The first job I ever had was at my local Jewish Community Center as a summer camp counselor. I know. That sounds horrifying. Children picking their noses and pulling caterpillars around to show you like dogs. Endless untied shoelaces. Screaming. Crying. Crying over melted popsicles. Sticky hands because a child covered in popsicle decided to hug your bare legs all the way around. It’s a big commitment. It’s a big pain. But it’s also one of the fondest memories I still have from high school.
I grew up under the watch of a single parent. My mom worked every weekday from eight to five, Saturdays from seven to noon. What few days she had off were saved for Jewish holidays, sick days, and doctor’s appointments. As long as she could pry us from our beds, we were out the door. But school only lasts six hours a day. That’s nothing for working parents—two, nevermind one. So, my sister and I went to the JCC After School Program.
Rain or shine, we went to the JCC. We went to after school. We went to summer camp. Winter camp. Snow Day Camps (yeah, that’s right. If it was bad enough to cancel school but not the roads, there was a camp for that too). And since I went to a private parochial school until third grade, having different “spring breaks,” my mother paid them to take me then too, hanging out with the part-time kindergarteners and pre-schoolers until my friends came hopping in for after school. I basically lived there. And it could have been really bad. I could have hated it there. I could have stuck my heels on the floor and screamed and refused to go, but I didn’t. I loved it. We did art projects and took naps. We had free-play with dolls and music time with songs that still make no sense to me.
Throughout the years, I worked up through every grade and section there was. Sure, I started taking the bus home from middle school, but I still went back to every other camp they had. When high school came around, I became an “intern.” Sure, I could have stayed at home, but what fun would that be? It wasn’t like I would end up going anywhere but my bed. My mother couldn’t drive me anywhere because she worked all day.
It was my sophomore year in high school when I started as a paid counselor, assigned to second graders (not my first choice, at the time). I was determined to be the best damn counselor there ever was. Sure, there were some kids that only came for one week because their parents saw a flier while taking pilates at the gym. But, there was always one that would be there out in the sun all summer long, rain or shine. There was always one like me.
So, I worked for below minimum wage 40-hours a week in the hot sun doing physical labor. We got popsicles as tips and went through a different director every year, no one wanting the hardest batch of free-range kids to look after. Drama raged throughout the counselors that I’m still recovering from. I have more than a dozen logo-printed t-shirts in my drawers that I use for pajamas. All of that was assumed beforehand, though. I had lived at the JCC my whole life. I knew what it was.
The thing they don’t tell you is that working with kids gets hard in college. The hours aren’t great. 2 p.m. pickup until 7-8 p.m. dinner? Nope. I have classes. There’s a reason I need the money. Sure, there are weekend babysitting jobs, but they’re hard to find. It’s not enough to make a living.
So, I got into the food industry. I like it. It keeps me busy. I still work with people. I have my regulars that come in and new friendly (and not friendly) faces that come in every night. But I really miss the kids. Somehow, I didn’t think I would. My last summer, I kissed camp “goodbye” with an expired JCC membership and no tears in my eyes. And yet, with every kid that walks in for brunch on Sunday morning, my eyes light up. I dig out pens and paper for them to draw on (my restaurant doesn’t have crayons). I compliment them on their sparkling boots or dinosaur hats with glowing smiles. I talk on and on with those that poke their noses up at my host stand with curious shy questions about whatever five-year-olds wonder about. I pull out the kids’ menu and crouch down as I tell them what my secret favorites are. I coo at the babies that pass and laugh as I help to bus tables of dipping syrup and hand-flattened fries. I smell chicken fingers in my mind for the rest of the day, spinning around the room with big eyes as I try to wait until the end of my shift.
I miss those moments. I miss being the best part of someone’s day. And I know they’ll all remember me. I still remember all of my counselors. Every last one of them.