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Saturday June 18^th

 

It was only yesterday, whilst packing, that mum was questioning why my case was almost as big as me. “I don’t want to forget anything” I said. True to form she replied with a question I simply couldn’t answer “Why are you packing four tubs of wax? Do you think they won’t sell it in America?” She had a point. So thinking I was clever, I left with the bare essentials. It wasn’t until I unpacked on the other side of the Atlantic that I realised how poorly prepared I was for the summer. The flight was a long six hours, contributing more towards my narcoleptic and unaware state. I like to consider myself a pretty well organised person, but must admit to being anything but that when I arrived in New York.

 

With just a can of deodorant, a tube of Colgate and a bar of soap between me and a drastic decline in personal hygiene, I had to get supplies. In addition to this, the summer camp suggested that all workers buy a sleeping bag, torch, tent and other general camping equipment which we would obviously need. Needless to say I had none of these. Armed with a personal stereo and rather cleverly no form of music to listen to, I found myself adding CD’s to my ever-growing list. However, after taking a look at my funds for this emergency shopping trip, I realised that there was no need to use the plural. So I had to choose one album from a Wal-Mart selection of what looked like thousands. Although the problem was made slightly easier when I realised I was restricted to the ten dollar section. I began searching through and eventually narrowed it down to either Bonjovi or The Beatles. Due to the latter having almost twice as many tracks as the Bonjovi album and with the slightest notion of patriotism, I went for The Beatles.

 

Saturday June 25^th

 

Orientation week is now over, with the kids due to arrive today. Some people were nervous, but I remember looking forward to their arrival. The last week had been good for meeting people and an obvious necessity, considering we were going to have to work with each other for nine weeks. However, seven days of playing football and taking a three mile walk to the nearest store soon became a little repetitive.  The whole experience was beginning to feel like a poor reality TV show.

 

The majority of the kids were due to arrive by bus between 12-2pm, with the minority to be dropped off by their parents. I remember seeing the three buses pull into the camp’s entrance.  We were told that when the buses pass by we were to wave and not be fazed by the kids’ response to our greetings. So as told, we wore our best smiles and waved with as much enthusiasm as we could muster. They passed by wearing vacant expressions and continued on what felt like a conveyer belt of confusion. With approximately one in ten children responding to our waves, I began to wonder what I had let myself in for.

 

The first kid I met at Camp was Charlie Taylor. He stepped off the bus and began to shout and smile with what I think was excitement at arriving at camp. He was swinging his arms aimlessly while pacing the perimeter of the bus which he had departed. I looked at the next batch of kids who seemed far more controlled than Charlie. He then reappeared at the front of the coach having gone full circle. He continued to pace up and down shouting out something which I think nobody understood but Charlie himself. His hollering was only disrupted by an occasional laugh which confused us on-looking workers even more. Watching the others arrive and keeping one eye on Charlie, it seemed that he was one of the more ‘dysfunctional’ campers. Still pacing around the outside of the bus and now having added a random clap to his laughing and shouting routine, I thought “Please don’t let me have him-anyone but him.” Concerned by the odds of having Charlie as one of my campers, I did a quick calculation. One hundred and sixty something kids and I will be responsible for eight, which gave me a one in twenty chance of having him. Good odds… I thought. Sure enough Charlie was with me, my first sign that it was going to be a very eventful summer.

 

Saturday June 25^th-Later

 

The daily schedules which we were told to be of the utmost importance to the kids, were yet to be put into effect. In the meantime to establish a sense of familiarity between them and the camp, we were told to invite any questions which they had. This proved both an eye-opening and entertaining exercise. In reply to my attempt at showing an interest and encouraging them to talk as much as possible, I received my own set of questions and remarks. These included: 

 

“Is it gay for a brother and sister to kiss?”

 

“What time is dinner?”

 

and…

 

“I like wrestling, Lindsey Lohan and I also watch a lot of porn too.”

