In the summer of 1994, my parents sent me to a camp.
It was called the Youth Leadership Camp and was designed for people between the ages of 15 and 25 who were the offspring of mostly white, Republican, Amway member type parents, of which I reluctantly sprung.
Half-heartedly, I went along with the trip because I thought of it as an excuse to leave San Francisco for a week and get away from the pressures of scholastic and labor induced stress, plus, they would pay my way (a rare occurrence in my tight wadded upbringing). However, I failed to read the introductory package that came in the mail along with my plane ticket until I was seated on the flight to North Carolina.
I had packed none of the things on the Things You Will Need list.
But I said fuck it. How bad could it be?
This trip was free.
Upon arrival, I was met by many fresh faced, beefy, bubbly young adults in purple shirts; YLC emblazed in gold on their chests. "Great, I'm going to a camp filled with jocks and cheerleaders," I thought, as I limply greeted them, the same clique of people who had made my high school years such a living hell. It was a humid 94 degrees as we boarded the bus for Camp, excited, positive voices dripping from on high about how Great this was all going to be.
The first orientation scared the hell out of me. All of the prominent leaders of Amway were there, ready to recruit more blood to the am way. Uch. I snuck out of the auditorium to check the borders, frantically looking for a way out of this hellish prison of positive money making thinking, but was met on all sides by a ten foot fence and purple shirted smiling faces. And due to the two hour long bus ride, I knew we were nestled somewhere deep in the hills of rural North Carolina, near only a small, generic, suburban ghost town housing more of the same on the other side of the fence. I felt totally defeated. So, I sat down on an iron staircase alongside one of the dorms and wept. Then I smoked a cigarette.
About this time, the orientation had ended. Happy, smiling people came pouring out into the courtyard. We were all lined up and given room assignments, then moved off to unpack and get ready for dinner. That's when I met my roommate, Lane. She was a very tall and beautiful 22-year-old from Sulfur Springs, Louisiana. She had come to the Camp to learn more about "the business", to try and make some extra money because her father was ill and she now needed to support both him and her younger sister. She had saved up the money to come by working at the racetrack. Her passion was to be a racecar driver one day, but for now she was happy being on the sidelines. She explained to me in great detail the skill and talent it takes to change a tire in less than ten seconds flat. But what she loved most about the track was its intoxicating smell of fuel and dust, the grind and roar of the engines. She reveled in the excitement of it all, despite the constant discrimination for being one of the only women in the place. I found her sincerity and courageousness illuminating and very, very comforting.
We were inseparable that week.
Later, I met a 16-year-old girl named Bonnie from Rhode Island whose parents had forced her to attend the Camp. She seemed to be the only person there who was enjoying it less than I was, and I tried to console her, saying it was only a week, that she could get through it. But after two days, she was pulled out of one of the seminars by a smiling purple shirt for "being negative with her body language". She left a note under our door, saying that when they took her out of the seminar, she told them "I'm a bisexual socialist and I don't agree with Christianity or your capitalist bullshit system."
She was sent packing, back to her disapproving parents by lunchtime.
The daily activities were bearable, but the seminars were excruciating to sit through. The leader, spouting off about numerous success stories based solely on material possessions, the racially discriminating remarks about how "even black people can grasp this", the denigration of scientific thought and how "theories that try to prove we humans are descendants of apes is blasphemy", that education is "a waste of time because it takes attention away from what really matters: making money", and not to attend any sort of college institution because "all college professors are lesbians and fags". It was a week of this kind of monologue, pouring out of the mouth of one of the richest, most powerful men in this country, buddies with the president, and whose three sons would be the proud heirs to his extremely large estate, that enraged me. But the sons' faces betrayed his "success". They looked as though they had been beaten their whole lives by this domineering right wing nut. Each one was a particularly distant, slightly meek, but impulsive prick with a death wish and a total disregard for their position in society, living life to its fullest, most positive potential on daddy's money. But what truly interested them was inspecting this summer's shipment to the girls' dorm. And inspect, they did. The girls felt as though rock stars were courting them, oh wouldn't the parents be proud when she told them that she had been kissed by a one of The Sons!
