Most kids go to normal summer camps; you know, campfires, log cabins, canoes, boys across the lake. Not me. This past summer, I went to Nerd Camp. It was a program sponsered by Duke University for “gifted” children.
While there, I met a child Trekkie who could speak Klingon fluently, a boy who spoke to trees, and a girl who walked around bent over, with her butt up in the air, studying insects (we, being so creative, deemed her “Bug Girl”). There were actually signs posted around campus prohibiting campers (or Tipsters, as they so fondly called us) from reading Harry Potter and The Order of the Pheonix outside of free time (the book came out while I was at camp, and the majority of the kids had the book sent to them by their parents). We were, in every sense, the epiphany of the word “nerd”. (Not-so-Hipsters)
I took a philosophy class. My teacher’s name was Rusty Sheridan. He had five names, the initials of the last four being J. A. R. S. So, naturally, being the clever kids we were, we called him Rusty Jars. Rusty had hair longer than mine, was more enthusiastic than Barney, and had a fondness for anarchy and heated arguements (he was quite professional). We spent seven hours in class a day, for three weeks, debating whether life has a purpose, the proper way to put together a lateral thinking puzzle, and Plato’s “Realm of Forms”. You know, the normal stuff that troubles teenagers.
The best part of camp, in my opinion, were the meals. We could’ve spent hours discussing whether or not the lunch ladies had made up Frito Pie (a mixture of Fritos and Sloppy Joe sauce) just to get rid of the leftovers (we decided that they had), if the silverware was meant to be magnetic (it wasn’t) and which cereal was better: Lucky Charms or Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Lucky Charms won, hands down. Who can resist marshmellows and milk?).
One of my fondest lunch memories though, was about two weeks into camp. Before I go on, I must tell you that my hearing isn’t exactly what you would call top-rate. Let’s just say I took the school hearing test three times last year, and failed each time. Anyway, we were having one of our infamous Frito Pie debates, and I had tuned out. I was thinking about how obvious it was that Micheal Jackson was a homosexual, when my friend Anna asked me a question. I, of course, didn’t hear her, and tried to tell her I was deaf. However, I have been known to have a Freudian slip every-so-often, and instead said “I’m gay.” Very loudly. Loud enough for my enitre table, and the surrounding tables, to hear. As soon as we realized my mistake, my roommate Kayleigh (who was seated right next to me) and I burst into peels of laughter, complete with snorts and tears. However, no one else thought that my sudden coming-out was amusing, probably because a few minutes before, we had had an entire conversation condemning homophobics. Kayleigh and I must have looked more hypocritical than Nixon during Watergate. Eventually, a few girls giggled nervously, eyeing me, probably wondering whether I had been flirting with them that one time.
When I was finally able to regain control of my breath, I attempted to explain to the tables what had happened. As you can imagine, trying to explain your thought process to a bunch of people who think you have just gone through a life-changing event isn’t easy, especially when the person next to you keeps whispering, “Can you repeat that? I’m gay.” causing you to burst into fits of giggles. Eventually, after a lengthy and much-interrupted explanation, most of the girls understood my mistake. The guys, however, had chosen not to listen. Instead, they excitedly planned the field day they were going to have with this when the counselours weren’t around. “Hey Christina, you have a boyfriend? Oh, sorry, I meant a girlfriend.” Oh yeah, I had set myself up for endless teasing.
Despite it’s obvious greatness, the joke (a.k.a “Christina’s coming-out”) grew old after a while. We made up better ones, and got sick of explaining to people what we meant every time we said “gay” instead of “deaf”.