 

To which I replied:

 

“No”.

 

“Five o’clock.”

 

and…

 

“Well it’s good to have an interest in different things.”

 

Behind the sarcastic cover-ups, I thought ‘what the fuck have I just been asked?’ Naturally I was fine with the dinner time question, but discussing gay and incest issues was something I wasn’t prepared to do. I also wasn’t big on the idea of entering a ‘who watches the most porn’ competition. Typical me really, using sarcasm in response to a particularly difficult or in this case odd question.

 

Today was a drastic shock to us workers’ systems- having a week of boredom ended by the crash landing of eight fifteen to seventeen year olds. The rooms were allocated to the kids with Charlie’s bed inevitably opposite my own.  Having experienced his intensity first hand, I couldn’t foresee one single night of uninterrupted sleep.

 

Each worker has received a file explaining the conditions of each camper for who they are responsible. ADD, OCD and a number of other three letter abbreviations, were marked next to all the names, with Asperger’s and Autism other common conditions. I took a look at Charlie’s profile; he appears to have been diagnosed with every learning difficulty known. There was a note on one of his documents explaining his anxiety problems and a sub-note stating how this “makes Charlie reluctant to move from one place to another”. 

 

Tomorrow sees the first evening activity take place in the form of a counsellor talent show, an event I know won’t sit well with my anxious roommate. It seems that getting him out of bed is going to be a task and him attending the talent show an impossibility.

 

I sat next to Charlie and attempted to engage in a conversation. This attempt failed as we had soon adopted a question-question format as opposed to the more conventional question-answer. I was getting nowhere and knew it. Every time I asked Charlie a question he just asked me one in return, with there being only one exception to this. I carefully approached the topic of the talent show and whether Charlie was looking forward to it- of course he wasn’t. Aware that he could erupt any moment, I decided to chance one more question.

 

“Why don’t you want to go?” I asked.

 

Charlie lay down on his bed and formed a pained expression. “I’m allergic to talent shows,” he replied.

 

Although amused and somewhat impressed by his answer, I decided to risk pushing him a step further. I want him to go to the talent show, but am wary that I can’t push him into it. I am fully aware that if I decide to force the issue, I risk Charlie ‘reacting’.

 

Wording my sentences ever so carefully I said, “Well why don’t we go and if you feel ill I’ll take you back?”

 

He then got off the bed and stood face to face with me (a movement I was certain would end in him lashing out). Charlie placed one hand on my shoulder and rested his head on his chest, as if he were a wise old man who was passing on knowledge to his younger understudy. He began to breathe heavily as he lifted his head to face me.

 

“The thing is I can’t go” he panted.

 

“Why?” I foolishly asked.

 

The past twenty four hours had taught me to expect absolutely anything in response to this. I knew I was in for an answer which had either no relevance or credibility.

 

Taking one more deep breath before answering he said “I’m having breathing problems because my foot hurts.”

 

Saturday July 1^st

 

The kids have only been here for seven days and already the cabin feels like the set for One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, the only thing missing being a seemingly mute Indian. This may seem an over exaggeration, but I have sound evidence to support this claim. Exhibit one being Ryan trying to strap himself to the door, exhibit two is in the form of Charlie attempting to shave his eyeballs and finally exhibit three is Jacob having asked, “What’s the difference between a psycho and a magician?”

 

Since his antics at last week’s talent show, where he took it upon himself to rearrange the entire seating plan (having destroyed two benches and the medicine table) it seems that Charlie has, dare I say it, mellowed. Perhaps this is just part of his master plan, as he secretly ponders on how to top Sunday night. He’s going to have to go some if he wants to emulate his ‘throwing chairs and attempting to get on the stage’ act.

 

Us workers are already thinking of precautions to take in an attempt to avoid a repeat of what can simply be described as an embarrassment. The Prom is the final evening activity at the camp. There is a formal dress code for both campers and counsellors along with a three course meal before hand. Something tells me Charlie will be less than enthusiastic about the event. Fortunately the Prom isn’t for another six and a half weeks, allowing us this amount of time to negotiate and win over our ever so restless camper. 

