“Why can’t she just wear them?” I ask.
“Girls are allowed only one earring in each ear,” Kaylee says, her own hoops shimmering through her hair.
I look around the room and pay closer attention to the conversations between the campers and counselors this time. The discussions are all versions of Kaylee and Jasmine’s—girls wanting to wear one thing, counselors insisting on another. Brianna and Elizabeth are actually engaged in a tug-of-war over a pair of black Toms.
Under different circumstances, I would join in the fight. But I look down at my Laura Ashley-on-crack tennis ensemble and know there’s no point. We don’t stand a chance of winning. This place is a well-oiled machine.
“Is this okay?” I ask Kaylee, gesturing to my outfit. If she’s going to harp on my appearance too, I’d rather just get it over with.
She appraises me for a moment, and then reaches into the plastic cosmetics case on Jasmine’s bed. “Here,” she says, handing me a few small items.
Two barrettes and a thick, white, plastic bracelet.
I look at her.
“Pin your hair back so we can actually see your face, and cover that up”—she points to my tattoo—“with the bracelet.”
The bracelet actually isn’t so bad, but I don’t like being told to cover up my lightning bolt. Even though I’m fully aware that what New Horizons stands for and what the tattoo stands for are entirely conflicting ideals, the lightning bolt is still a part of me. “What do you have against tattoos?”
Kaylee gives a conspiratorial smile. “Personally? Nothing.” She looks around the room and then quickly lowers her white ankle sock. I catch a glimpse of a small ink daisy at the top of her foot before the sock slips back into place. “But it’s a camp rule.”
Yet another camp rule. I’m starting to get the feeling that the New Horizons rule book is longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
But Kaylee’s gesture proves that, at least in some ways, she’s one of us. I give her a half smile to let her know I understand and slide the bangle onto my wrist. I’m pinning my bangs away from my face in the most stylish way I can manage when I hear Jasmine let out a relenting sigh. I turn from the mirror to see her miserably removing the dozens of silver studs and tiny loops from her ears. I guess she realized the same thing I did—Kaylee doesn’t make the rules, but she has to follow them, same as us.
My curiosity gets the better of me again, and I ask, “So you were a New Horizons camper once?”
Kaylee nods. “I was. Seven summers ago.”
“And it…worked, obviously?”
“Yes. It really did. You just have to think about it in the right way—no one’s going to wave a magic wand and change everything for you, but we will teach you how to think differently and make better choices and get on a new track. It’s like…” She thinks for a minute. “It’s like going gluten free or vegan! It’s hard work and involves a lot of self-discipline, and you have to keep making the choice to stick with it every day. But once you’re educated about it and your mind and body become accustomed to it, you know you’ll never go back to the way you were because you feel so much better.”
“So I guess you’re glad you came here then,” Jasmine says.
Kaylee grins. “Best decision I ever made. I’ve never been happier.”
“That’s really good to hear,” I tell her.
“Oh, and listen,” Kaylee says, her voice almost at a whisper now. “These next few days are going to be pretty intense, but just stick with it. I promise it will get easier.”
Jasmine and I exchange a look. That sounds ominous.
***
Half an hour later, we’re all in the main room downstairs waiting for the boys so we can go to the dining cabin in our groups. For all the different heights and sizes that we are, the eight of us look eerily similar. It’s like we’re adopted siblings whose parents are trying to pass us off as twins—same pink and white outfit, same shoes, same cross, neat hair, simple accessories.
Carolyn, Jasmine, and I are leaning against the back of one of the leather couches, side by side, and I’m flipping through a New Horizons brochure. The pictures were all definitely taken at the camp—I recognize the main cabin exterior, the dining cabin, and the big open field—but the people in them have got to be models. And not one of them is wearing anything even remotely resembling the standard-issue pink and blue New Horizons gear. If the words had been covered up, I might have mistaken the brochure for a J. Crew catalog. The phrases “false advertising” and “propaganda” crop up in my mind, but I push them back and toss the brochure back onto the table.
Now that I don’t have the brochure to distract me, I notice that the couch behind me is shaking gently but steadily. Carolyn’s jiggling her leg nervously. “You okay?” I whisper.
She blinks out of whatever thought process she was lost in. “What?”
I nod at her leg, and the shaking stops.
“Oh.” She laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just ready to get started.” Her eyes dart toward the stairs. “Who would have thought it would take the boys longer to get ready than a bunch of girls?”
I smile. “If their uniforms are anything close to as bad as ours, maybe they’re staging a revolt.”
But a few moments later, the eight guys plod down the staircase, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. They’re dressed in light blue polo shirts tucked into pale blue and white seersucker shorts, accessorized with brown belts and brown loafers. It’s the perfect outfit—if you’re going as a “young Republican at a polo match” for Halloween.
Poor Matthew. He looks even more uncomfortable in his outfit than I do in mine. “Don’t say it,” he says as he and Daniel join us. “Don’t even think it.”
I hold up my palms in a surrender gesture. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” But I can’t help grinning.
