Summer Reflections

"I'll never break. . ." A Backstreet oldie but goodie that never fails to bring that weird, untouchable feeling into my heart. Wednesday, July fourteenth, nineteen ninety-nine. Summer. It's one of those days where I come home, exhausted after a day of chasing after Alex, pleased with the few "successes" of coaxing him to throw his trash away, and covered with bug bites and mulch in even the most unthinkable places.

It's good to come home on these days, make myself a ham sandwich, and go on a food binge of absolutely everything in sight, forgetting --- consciously--- about the grams of fat each bite carried and disposed along with the others in my thighs and belly. On these days, half of me wants to go down into my basement, kiss my dogs hello, and tell the world about the day's adventures. The other half --- the stubborn half --- wants me to crawl into bed, rest my head on the pillow and go to sleep.

So I do.

And on these days, waking up after the comforting afternoon nap away from the worries and fun of being a Mainstream Companion, it's hard not to be a bit grumpy. But I do wake up, after several coaxing, then more not so words from my mother, I drag my heavy body off of the soft mattress, away from my feathery blanket, and put on my workout clothes --- black wife beater and gray shorts --- for my Monday and Wednesday aerobics classes to keep my muscles in shape and my flab from hanging off too much over the sometimes-too-tight waist line of my pants.

Don't think about it, just do it, I whisper to myself in my brain as I crouch ontop of my soft blue mat, on elbows and knees, with my right leg curled, my thigh parallel to the floor, and the sole of my foot as if it were aiming to kick the ceiling. Sweat pours down the sides of my face and I know that I am flushed a deep red that I find hideously ugly, but my mother finds "healthy pretty."

From across the elementary school cafeteria, I can hear our instructor --- whom I have yet to know by name --- calling out the numbers. One through eight, then backwards, eight through one. I feel as if my whole body is about to collapse to the floor, and my brain is no longer commanding my body to make the motions; it's just mechanic. But a few seconds later, I hear the staple words that I had known would come just refused to think about. "Eight more," the instructor calls out. And I do; eight more on the right leg, and the same repetition on the left.

Before I know it --- everything in life seems to work that way, no? --- the hour of sweat and pushing myself to do as much as I can, to jump a bit higher, to squeeze a little bit more, the soft flute music comes out of the speakers, and the whole class closes their eyes, laying on their mats, myself included, relaxing every muscle in our bodies. And for the first time in the month since class had started, I kept my eyes closed the whole way through, encasing myself in my own little world as I do so often when I'm around others.

Perhaps the reason I can't keep my eyes closed are because I want to see if the others have their eyes closed as they're supposed to. A hypocrite, I suppose I am but I can also call it human nature. The aerobics students in that class are a little bit different from me. Most of them are at least two decades older than me. On one of the many pamphlets of summer courses that the school stuffs us with, I found this class, for people thirteen or older and it interested me. Second semester of school, I had signed up for aerobics/weight lifting, just to get my credits for selective physical education, and found myself to like it more than I expected. It's a great feeling afterwards, sweaty and sticky and red. For some strange reason, however, all except three (me included) of my class are women that are at least over thirty-five and working hard to keep in shape, taking breaks during the routines while us three "young-uns" continue to step our way around in kicks, jumps, and punches. And for that reason, I respect every single one of those women, determined to climb the age hill, whether they're over or not, with umph and sweat and exercise. No gin rummy for them.

And when our van pulls into the garage, my sister opens the door to the kitchen, sending one of our three dogs, Tiger, out to greet us with wet kisses and sloppy drool. I walk into the door, for the first time realizing how incredible famished I was, my stomach grumbling in complaint.

Settling down to dinner, it's nice to be able to turn on the television to the Disney channel and see the Backstreet Boys instead of *N S(t)ync doing a concert special that reruns and reruns again over and over until you're sure that the Disney channel has officially been changed to the Backstreet channel while, a month later, the producers finally cool off and let the show run every other day, and finally, just once a couple of weeks. Either way, no matter how many times they run it, to me, it never gets old. The Backstreet Boys can sing "Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)" a thousand times, which I'm sure between concerts, special appearances, etc. they've already done, but somehow, it still sounds that good, that fresh, that grabbing-my-heart-and-ripping-it-to-pieces, that beautiful to my ears.

And it's comforting. For two years it's been a staple in my life, the Backstreet Boys, and things have changed, my life, them, their music, everything, but it's all the same in the end. Brian still doesn't seem to realize that singing with your eyes opened during more than half of a show is okay. AJ still looking like his attacker with the black magic marker never wants to stop. Nick still raising only one corner of his mouth when he smiles to make the girls swoon and faint at his feet, cry at the touch of his hand. Kevin still with that indescribable look on his face, raising his hand with one finger pointing, as he sings his solo. Howie still blinking at least five times per every half a minute. They're still the same.