 

Monday July 3^rd

 

With time appearing to be on our side, we decided to adopt the ‘sooner rather than later’ approach with regard to planning the meticulous process of avoiding another Charlie outburst. The ‘Prom Plan’ as it is now known, consists of the following:

 

a)       Bribery. Promising Charlie my digital watch as reward for his good behaviour.

 

b)       Strength in numbers. A counsellor sitting either side of him throughout the meal beforehand.

 

c)       Constantly informing him of the time, e.g. ‘There’s only ten minutes left Charlie’.

 

So far this is a three step plan, a small part of what will no doubt prove to be an extremely long and challenging program.

 

Thursday July 7^th

 

Before today, I thought that nothing in the world could distract me from the madness inside this chipboard panelled asylum. Then again, I never imagined there being bomb attacks in London.

 

I’m not really sure what to write for today’s entry or whether I should be writing at all. At the moment, anything that resembles a logical thought process has vanished without trace.

 

During breakfast the head of camp called all international staff (the majority of who are English) to leave their tables and meet on the greenery outside the canteen. He waited until every member of staff was present and then began to break the news. It was obvious something was wrong, as someone who had proved himself to be an outstanding public speaker was clearly lost for words. He was holding a wad of A4 sheets of paper. I was at the front of the crowd and had a clear view of the content of the printouts. ‘London bomb attacks’ the title read. He began with “Err, I’m afraid there’s some bad news folks” and continued to stumble his way through what had occurred. I looked around at my co-workers and was met with looks of immense sadness and tear stained faces. Not that my reaction was much different. I often hear clichés and cringe at what I consider to be cheesy kind of analogies, used by people who don’t know what to say. But today I learnt first hand the meaning of being ‘sick to the stomach’ a feeling which I never want to experience again.

 

The sheets were then handed out by other senior members of staff. The information featured was limited. They basically stated that the death toll was unknown and that the Police Commissioner was not ruling out an act of terrorism. By this time everyone was having the same horrific thought, ‘Are my friends and family alright?’

 

We returned to the canteen and tried to act as though everything was normal. These kids may have learning difficulties, but are by no means stupid. Observing the staff as they re-entered the room and noting their nationality, Kyle asked “Has something happened to your country, Jack?” I lied and said that we had a meeting regarding the next evening activity. Not that he said so, but I could tell that he didn’t believe me.

 

Dinner time came with everyone still confused by today’s events. Each counsellor was allowed to make phone calls home. Fortunately, nobody’s friends or relatives had suffered an injury or fatality.  The state of shock which we were all in was then increased as it was announced to the campers about what had taken place. They were also told that “this may be the reason why your counsellors are a little upset today”.

 

As we left the canteen, the only noise that could be heard was from the small number of campers who had plucked up the courage to question what was meant by this announcement. I then heard Ryan call my name in his monotone robotic voice.

 

“Hey, Jack!” he yelled

 

He then ran towards me and gave me a hug, with far more strength than I would accredit to a seven stone fifteen year old boy. This was another act which I didn’t quite know how to handle. He then let go and looked up at me.

 

“Thanks, but what was that for?” I asked.

 

Having recently shown his ability to avoid a direct question yet somehow give a relevant answer, he replied,

 

“I hope they fix your country soon, mate”.

 

Wednesday July 13^th

 

Beginning to miss friends and family, I got thinking about the campers and how they were feeling about being away from home. This train of thought led me to relationships and what teenage boys who suffer from learning difficulties felt about their female counterparts.

 

All except one were reluctant to talk, although I decided to excuse Charlie from my line of questioning.

