Death by Camp Americana

The summer before 6th grade I was miserable, but by no fault other than my own. When Melia asked me to join her at camp for three weeks, I agreed without much conviction. She had long envied her older sister, Mika, who attended Camp Runoia annually. Melia, too young to attend herself, listened eagerly to Mika's tales of camp magic and the lasting female friendships she forged there. Melia absorbed these stories with wide eyes, yet I remained skeptical, knowing Mika’s beautiful singing voice and charisma likely rendered her camp royalty. Melia insisted we experience the magic for ourselves that summer before 6th grade, and I agreed to, even though I had little personal interest in going. My parents saw it as an opportunity to help me overcome my lingering attachment to them, from my earlier elementary school years. The main reason I said yes was because I couldn't bear to disappoint my best friend.

The camp was a collection of weathered bungalows trimmed with faded green paint, their shingles worn and gray from years of exposure to the elements. Broken window screens revealed glimpses of wet bathing suits and posters with curling edges decorating the bunks. Tetherball poles and Gaga Ball courts were scattered across neatly trimmed grass. I soon became familiar with the large American flag at the camp's center, where we were expected to recite the pledge of allegiance each morning.

Upon arriving at the Belgrade Lakes, I stuck close to Melia, seeking comfort in her presence. But she was preoccupied with emulating her sister's social prowess, engaging enthusiastically with fellow campers. I found myself more interested in observing our new surroundings.

On the first afternoon, as faces with wide smiles guided us on a tour of the grounds, I felt more like a visitor in a museum than a part of the community. Everywhere I looked, I saw personal relics of past visitors—initials carved into floorboards, group murals on ceilings—remnants of memories shared by others. That night in the dining hall, Melia and I were assigned to different tables. With the buzz of clattering trays and counselor-facilitated conversation, I ate spaghetti with canned sauce and steamed vegetables on a scarred wooden table. The light in the paneled room was orange and low as I attempted to swallow the lump of homesickness in my throat.

The first week blurred into a repetitive cycle of icebreakers, lengthy swimming and sailing lessons on the lake, and relentless mosquito attacks. As the familiar scents of home faded, the forest grew alien. Each morning, I selected clothing from my duffel bag, aware of the dwindling traces of my laundry detergent—a fragile lifeline connecting me to comfort amid the vastness of the Maine wilderness.

One morning, I found myself alone in a basket-weaving class. As I awkwardly wove strands of bamboo in silence, my counselor, absorbed in her own work, suddenly asked if I was enjoying my first week at camp. Caught off guard, I confessed my loneliness, and she gently inquired about who I was friendly with. When I mentioned Melia, she reassured me that finding my place would take time. I wish I could say her words resonated with me. Instead, I decided to prematurely surrender to my homesickness for the next two weeks, resigning myself to misery. I continued to watch my counselor weaving her basket higher and tighter.

Midway through the three weeks, I was merely scraping by. I engaged in light socialization out of necessity rather than desire. To pass the time more quickly, I recorded each day in great detail in my journal. I noted down the people I interacted with, however briefly. Names like Paige from the next cabin over, who braided my hair in two french braids. I recorded the meals I ate—blueberry pancakes with syrup for breakfast and a turkey sandwich for lunch. As I chronicled these things, I found comfort in the routine. The act of journaling became a form of meditation, a way to quiet the persistent ache of homesickness. When the time came for the midway excursion trips, I decided to join a camping adventure with a group of about 15 girls in the woods. Melia and I had initially planned to go together, but she opted out, concerned about her rosacea flaring up on the 16-mile hike. As a novice camper, I struggled with the weight of hiking backpacks and clunky boots. The first night in the woods was humid. We gathered around a simple homemade fire, enjoying mac and cheese fresh off the Bunsen burner. I discovered a newfound appreciation for Velveeta cheese. I felt relief for the first time in weeks. Perhaps it was the break from the structured routine or the impending end of my time at Camp Runoia. I shared a tent with Carlota, a girl with dark brown puffy bangs and a quiet demeanor. Despite our language barrier, I felt a connection with her and considered her my first friend. When I told her this, she responded with silence—already fast asleep.

By the final week, I was unable to contain the weight of my homesickness. Cataloging my days no longer provided solace. It was during those quiet hours, while Melia rested peacefully on her bunk, that waves of panic seized me. The lump in my throat swelled, tears threatened to spill, and my skin tingled with numbness.

Disregarding the cabin rules, I pushed through the creaking screen doors and crossed the dewy grass toward the imposing white colonial house where the camp director, Pam, lived. She met me with a furrowed brow and a look of genuine concern. Through tear-streaked eyes, I poured my heart out, confessing my struggles. Pam listened attentively with a compassionate gaze. She reached into her pocket to pull out a delicate pink and purple friendship bracelet, crafted by her daughter. Accepting the bracelet with a mix of gratitude and trepidation, I found relief in its subtle presence on my wrist. For the first time, I sensed a crack in the facade of the impenetrable camp community that I had kept at arm’s length.

Later that night, I went to the bathroom before bed and my heart sank as the bracelet slipped off my wrist and disappeared into the swirling water of the toilet bowl. I stood there in disbelief, watching as the bracelet vanished before my eyes, the lump in my throat returning with a vengeance.