Especially Cecelia, a pretty 17-year-old from Maryland, who asked me to buy her booze one night at the corner liquor store. She had obviously been through the routine before. She said she could keep the smiling purple shirts smiling while I crept over to the store. Gossip had circled that she had slept with at least 5 different boys at Camp already, and was making her way through the rest of them, no doubt working her way up to the Amway estate. I felt sorry for her, so I didn't get her the alcohol. It would only make her situation worse, and I didn't think she should debase herself. She didn't agree.
But I found ways to keep myself sane that week. Spent a lot of time with Lane since most of the other people there seemed to be afraid of me, asking me if I was some kind of weird witch or satan worshipper. So, Lane and I ate tons of ice cream cones, ignored curfew, constantly snuck in and out of our dorm room to smoke cigarettes under the stairway, and broke into the swimming pool on one particularly hot night for a blissful midnight dip. It was a wonderful escape from the days filled with boot camp activities, team oriented games (of which I was always the weakest link), and long, long lectures on why Democrats are Evil and Money is Good - as Good as the Son of God Himself, who Created us in His Image to Be Successful.
On the next to last day, the King of Amway Kings addressed the entire group on how well they had all done, what great leaders they would become, etc., as the lights from the cameras increased the sweltering heat, and purple shirts smiled themselves sore. He began his rant again, only more excessive this time, on the subject of abortion. I was disagreeing under my breath, as my heart began banging against my ribcage in rage. The boy sitting behind me said, "you have to say it louder", as if he also disagreed but wasn't going to be the one to say anything. I watched as the leader's wife, make up melting, rose to deliver a very short and well rehearsed speech on why abortion is wrong, then quietly shuffled back to her seat, and sat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. My hearbeat was blinding me as he asked us if we had any questions. I knew I had to say something. I couldn't just sit there and let them indoctrinate these kids with this shit. So, despite my total fear of public speaking, I rose my hand.
"Yes, there in the back? You have a question?"
The cameras swerved in my direction and tried to focus.
"Well, I was just wondering, since you are obviously pro-life, what would you do if you were me....because one of my relatives raped me and got me pregnant, so I had to have an abortion. Was that ok? Would that be right?"
The whole room became a purple blur of faces turning and gasping. I felt a pang of guilt and queasiness because this was not my situation at all, I just felt moved, as if my chest was going to explode, to ask this question for all of the ones who couldn't ask. Caught off guard, he was flustered, so he stammered "well.....well...." His wife rose again, shuffled up to stand by his side and patted his shoulder as he attempted to answer my question.
"Obviously, in a situation like yours, it might be all right. But your situation is very, very rare..." he replied with a nervous chuckle.
"I don't think it is that rare. There are a lot of women being raped every day and we will never know about it because they're afraid to tell anyone."
His face reddened, and he said nothing.
His wife meekly asked if anyone else had any questions. No one did.
On the way back to the dorms, people were not smiling at all, they seemed angry and confused. The heavy electric air greeted us outside as a summer thunderstorm brewed above. When Lane and I returned to our dorm room, she turned to me and started to cry. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, "all that...that you said back there, that happened to me." We hugged, and I immediately felt as though the words of the ones who couldn't ask were her words, the girl sitting right next to me. "I was thinking about it the whole time they were making that speech, but I couldn't have said anything.... I'm so glad you did."
The dorms were ablaze with debate and celebrations. The down pour began, air thick and rolling with heavy rumbles of thunder and piercing lightning, as we all talked all night, wondering what was Right.
The next day was our last at Camp. The number of people who approached me to talk about rape, abuse and "what's San Francisco like?" was phenomenal. Those whom I had assumed were just happy cheerleading rich white snobs became so much more to me, and I dare say my weird girl tattooed art fag vibe became ok with them, too. Cecelia was the one who talked about it the most, but she had a plane to catch so I gave her my number an address, though I never heard from her.
As we filed onto to bus for the airport, I said goodbye to Lane. We hugged each other and started crying, even though we knew everything would be all right.
I hope she's happily inhaling the fumes and dust at the track and racing her car right now.
Bitter Pie's writings and comics can be found at NotYourBitch.net.