 

Jacob (who could pass for a seventeen year old Barry White) was then kind enough to share his secret in attracting members of the opposite sex. This came in the form of a five point checklist:

 

1.      Ask her what her name is

2.      Tell her your name

3.      Ask how her day has been

4.      Ask how her week has been

5.      Ask her what she likes doing

 

Feeling that I was on the verge of finally understanding girls, I then asked what has been his most successful chat-up line. He took a while before answering, as it’s probably not a question he gets asked every day.

 

Sensitive to each girl’s needs, he replied,

 

“It depends on the girl.”

 

Not satisfied with his answer, I decided to proceed further. I then remembered that he was pretty keen on one of the girls at camp.

 

“Take Kerry for example. What would you say to her?”

 

He clicked his fingers as if it had just come to him.

 

“Something like, I like that smile you’re wearing”.

 

Now what woman could resist?

 

Friday July 29^th

 

There’s something sweet and innocent when a camper gives you something. A gesture, a gift, something that says ‘thanks for putting up with all the shit I’ve pulled over the past nine weeks’. These are rarities, making them all the more cherished when they occur. A black eye is not one of these. No clue required for guessing the culprit of such an act. Charlie began this morning’s proceedings by warning us that today was ‘not his best day’. What this meant nobody knew, but Charlie would clarify his point as the day progressed.

 

He’d been a shit since wake up- a major shit. After telling him (what felt like a hundred times) to get up, we then decided to lift the bed and flip him out of it. Granted, this was not normal practice, but this was not a normal day. It may sound an extreme measure to take, but it was simply the only option we had.

 

All the other kids were ready, with Charlie wearing nothing but a frown and a pair of y-fronts, back to front of course. In a nutshell, he just wasn’t budging. We finally negotiated a package for Charlie to get dressed, two beaded necklaces (which we were to make for him in the arts and crafts centre), the ‘night off’ (allowing him to miss the evening activity) and letting him take a set of playing cards wherever he went throughout the day. Progress, I thought. Still sat on the centre of the bed, but this time fully clothed, thankfully, we hit another stumbling block.

 

“Fuck today’s activities, I’m not going!” he declared.

 

I didn’t know what to do. I took a while to think, temporarily distracted by the randomness and slap dash application of Charlie’s attire. He was wearing a red sweater (inside out), cream swimming shorts (which a five year old would have struggled to fit in) and a pair of Timberland boots (with no socks). Normally this would make me smile, but he had pushed me so far this morning I just wanted him out of the room.

 

I then decided that calmness was the best approach. I took a deep breath and knelt down in front of him, his head being several inches above my own. I began to delicately explain that everybody has to go to breakfast and kept reminding him that if he didn’t he would lose all the treats which we had agreed upon. I continued to explain this, interpreting his silence as a sign of his understanding and agreement with what I was saying. That was when he hit me.

 

I lost it.

 

Knowing that the other kids were outside and that no other counsellors were present, I began a violent rant. It wasn’t the pain which bothered me, that had come and gone as quick as the punch. It was the fact that I knew I would be wearing an ‘I lost control of my kids and got hit by a seventeen year old’ sign, a sign I knew would be luminous and written in twelve foot high capital letters. Looking back on what happened today I feel terrible, even ashamed of my reaction. I can justify it all I want, as I don’t know many people who would graciously accept a punch to the eye, but this doesn’t stop me regretting the way I handled the situation. 

 

Thankfully, Charlie hasn’t repeated any of what I said to him this morning. I think I speak for both of us when I say that today’s events are best kept in the past.

 

Saturday August 14^th

 

In true American fashion, The Prom had been billed as the biggest event of the summer, which to me translated as ‘the most likely to go wrong’. Unfortunately I was late, or should I say we were late. Charlie decided that after the meal he wanted to send an e-mail. This disappointed rather than angered me as up until this point his behaviour had been impeccable. Over the past few days Charlie has improved dramatically, showing an understanding and maturity which surpasses that of his fellow campers. He wanted to send an email to someone called Lizzy, who he went on to explain was a friend. I thought that if this was just a ploy to get out of the Prom, then he had been pretty creative. Not wanting to ruin a so far perfect night and seeing it as an investment rather than a defeat, I decided to take Charlie to the e-mailing centre. The thing is I knew if I didn’t I’d spend the night bribing and chasing him, two things I wasn’t particularly keen on doing. So we agreed that I’d take him to send one e-mail and then join the others at the dance.

