I work at a day camp, and one of our CITs (counselors in training) is trans male. I personally think he looks very masculine, but apparently, the kids in his class don’t because they constantly misgender him. This week was especially bad, which I eventually learned was because one of the other CITs was openly encouraging the campers to call him a girl. Today, the transgender CIT is wearing a green camp employee T-shirt, short black athletic shorts, and an expensive brand of athletic shoes.

One of the adult counselors in that class is also trans male, but he’s post-transition with a beard and can’t be mistaken for a woman. He is wearing the exact same green camp employee T-shirt, short black athletic shorts, a baseball cap, and Crocs.

We are all on the playground. One of the kids is sitting on a bench swing with the transphobic CIT — so, in retrospect, I think he was egging the camper on — and refers to the trans CIT as “her”.

Me: “[CIT] is a boy.”

Camper: “She looks like a girl.”

Me: “Sometimes boys look like girls, and sometimes girls look like boys. But he’s a boy.”

Camper: “Well, I think she’s a girl.”

Counselor: “Why?”

Camper: “She has girl clothes.”

Counselor: “We’re wearing the exact same clothes!”

The camper stops to look at them and thinks about how he can explain why one of them is a boy and the other is a girl.

Camper: *Triumphantly* “Your shoes are different!”

Me: “So, Crocs make you a boy?!”

Since then, I’ve referred to the CIT as Mr. [CIT], the same as I refer to the adults, and it seems to have helped. Also, the transphobic CIT hasn’t come back.

We used to have a campground that also had a pool. In November, we shut the campground down, for a myriad of reasons, but specifically, we were tired of running something that did not make money.

Then, I got the phone calls.

Caller: “Yes, we haven’t been to your campground in eight years or so, but we’d like to make a reservation.”

Me: “I’m afraid that we’ve closed the campground down.”

Caller: “What?!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but our campground is closed down.”

You would’ve thought I had shot their mother.

Caller: “What the f*** do you mean, you’ve shut the campground down?! Why would you do that?!”

Me: “We just couldn’t afford to keep running it.”

Caller: “But why?! People go there all the time! We rely on you to be open!”

Me: “You haven’t been here in eight years, you said?”

Caller: *Click*

This happened at scout camp in the early 1980s. In addition to our troop, we had one scout from a different troop entirely camping with us. (I never did find out why.) He was from London, and he was constantly bragging about how tough it was there in the east end and how tough he was for living there. He’d brag about all the fights he’d won, the dangerous gangs there, and so much more. It was all he’d ever talk about when we were out of earshot of the leaders.

This camp, by the way, was in Suffolk, which is about as far removed from any metropolitan life as possible.

At one point, amidst his latest embiggening of himself, [Scout] pointed at scrawny timid me and said:

Scout: “You’d never survive one minute in Leyton. Where are you from?”

Me: “Actually, I was born there and lived there for several years.”

Everyone else laughed at him for that, and he FINALLY shut up about blasted Leyton!

I was talking to a coworker who grew up in a different country. He is always blunt with his wording, though I cannot decide if it is a cultural difference and I’m not used to it or if he knows what he’s doing and just doesn’t care who he offends. I do have several coworkers from the same country, and they are all pretty blunt, but none are quite like him.

Me: “I met my husband at summer camp. We—”

Coworker: “Summer camping? You met him in the woods?”

Me: “Yeah, summer camp. It’s, like… Kids come from all over to spend the summer doing nature stuff, crafts, games, etc. You don’t have, like, sleepaway camps?”

Coworker: “No. Our parents want to spend time with us.” *Laughs*

Me: “Yeah, well, this is America. We don’t get enough time off to do that.”

Coworker: “Another reason the American employment system is bulls***. No time for family.”

Me: “You came here. Must not be that bad.”

Coworker: “Well… Okay, you win this one. But summer camp is still stupid!”

Me: “Okay, [Coworker].”

I am the oldest of seven children. For my parents, having so many children meant that taking vacations was challenging — both because of cost as well as simple logistics.

One summer, when I am sixteen or seventeen, my parents had the bright idea to go camping for a few days up in the mountains near our home. Please note that my parents are not campers. They have to borrow a tent and most of the items needed for camping. They borrow a six-man tent and figure that it will hold us given that my younger brothers and sisters are small. My father has a few cows and a horse on a hobby farm that he owns, and he decides we will pack the horse and use it to haul the camping equipment into the campsite.

The day dawns, and my parents pack us tightly into a truck being used to haul the horse trailer to the trailhead. We get the horse all packed up and set out: Mom, Dad, and seven children ranging in age from seventeen to two.  

Five minutes later, the entire pack slides off the horse and onto the ground. My dad repacks the horse, and we set off again.

About thirty minutes later, the horse sits down and won’t get up.  

The pack is just too heavy for the animal, so we have to take some of it off and distribute the camping gear amongst those of us who can haul it. My youngest sister (the two-year-old) obviously can’t hike, and she is passed around from back to back. My next youngest sister (who is five) starts getting tired, and soon the oldest of the kids are all packing camping gear AND two children, switching off from time to time. We probably end up hiking for about ten minutes and resting for about fifteen.  

We finally arrive at the place where we are to camp, completely exhausted. Amazingly, the tent goes up without too much trouble, and we all start exploring the area.

At this point, I see my dad pull out a rifle.  

Me: “What’s that for?”

Dad: “Well, there are bears around here.”  

Me: “Bears?! Where did you get the gun?”

Dad: “From your uncle.”

Mom: “You’ve never shot a gun in your life.”

Dad: “It’ll be fine. Plus, the horse will warn us if anything comes by.”

I went to bed that night with the realization that the only thing between me and death by carnivore was a thin tent, a tired horse, and an inexperienced rifleman.

We quickly discovered that the six-man tent was NOT big enough to accommodate us all. We were jammed into the tent like sardines with wiggly little bodies. I was pushed up against the side of the tent and found myself on a slight incline with my head going down. I spent the whole night that way.

But amazingly, I got more sleep than my dad did; I found out later that he spent all night long sitting up at night sounds with the rifle in both hands. (Years later, it sank in the potential disaster that might have resulted from a nervous man with a loaded rifle sitting in a tent full of little kids. Yikes!)  

Well, no bears attacked, and we woke up the next morning sore and tired and cranky. My mother tried to make pancakes over the fire, but they either stuck or burned, and my younger siblings whined about smoke getting in their eyes. My parents scrapped the plans to stay a few days. We hiked back out that morning and went to an amusement park.

My family never went camping again.