, impressionable, and I would be dishonest if I did not say they were also obnoxious. I spent every second of my week with them, at times as their hostage. The CYC coordinators neglected to mention to the Counselor applicants, that the job required being a “Human Tree,” a nutritionist, an “Airplane,” love consultant, and a marathon runner. I did not need a gym membership that summer when I had my own personal trainers; twenty of them that got my blood pumping with weightlifting and running. How many times can a nine year old ask for a piggy-back ride? I would have to say, “Too many.” At the ripe age of nine, my campers were “falling in love” with their camp boyfriends and girlfriends, I never imagined giving love advice to my campers. One even insisted that he was “big pimping on all the fine ladies,” and came to me for advice on how to ward them away because in reality he was still afraid of girls. The coordinators also mentioned bringing along an alarm clock that I never used during the week. I received a personalized wake-up call, an hour before my alarm clock would ring with two to three campers leaping onto my bed, often using me to cushion their fall. If I refused to remove myself from bed after their bombardment, they banged upon the door and screamed my name. By the end of camp, I was informed that the first floor had grown sick of hearing my name screeched out in high-pitched voices at the crack of dawn. When another group of campers fell ill, vitamins and numerous trips to the washroom were included in the schedule. Even before the epidemic, I had to remove the ten chocolate cakes from their trays, put a banana, orange, or apple in its place, and ask them each day if their bowels were functioning properly, but in less scientific terms. In return for my care, I was rewarded with massages, drawings, teasing, and hugs. Seeing how I was responsible for my campers’ smiles and laughter and receiving their respect made me feel good deep down inside. However, my campers were not the only aspect of camp that left an impact on me. From my first year to today, I credit each individual I have met at camp to shaping a large part of me. CYC gave me the opportunity to become friends with girls and boys that I would not have been able to meet from school. I met older and younger people that have given me advice or received advice from me. Together, once a year, just for one week we reunite and marvel at the changes and growth. I have not forgotten the people that I had played with and confided in, even after we had lost contact after several years. The world is a tiny place, and I have run into camp friends at grocery stores, parties, and restaurants. On each occasion I have managed to recall their names or, at the very least, camp memories that included them. After camp is over, I still manage to make time in my schedule to reunite with CYC people, and whether it is a short lunch or an entire afternoon lounging at someone’s house, each minute together is cherished and a memento of the fun times at camp. During the Labor Day weekend last year, the Counselors and Assistant Counselors organized a reunion in Austin. In our host’s house we had twenty people living like a large family, cooking together, shopping together, playing board games together, sleeping in beds and couches together, and looking after one another. I will never forget the people that made me smile when I was a camper or the people that I made smile, my own campers. Camp has taught me a lot, not only about Chinese culture, but about life. Camp has prepared me for children who consume sugar packets and soda for breakfast, unidentifiable cafeteria food, screaming females scared of roaches, the roaches themselves, insubordinate campers who spew vulgar words from their mouths, women who do not know the proper way to dispose of their sanitary napkins, little boys with colds who like to consume the gifts their noses leave them, arrogant staff members who think they are perfect, mile walks from dormitory to classrooms, roommates who enjoy waking up before dawn to shower and blow dry their hair, clogged toilets, un-flushed toilets, swimming pool “ninjas” who leap onto my back in attempt to drown me, singing alarm clocks, dirty underwear on the floor that I know are not mine, and mornings where I wake up feeling as if I never went to bed. [College will be mere child’s play, bring it on.]
Thank you CYC for all the good times and the bad.
This year was my last and I can't sum up this week in one entry or any of the years in one entry. But I can say that I will miss the children more than anything else.
I didn't take the crapload of pictures that I did last year and I'm betting I'll regret that later. I didn't bond with my group as I did last year and I hope that didn't ruin anything for my campers. But I will still miss the chaos, the butt-tag, the cuteness, the winning streak of my group (cuz GROUP 7 JUST CANT BE BEAT), and my cafeteria-lady friend =).
We were standing in the empty auditorium, the campers all signed out, the advisors and staff gone. The seniors cried and cried and hugged and hugged and took pictures of our disgusting selves. And now I'm back in Houston (awaiting those "reunions" in Sugarland (because that's where all you whores live) and missing it all.