He shoots me a look, and the four of us follow the rest of the group out of the cabin and down the path.
“They took my Ellen shirt,” Matthew mumbles. “That was the only thing I had here to remind me of Justin, and they took it. I’m never going to get it back.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s not your fault.”
“They took my book yesterday. The Great Gatsby.”
“Assholes,” Matthew says.
“I’ve never read that book,” Carolyn says. “Is it good?”
“It’s amazing,” I say. “It’s about a guy who will do anything for love—including change his entire identity.”
There’s a long stretch of silence.
“Plus, there are some really awesome parties.”
***
After breakfast, Brianna leads the sixteen of us on a tour of the camp, since we pretty much just jumped right into things yesterday and didn’t get much of an introduction to the place. In addition to the main cabin for the offices and dorms, the dining cabin, and the carpet cabin, there are three others I haven’t seen the inside of yet.
One is set up like a classroom. Brianna tells us it will occasionally be used for lessons and “may be utilized by campers for quiet study.” On each desk are a marble notebook and a ball-point pen.
“Please find a seat,” Brianna says. Once all the desks are occupied, she says, “The notebook in front of you will be your reparative therapy journal. We’d like you to use it to share your feelings about your experiences here at New Horizons. Keeping a personal journal is a very effective tool in helping to organize your thoughts and maintain perspective. It will also serve as a tangible way to track your progress this summer.”
I uncap the pen and write Lexi’s Journal in the blank space on the notebook’s cover. Then I add little embellishments—a shooting star up in the corner, a mushroom growing out of a patch of grass down at the bottom.
“And don’t worry, you won’t have t
o share your journals with your groups, so you can be as open and honest as you’d like,” Brianna adds.
We gather up our notebooks and continue on the tour.
The next cabin is the smallest—the infirmary. It’s pretty bare bones, with a cot, a sink, and a tall cabinet filled with first aid supplies. Brianna explains that Barbara is a registered nurse, so if we ever need medical assistance, she’ll be able to help. I think that she must be a retired registered nurse—she’s got to be in her seventies, at least. I hope I never need medical attention.
The final cabin is the rec cabin. It’s got several worn couches, a TV, a shelf filled with books, a game table, and an arts and crafts corner.
“Like Mr. Martin said yesterday,” Brianna says, “there will be periods of downtime where you will be able to participate in leisure activities. You may play board games or work on arts and crafts with the other members of your group, or you may read approved books or watch approved movies.” From what I can tell, the DVD shelf consists mostly of animated Disney movies and other innocuous G-rated titles, and the books all seem to have been published by the same company—one with a cross in their logo. “You may also spend time outside if you prefer, as long as you stay within sight of the rec cabin. During downtimes, your time is your own. But just remember that even if you are doing a solitary activity like reading, you should always be in close proximity to your fellow group members.”
Matthew raises his hand. “Sorry, I just want to make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re saying that we have to spend all our time together and only do the things you tell us we can do, even during our free hours.” He says it so innocently that even I wonder if he’s genuinely just asking for clarification.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Brianna says.
“So how, exactly, is our time our own?”
I can almost see Brianna’s brain jolting into overdrive as she tries to come up with an answer. But Matthew’s pinned her own words against her. He smiles benignly, waiting for her response.
“Because…well, because you get to choose which activities you do,” she says finally. “Now if you’ll all follow me…”
Brianna brings us past the athletics field and the nature trail, and then we all go to the carpet cabin. The chairs have been arranged in rows, and some of the props have been brought out into a stage-like area.
“Good morning, campers!” Mr. Martin says. “I hope you all got a good night’s sleep because today we begin the real work. The exercise we are going to be working on for the next several days is called Addressing the Father Wound.”
Matthew and I look at each other. Father Wound?
“We won’t be splitting you up for this one because you may find something in someone else’s story that will help you with your own, so we’ll be working through this all together, in one big group.” Mr. Martin smiles. “Now, do we have a volunteer to go first?”
Chapter 8
Unlike yesterday’s session, no one volunteers. Not even Daniel. But Mr. Martin’s smile doesn’t crack.
“Perhaps it will help if I explain the purpose of the exercise a bit more,” he says.
Several of us nod.
Mr. Martin walks back and forth across the makeshift stage. “Despite what some pop singers and the mainstream media would have you believe, you were not born with SSA. You were born clean and pure, just as God intended you to be.” He stops walking and gives us a sad, almost pitying smile. “But somewhere along the way, someone or something corrupted you. It may have been intentional or it could have been unintentional. But something—your Father Wound—brought you into this lifestyle.” When he says the word lifestyle, his nose crinkles up like he’s smelling something bad. “You see, the SSA isn’t the problem; it’s the symptom. For other people with Father Wounds, it may have resulted in drug abuse or a tendency toward violent behavior. For you, it manifested into SSA. Once we are able to identify and address the deeper-seated problem, we can begin to heal it.”
I consider what he’s saying. I quickly flip back through a lifetime of memories, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what might have happened to make me gay.
“So. Any volunteers?” Mr. Martin asks.