 

To be fair, Charlie honoured our deal. We sent just the one e-mail to Lizzy, who he later told me was his auntie. After discovering that he is unable to read and write, I decided to compose the e-mail in the hope of avoiding any embarrassments.

 

“What do you want me to write then?”

 

“Just ask her to send some stuff” he replied modestly.

 

“Ok, like what? I asked.

 

“Just an ipod, gameboy, new watch, cell-phone…”

 

I was just about to intervene when I realised something. Rather than risk another conflict by saying what a piss-take the list would be, I thought to myself ‘he can’t read what I write anyway’. So I let Charlie continue to reel of his wish list while I wrote something along the lines of:

 

Hi auntie. Just wanted to say that I am having a great time at camp and can’t wait to see you all soon.

 

Lots of love, Charlie xxx

 

p.s I would love it if you could send me some toys.

 

Jack helped me write this.

 

So we left the e-mailing centre and joined the others in the main hall. We arrived as the party was in full flow with YMCA being played to the delight of a crammed dance floor. It was like a scene from one of those corny American high school T.V programmes, only with autistic kids. A kind of Rainman meets Saved by the Bell. After witnessing the drastic improvement in Charlie’s behaviour, the Prom was the second success story of the night. Before the event I was worried that taking their medicine would be a problem as I knew how hard it was to gain their attention while they were engaged in something else. But they were fine, even polite in thanking the nurse who had interrupted their big night. The only time I did feel on edge was when they played the final song, not because I feared a rebellion from the disappointed kids, but because of something I witnessed. Jacob (having recently revealed his smooth sensuous side) was dancing with his date for the night, Kerry. The song being played was ‘(I’ve had) the time of my life’ from the cult eighties film ‘Dirty Dancing’. I then noticed Kerry running to one side of the hall as Jacob walked towards the middle. I knew what was coming. They were seconds away from re-enacting the film’s most famous scene, where Patrick Swayze lifts Jennifer Grey above his head and holds her to the applauses of the crowd. I ran over to Jacob and asked a random question regarding WWE, a sure distraction if there ever was one. While we were debating the best ever world champion, Kerry lost patience and began her search for a new dance partner. I kept him talking until I heard the music fade, signalling both the end of the song and the Prom.

 

Saturday August 20^th

 

Throughout today I’ve kept telling myself “It’s a job, just a nine week job that’s come to an end.”  I know that’s a lie. Despite the beckoning bright lights of Las Vegas now less than twenty-four hours away, I’m not cold or naïve enough to say that I haven’t been affected by the summer. How I have been affected, I’m not quite sure. Maybe I’m more appreciative, patient and respectful. Maybe I’m all or none of these. One thing I do know is that it’ll be some time before I forget about Charlie and co, well, until I get to California at least. 

 

I remember at the beginning of camp the returning counsellors telling us new recruits, “These kids will teach you just as much, if not more, than you teach them”. I guess there’s at least some truth in this statement. For example, I‘ve learnt it’s not a good idea to encourage too many questions from a group of autistic, puberty stricken teenage boys, as topics such as homosexuality and incest can easily arise. Another piece of advice they gave us was, “When disciplining or negotiating with a camper, physically lower yourself to their level”. The reason for this being that they won’t feel threatened. I have to disagree with this statement, as I discovered that adopting this approach can result in a black eye and a bruised ego.

 

Well now it’s the end. I have walked through the large green gates for the last time. Not en-route for a camping trip, day off or to drink away the copious amount of stress which the campers have caused. My final exit from camp marks the end of an eye-opening and very eventful summer.