But at the same time, they've changed. Or perhaps, they haven't changed, but I have, I can see deeper and farther, past their boy scout, love the world image, to the them that is more real than before. Or maybe it's a little of both. They are finally letting it seep through, a few minor curse words here and there, a few seconds where they don't look as energetic and happy as they should. And I am finally picking it up. The way Brian has that look in his eyes when he talks about his "job." Maybe I was just blind to that before, but had he ever referred to singing as his job prior to the few weeks of deep depression and denial I went through about them?

And they've changed for the better, their harmonies stronger, their dance moves better, --- though Brian is still always a split second slower or faster than the rest, always glancing over at Nick or Kevin to check his footwork and timing, but no matter what still off --- their outfits more mature, their voices louder. . . They've become pros at this "job" but does that mean they're getting sick of it?

The same old boys that are now men, the same old songs with new ones mixed in, the same old summertime stickiness. And it just occurred to me, one year ago, tonight was a night that had finished a roller coaster. One year ago, tonight was "Backstreet concert eve," the night before the fifteenth of July, the night before the Backstreet Boys concert at Nissan pavilion. And now as I think about it, with the new Millennium CD spinning in my computer, it comes back fresh and clear to me. The tears as --- in fact, right about this time at 9:47--- I called up Megan to tell her I wasn't going to the concert. The anger as the radio station cut me off before I had a chance to let out my sob story. And the final relief as my father came home and we worked out the whole situation, from the transportation problem to every other little detail and I was finally set to go to the concert.

Funny how it was a year ago and it seems like today, but what a different frame of mind I had been in back then. What a different pair of eyes I looked through to see them. I wonder what I would be doing if I were going tomorrow of this year, and tonight I was placed in the same situation, I wonder if I would act the same way.

Inhaling deeply, it smells like summer, the same smell. The same sounds even, only with "I Want It That Way" playing in my computer instead of "All I Have To Give" or another song of the same date.

Summer has been good to me this year, without the vacancy of last year, without the emotional and mental turmoils of sixth grade summer, without the rush of going back to Taiwan of third grade summer. Starting with Chinese camp, an experience that I will never forget and will experience again at the end of August during second session. It was one of the most fun weeks of my life. During the period of one week, I had instilled and strengthened the bond with a long time friend Irene. Getting to know her little quirks and interests as well as personality better than ever before.

Then, after a short break of one week, Hidden Springs Nature Camp, where I am now, today a companion until this Friday when I will be relieved of my duties. There, I am a Mainstream Companion for a little --- only in age and not size --- nine year old boy named Alex Traywick. It is, has been, and I know will be until the very last second quite an experience that I will never ever forget, and perhaps, as weird and illogical as it might sound, repeat again.

Alex has down syndrome, and all his life had been placed in schools and classes in classes of four with more teachers than students. In classrooms with others like him. Suddenly, this summer, he is put into a four-session, eight week camp (which I am only working one session of) with sixty some kids and only five counselors of college age, a director about 28 years old, four CITs (counselors in training) and one companion, me. At times, Alex is cute, but mostly he is, as Mike (the director) would put it, a pain in the ass, or pain in the butt around the kids. And he is, 100% without a doubt.

He puzzles me, really. He has what I have come to refer to as, "selective obedience." He picks and chooses when he feels like listening and doing what I tell him to do. And for some incomprehensible reason, he's been picking those moments a lot less than last week. More and more often do I find myself chasing after him, and pretty much wrestling him in order to prevent him from running off, or mostly calling for Mike and Eric over my shoulders to come over and either drag him away from some place he wants to and isn't allowed to be, or to keep him some place he doens't like.

I come home on these days, exhausted from chasing after him and arguing with him, sick of the tiring heat. But like I said before, I'd go back and do it all again. Chasing him, making him sit in time out, telling him not to tip the canoe, yanking mulch from his hand so that he doesn't throw it. And maybe, most likely, it's because once in a while, I get the feeling of happiness, almost success or achievment when I Alex decides to listen and obey me, or make his thumbs-up sign I taught him, or pound his chest and yell like Tarzan as Mike taught him, or rub his stomach and say "hungry" as Brett and Eric have taught him. Little things, when he decides to play ball with me, that can make it all seem so worthwhile despite the other incidents and unpleasant events.

"I never thought that I would. . ." The first line of "Don't Wanna Lose You Now" off of the Millennium album pours out of the computer speakers. I look at the monitor, at the words I'm typing, and I think to myself, summer has been good to me. Let's see how the rest will be.

Oh, the things you wish you never wasted your time reading. . . hahaha. . . Well, that was just some random thing I decided to write and test styles w/ so. . . that's all

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