From childhood, attending Chinese Youth Camp became a defining aspect of my life. Chinese Youth Camp, better known as CYC is an annual weeklong camp created twenty years ago by the collaboration of all the Greater Houston Area Chinese schools. Children ages 9-18 gather together for a week to learn Chinese culture, play, and socialize. I have attended camp for nearly a decade, starting at the age of nine. For the last two years I have served as an Assistant Counselor and Counselor. Needless to say, it is something I look forward to each passing year. This summer will be my last year, which leaves me both excited and depressed. Camp is something that I complain about while I am there but return to year after year. Last summer I was assigned to care for the youngest group of campers, who were nine years old, adorable, huggable, loud, vibrant, impressionable, and I would be dishonest if I did not say they were also obnoxious. I spent every second of my week with them, at times as their hostage. The CYC coordinators neglected to mention to the Counselor applicants, that the job required being a “Human Tree,” a nutritionist, an “Airplane,” love consultant, and a marathon runner. I did not need a gym membership that summer when I had my own personal trainers; twenty of them that got my blood pumping with weightlifting and running. How many times can a nine year old ask for a piggy-back ride? I would have to say, “Too many.” At the ripe age of nine, my campers were “falling in love” with their camp boyfriends and girlfriends, I never imagined giving love advice to my campers. One even insisted that he was “big pimping on all the fine ladies,” and came to me for advice on how to ward them away because in reality he was still afraid of girls. The coordinators also mentioned bringing along an alarm clock that I never used during the week. I received a personalized wake-up call, an hour before my alarm clock would ring with two to three campers leaping onto my bed, often using me to cushion their fall. If I refused to remove myself from bed after their bombardment, they banged upon the door and screamed my name. By the end of camp, I was informed that the first floor had grown sick of hearing my name screeched out in high-pitched voices at the crack of dawn. When another group of campers fell ill, vitamins and numerous trips to the washroom were included in the schedule. Even before the epidemic, I had to remove the ten chocolate cakes from their trays, put a banana, orange, or apple in its place, and ask them each day if their bowels were functioning properly, but in less scientific terms. In return for my care, I was rewarded with massages, drawings, teasing, and hugs. Seeing how I was responsible for my campers’ smiles and laughter and receiving their respect made me feel good deep down inside. However, my campers were not the only aspect of camp that left an impact on me. From my first year to today, I credit each individual I have met at camp to shaping a large part of me. CYC gave me the opportunity to become friends with girls and boys that I would not have been able to meet from school. I met older and younger people that have given me advice or received advice from me. Together, once a year, just for one week we reunite and marvel at the changes and growth. I have not forgotten the people that I had played with and confided in, even after we had lost contact after several years. The world is a tiny place, and I have run into camp friends at grocery stores, parties, and restaurants. On each occasion I have managed to recall their names or, at the very least, camp memories that included them. After camp is over, I still manage to make time in my schedule to reunite with CYC people, and whether it is a short lunch or an entire afternoon lounging at someone’s house, each minute together is cherished and a memento of the fun times at camp. During the Labor Day weekend last year, the Counselors and Assistant Counselors organized a reunion in Austin. In our host’s house we had twenty people living like a large family, cooking together, shopping together, playing board games together, sleeping in beds and couches together, and looking after one another. I will never forget the people that made me smile when I was a camper or the people that I made smile, my own campers. Camp has taught me a lot, not only about Chinese culture, but about life. Camp has prepared me for children who consume sugar packets and soda for breakfast, unidentifiable cafeteria food, screaming females scared of roaches, the roaches themselves, insubordinate campers who spew vulgar words from their mouths, women who do not know the proper way to dispose of their sanitary napkins, little boys with colds who like to consume the gifts their noses leave them, arrogant staff members who think they are perfect, mile walks from dormitory to classrooms, roommates who enjoy waking up before dawn to shower and blow dry their hair, clogged toilets, un-flushed toilets, swimming pool “ninjas” who leap onto my back in attempt to drown me, singing alarm clocks, dirty underwear on the floor that I know are not mine, and mornings where I wake up feeling as if I never went to bed. [College will be mere child’s play, bring it on.]
Thank you CYC for all the good times and the bad.