Still no one raises their hand.
Undiscouraged, Mr. Martin scans the crowd. “Let’s start with the boys today.” He points to a boy with a round face and a crew cut. “Gabe.” He holds out a hand in invitation to join him.
Gabe makes his way to the front of the room, stumbling slightly on the leg of a chair as he maneuvers through the rows of seats. When he’s standing next to Mr. Martin, the difference in their height is striking. Gabe looks like a child; he’s probably not even done growing yet.
Mr. Martin drags a chair to the center of the stage and positions it so it’s facing the rest of us. Gabe sits, and Mr. Martin tells him to close his eyes. “Tell us about your childhood,” he says in a calming, gentle voice.
Gabe’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean? What about it?”
“Please keep your eyes closed. Just tell us whatever comes to mind about what it was like growing up in your family.”
Gabe sits there for a while, his eyes squeezed shut, the rest of us watching him. The room is deadly silent. At one point, the stomach of someone sitting behind me gurgles. I don’t turn to see who it is.
Then, finally, Gabe speaks. “I live in Orlando,” he says.
“The most magical place on earth!” Mr. Martin says, delighted.
“I guess.” Gabe shrugs. “I’ve never actually been to Disney.”
Mr. Martin’s face falls and he nods. “Who lives with you?” he asks.
“My father and my mother and my four younger brothers.”
“What does your father do for a living?”
“He works the night maintenance shift at the airport.”
“As the eldest son, there must be a lot of pressure on you to help take care of your family.”
“I guess,” he says again, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t mind it though.”
“Remember, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “This will only work if you are honest with us.” He gives Gabe a meaningful look, which is probably more for our benefit than Gabe’s since he can’t see it with his eyes closed.
Gabe takes a shallow, wavering breath. “Well, we don’t have a lot of money, you know? Even with my father working overtime and my mother cleaning houses. Sometimes my father goes drinking after work, and when he comes home and looks at the state of our apartment, he gets…”
“He gets what?” Mr. Martin nudges.
“Angry. But anyone would,” he says quickly. “There’s this broken window that won’t close all the way, so we have to stuff the hole with towels, and there’re always rats in the kitchen. And there aren’t enough beds for all of us, so we have these mattresses that we prop up against the wall during the daytime and then put on the floor at night.”
“What do you mean by ‘he gets angry’?”
“I don’t know,” Gabe mumbles.
“I think you do know.”
Gabe’s eyes are still closed. He doesn’t say anything.
I quickly glance around the room. Everyone has their eyes fixed on the boy in the chair. No one makes a move or a sound. Matthew’s eyes are cold and hard. I look away.
“Gabriel,” Mr. Martin says, “I spoke with your mother.” Each word is heavy and revealing.
Gabe sucks in a surprised, tremulous breath. “He hits me,” he says finally, reluctantly. “He gets drunk and he gets mad and he beats me up.”
Mr. Martin nods; he was expecting this all along. He knew. This whole thing has been choreographed. He purposely called on Gabe to go first because he already knew his story—the perfect illustration for the rest of us of what a literal and figurative Father Wound looks like.
What else does Mr. Martin know? I wonder what my mo
ther told him about me…
“How long has this been going on?” he asks Gabe.
“For as long as I can remember.”
“Is that what this is from?” He touches a dark mark on Gabe’s jawline. I’d dismissed it as a shadow, but I can see now it’s a bruise.
Gabe nods.
“Does he hit your mother too? Or your brothers?”
Gabe shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tighter so that deep creases spread out from them like reaching fingers. “No. Only me. I won’t let him hurt them.”
“Are you saying that you let him hurt you so he won’t hurt them?” Mr. Martin asks.
“It’s the only way.” There’s a pause. “I’m worried about what he’ll do while I’m gone.”
“Don’t think like that, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “Your church is sponsoring your summer at New Horizons, as I recall?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then the best thing you can do for them right now is to let those worries go and instead focus on your work here and making your family and your congregation proud.”
Gabe nods. “Okay.”
Mr. Martin asks Gabe to open his eyes. He blinks several times, like he’s having trouble adjusting to the room, and then looks down at his lap. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling right now.
“Everyone, please give Gabe a round of applause for so bravely sharing his story,” Mr. Martin says. We clap for him, but there’s a solemn timbre to it. Mr. Martin stands behind Gabe and rests his hands on his shoulders. “Gabe’s Father Wound is the most straightforward kind,” he says to us, “because it has been inflicted by his actual father. Gabe’s father is the one person who was supposed to show him what it means to be a man, but instead, he has made sure his son remains a wounded boy with a confused sense of right and wrong.”
Tears are spilling down Gabe’s cheeks and landing in his lap, and his body is heaving with silent sobs. But I can’t shake the icky feeling that Mr. Martin did this to him just to make a point.
“This lifetime of abuse is Gabe’s Father Wound,” he continues. But suddenly his face brightens. “And now that we’ve identified it, we can move on to the second half of the exercise—Healing the Father Wound!”
The Summer I Wasn't Me Page 6