I was exhausted when I woke up. It was 7:00 AM: way too early for the midst of summer break. Before that morning, disregarding a few small hiccups caused by various other summer activities, my first waking moments had occurred at a crisp 9:00 AM. Much more my speed. Unfortunately, this Monday was only the first in a string of early mornings. Against all odds, I had decided to become a camp counselor.
It’s no secret that I can’t deal with kids. My patience is startlingly limited, and my continually awkward interactions with “human beings” under the age of 10 have shaped a baseline distrust. There’s always been an impossible barrier stuck somewhere between eternal youthful energy and my general exhaustion.
I had stumbled into this uncharacteristic job almost accidentally. The camp was run by IndyKids, an incredible non-profit organization that publishes a multi-platform current events and social justice news source with the tagline “a free paper for kids, by kids.” I had recently started volunteering for IndyKids, mentoring students with the research and drafting of their articles, when I received an email. IndyKids needed a counselor for their journalism summer camp. With nothing planned for that stretch of summer and a desperate need to get out of the house, I leaped at the opportunity in the moment, choosing to forget that it meant close and extended interaction with kids.
The first day started with trouble, as miscommunication about the space led to a frantic internet search of the closest libraries as backup. Luckily, the situation quickly resolved, and we were ready to start. As everyone shared their names and a fun fact, my sense of imposter syndrome grew and grew. What did I know about being a camp counselor? Didn’t these kids deserve someone with more experience (and who wasn’t afraid of the idea of spending time around kids)? What qualifications did I have to be teaching other people about journalism?
In the end, none of those fears really mattered. I had a job to do, and there was no other option but to try my best. After all, I was somehow getting paid. As the day went on, I started getting a little more comfortable. The kids were a lot, but in all fairness, it’s hard to keep anyone engaged in what essentially amounts to journalism school in the middle of summer. However, with the occasional exception, they truly wanted to work hard. They were invested in the stories they set out to tell, and while there were many difficult moments, it was constantly impressive to see them think, plan and create.
The real fun began on the second day. After our day one introductions, the meat of the camp revolved around a two day excursion to Governor’s Island. There, among resident artists and social justice-related organizations, the kids conducted interviews for their articles.
That second day was tough. A forecast that started out promising spurts of cooling rain turned into a scorching hot one on an island of black roads and no AC. We wandered and talked, sweated and suffered. Exploring the island, I got to really know the kids: their eccentricities and quirks, their excitement and frustration. As they told me I was sassy (fair if not slightly offensive) and old (sure, relatively) and asked me how much I was getting paid in front of my boss, I knew I had met my matches. Playing into their unbridled openness, I met them right back.
After that bonding experience, the rest of the week progressed swimmingly. As I helped the kids with their articles, I watched their excitement and frustration slowly transform into words on the page. By the time we got to paragraphs, I felt a sense of accomplishment. Here were seven bright kids, armed only with basic directions, who had crafted comprehensible articles. Beyond just being impressed by their talents, I was moved that I had been able to help them learn about what journalism can do and be.
I’m not a liar; my camp counseling experience did not make me suddenly feel comfortable around kids. I still sweat at the idea of being confronted by prying eyes and expecting voices. But, putting myself out of my comfort zone paid off. I did not die and no one died under my watch. Somehow, against all odds, I was able to teach, help and form connections. Traversing the city under the hot sun and beside nagging voices, I learned I am not a child-hating monster. Or, at the very least, maybe just a little bit of one.
