Special Camp

I got down on my knees, unbuttoned his pants, and slid them to his ankles. There we were, alone in the bathroom at Knott’s Berry Farm. As I struggled to change his diaper, Sam let out a blood-curdling scream and ferociously bit the scarred part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. I tried, to no avail, to pull his pants up, to calm him, to do something to abate the panic overwhelming both of us. At the time, Sam was a six-year-old boy with autism. I was a first year counselor with no idea how to handle the situation before me. This was the first of my now five years with Special Camp for Special Kids, a non-profit organization that pairs a counselor with a child with a disability.

When I think back on my years with Special Camp, what I remember most are my campers’ laughs: Sam’s slow approach to a smile, then his quick, rhythmic laughter; Brianka’s hysterical giggles that followed us everywhere we went; Alexa’s shrieks as she clapped her hands and smiled; Scott’s slight smirk and low, quick laugh. Though our times together were not all joyful, those moments are what stand out most in my memory. What began as an educational summer experience has become the most formative adventure of my life.

At Camp, I have been hit, spit at, bitten, cursed at, and kicked. I have had to talk even if I got not response, and act calm even if I wasn't. So why do I do it? The truth of the matter is that Special Camp has made as much of an impact on my life as it has on the campers’ lives. It has given me tremendous insight and perspective into many facets of life, with or without a disability.

“Get a real disability!” A man in a wheelchair screamed at us for using a disability pass to get my group on a roller coaster because he felt his broken leg was more of a disability than autism. “It’s not fair! What’s wrong with me?” Alexa wept as she watched other campers run into the ocean, confined to her wheelchair by cerebral palsy. “Give him some sedatives! He should be in an institution!” The exasperated woman at the bowling alley shrieked at me as one of our campers ran across the top of her lane. These are the moments that cause my face to redden and my stomach to tighten; I feel the hatred and stereotypes that these children deal with continuously. These moments are not like a difficult exam or opening night of a play: they are piercing and illuminating, showing you life through another’s eyes, thus forcing you to more clearly see life through your own.

Reflecting on my years with Special Camp, I recognize that I have changed and grown in ways that I never could have imagined. I have learned to accept and embrace those who are different from me, and to value the new ways of seeing the world that they offer. I have learned how to remain calm in even the most frustrating of circumstances. I have learned to relish even the smallest of successes. Hearing Sam, whose severe autism limited his vocabulary to three words, say my name unprompted was as rewarding as any other possible achievement. My experiences with the campers have taught me how to show as well as tell my feelings, and how to be sensitive and compassionate in any circumstance. Special Camp has truly revealed to me the lasting influence that one person can have on another – the influence I have had on my campers, and the influence my campers have had on me. I can think of no better example of this than my experience as Sam’s counselor. I initially struggled to connect with Sam, each day bringing in a new assortment of books and music for him. Eventually, I brought in an Enya CD, thinking that this music might reach him. He listened to it every day, and I gave him his own Enya CD as a gift at the conclusion of camp. When I saw him walk into camp the following year with his mother, I immediately noticed that he had headphones on. I walked quickly over to them, and as I hugged him, I could hear Enya emanating from his headphones. A huge smile came over my face as I realized that Sam was still listening to the CD that I had given him. It is moments like this that make me return to camp every year - the moments of human connection that make the moments of struggle fade away.