It was the first day of summer day camp. At Camp Wahne, kids kindergarten through sixth grade spent hot summer days doing crafts, playing games and singing camp songs in a converted stable, while the parents attended meetings nearby. That first day, we lined up in front of the old tack room to give our names and ages to be assigned a counselor.
Standing in line, watching the other kids, I started to feel too tall and too big to be just five and only in kindergarten. Often, when I told an adult my age, they would exclaim how tall I was, how much older I looked. No other five-year-olds seemed to be wearing glasses; my pink cat-eye glasses, with lenses that made my eyes look huge, felt conspicuous. As the line moved me slowly toward the desk where I would tell them who I was, I was nervous. What would they think of me? That I did not look like what I was, that I did not fit?
When I reached the front of the line, my mind started to spin. The woman with the clipboard asked me what grade I was in, and a little lie spilled out. “Fifth grade,” I said. I had thought for a moment before I said it. I might not look old enough to be in sixth grade, I reasoned, but five and fifth are close enough. It was just a little exaggeration. “Wow!” she said. “You’re small for your age!” That was just what I wanted to be.
The fifth-grade counselor was everyone’s favorite. Kids from all the groups would run to her for hugs. There were 10 or so kids in our large, concrete-floored stall, and one of our first activities was to choose a name for ourselves and paint the walls to illustrate our identity. We planned it out, sketched the outlines in pencil on the wooden walls, and began to paint our mural. I worked so carefully, staying in the lines, painting a horse and some flowers. Another camper watched my work, complimented my painting and commented on how small I was. “Yes,” I answered, “I’m small for my age.” It was working out just fine.
We listened to stories, we played games, we did crafts. On the second day of camp, though, my lie began to fray around the edges. Under a big, shady tree, we sat in a circle for story time, but today we were taking turns reading the story out loud. Panic clenched in my stomach. I did not know how to read. How would I fake that? I thought about confessing, but I was afraid. When my turn came, I said I did not want to read, I was too shy. My face flushed bright red, like a neon sign flashing my deception.
That evening, after my parents picked me up, I tearfully told my mother about my problem. I skimmed over the details of how it happened that I was in the wrong group, and I think she thought it was just a mix-up. She told the camp staff, and soon after dinner, the kindergarten counselor came over to me, put her arm around me and welcomed me to her group. A safe, non-reading group. I sank into my chair, so relieved to not have to act older, to talk about things I didn’t understand, to worry that someone would find out.
The next day at camp, I felt free. No one mentioned my days as a big kid. Even the occasional “so tall!” or “four-eyes” comments rolled right off me. I was happy to let everybody think it was an accident, a simple mix-up of five and fifth.
When the other kids ran to the popular fifth-grade counselor, I went with them, but I stayed to the back, out of the flurry of hugs and greetings. I was sure that she knew it wasn’t just a mix-up. In my five-year-old mind, I had committed a grave offense. I had lied.
Looking back, I’m sure she must have known I wasn’t just small for my age, and she probably wasn’t surprised when I left for the kindergarten group. I’m also sure she wasn’t angry with me, even though I lied, and wouldn’t have minded if I ran to her for a hug with the others.
I wish I could have learned the simple lesson of being honest and being myself at that early age, but it has taken many more painful experiences of trying to be what I thought others expected, or trying to appear more important or accomplished or impressive than I felt. Seeing myself as that little girl with pigtails and pink glasses helps me to have compassion for myself, though, as I walk through this long process of growing up and becoming comfortable with who I am.
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