An island for misfit toys - summer camp

Each year at Christmas, I watch the television special called "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Rudolph and his friends go to a place called the Island for Misfit Toys. The island is a sanctuary for toys no one wants because there is something different about them. I know this place, this land of misfits. I don't know if I am a ship that sinks, a train with square wheels or a Charlie in the Box, but I am quite sure I belong there. In fact, I have been to an Island for Misfits. I called it summer camp.

Summer camp collected us from all walks of life. We were the rich kids whose parents dropped us at camp on their way to Europe and we were the poor kids at camp on scholarship. We were the kids with learning disabilities, multiple sclerosis and muscular dystrophy. We were the kids in wheelchairs and on crutches, and some of us were just ordinary kids. Camp gave us all a place at life's table...

It was afternoon and the lake breeze cooled my body which was otherwise hot from long, joyful days in the sun. Being a camp counselor is the world's best summer job. It is also a well kept secret because most people don't consider camp when they look for jobs at the local hardware store, ice cream parlor or construction company. Camp counseling is also hard work. We counselors try to give back to kids what camp gave to us.

As I stood there on the dock, I tried to remember my first summer at camp. l couldn't remember it distinctly because it seemed I had been going to camp for as long as I had consciousness. My first clear memory was going to a basketball camp put on by high school coach Mary Tutor. We played basketball half the day and did regular camp activities the other half.

I wanted desperately to play basketball, so this camp seemed just the thing. I would go off to camp as a boy and return as Michael Jordan. I would make my father proud. You see, my father played basketball on a state final's team in Indiana and football for Michigan State. Despite my father's grand hopes, I was no Michael Jordan. A junior high football coach suggested I try cross country, and my YMCA basketball team did not win a single game.

So I went to camp to learn to play ball; instead, I found confidence and happiness in something different. I discovered I could sail and hike, canoe and swim. I was better at these things and they were more fun.

As I grew up, I worked at camps; I learned about camps and I believed deeply in the camp movement. Camp had helped me, an awkward kid, feel okay. In a world where pressure to succeed comes earlier and earlier, this is camp's greatest mission. All kids need is to escape their limitations and feel okay about themselves. Camps provide this escape. Camps emphasize variety over mastery and trying over triumph. Camps teach lessons about respect for self, for others, and for the environment. Camps dare to teach these unchanging and universal values at a time when everything seems open to question.

These were my thoughts on the day I stood on the dock and saw my afternoon swim class coming toward me. Immediately, I spotted Royce Jackson. Small, with thin tooth-pick legs and a nasal voice, Royce was a "little man" who had trouble with "kid" stuff. Royce wore round, wire-rim glasses and shirts with collars. Royce couldn't run fast or play ball very well. He didn't have neat tennis shoes or the latest comic books.

Royce was a misfit. He knew it, the other kids knew it, and I knew it. I knew it because I saw myself in those wire-rim glasses. Like Rudolph and the elf who wanted to be a dentist, we were different in age and experience but we shared misfit status.

Royce approached me and, in his nasal voice, said, "My father told me you have to teach me to swim."

Royce was afraid of the water...very afraid. I introduced Royce to the water away from the other kids. They still watched and they still laughed, but Royce and I ignored them and continued to make progress.

After three weeks, Royce pushed off and swam a length of the roped off area by himself. I saw the gleam in his eye that said, "I did it." All around us, kids dove and swam faster and stronger than Royce, but it didn't matter because Royce had succeeded.

Royce's newfound confidence registered in other areas of camp as well. At riflery and archery, Royce was hitting the target. More importantly, Royce could now share the joys of camp with other kids. Royce began to make friends. He began to run and shout and smile. Our "little man" had grown into a boy.

At the end of the camp session, Royce received numerous awards for development of his abilities. With each one, he beamed and the other kids cheered.

This story about misfits is significant because each summer it is repeated a hundred times at camps all around the country. Counselors, who felt like misfits as kids, see kids like themselves and help them to develop confidence, friendship and happiness.

Camps offer these lessons to virtually all segments of our society and, as such, are uniquely democratic institutions. Camp offers a place to be counted. Camps for the physically disabled help kids forget wheelchairs, crutches, and canes, and discover what they can do rather than what they cannot. At camp, kids with terminal diseases, including AIDS, can temporarily escape the horrors of a disease and embrace the fun in life even in death's long shadow. Inner city youth see, often for the first time, trees and grass and lakes. And ordinary kids like Royce find fun and friendship as they gain self-confidence. For each hurdle, camp provides a horizon.

For those of us who feel like misfits because we are disabled, or sick, or poor, or just awkward, camp -- like the Island for Misfit Toys -- gives us reasons to feel okay. On the Island for Misfit Toys, an elephant with spots, an elf who wants to be a dentist, and even a red-nosed reindeer learn the value of themselves and of other people. Rudolph would have learned that same lesson at summer camp.

COPYRIGHT 1994 American Camping Association
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group