Camp

My daughter is at New Teacher Camp. She is 23. She has been to camp before, but it has admittedly been quite a few years. New Teacher Camp is where all the first time teachers in the state go to, I don't know, get ready to teach.

I had visions of heading up to the craft barn on a sunny morning to create new curriculum with sticks and brightly colored yarn. I imagined a circle of bright and shiny young teachers, fresh out of college and ready for the classroom gathered around a campfire and hearing stories of terrifying hovercraft parents and principals that refuse to die. I wondered if old seasoned teachers, ones who had long ago grown impervious to the term "battle-axe" or Alice Cooper's song about the end of the school year, came to tell war stories and to tell the campers, "I was once like you." The smooth-skinned teachers-to-be would sit cross-legged (or Indian style, as they used to call it at camp camp) listening, jaws slack with wonder, imagining their own potential prowess when they themselves are sitting at the Big Desk.

I wonder if they will sing Cum Ba Yah, but quickly catch myself. Cum Ba Yah is a cliche now. No self-respecting camper of any stripe would be caught dead singing Cum Ba Yah. On the other hand, speaking of being caught dead, I wonder if they will play some version of Capture the Flag. Maybe it would be Students versus Teachers, or even Teachers From A High Scoring School versus Teachers Who Were Born To Teach And Are Passionate About It.

I suspect they will have a section on sitting in the Teachers' Lounge. No one really knows what ever transpired there, but everyone who has ever been a student has wondered. In every school, there was a closed and closely guarded door behind which the gods apparently put their feet up, fanned their faces, and talked about us. We liked to think that perhaps they smiled, laughed even, and said, "damn." Maybe these teacher campers will learn how to put their feet up, fan their faces, smile, and say, "damn." I'm not sure. I have never been to New Teacher Camp myself. But surely they have to learn Teachers' Lounge Protocol.

Maybe they will receive their first black faux leather grading books. Every teacher has one of those. When I was a student, names were printed in fine tip blue ink, and next to each name woukld eventually be a row of scores that were indecipherable from the sideways view that one would have while standing beside the teacher's desk. Maybe the New Teacher Campers would learn to print in tiny blue letters.

And make big, fierce-looking comments in red. How to underline certain phrases. Exclamation points might be on the agenda. I really hope smiley or frowny faces are not. These things have been clinically proven to reduce student respect.

I hope my daughter gets nice counselors, though. People who understand how hard it is to be away from home the week before you start a new job and all. I know she will be missing her husband. And in a couple of weeks, he will be heading off to Law School Camp. I wonder what kinds of crafts they will be doing.