Hey, Ragger, Ragger, Ragger SWING

I am a YMCA Ragger. What's your name?
Now, you may be asking yourself, "Self, what does she mean?" Worry no more, my friends, ask and you will recieve. I'll also stop talking like that. So, a rag in Camp Muggle terms is a dirty old piece of cloth. A Rag in Sai Fon/ Camp terms is a outward symbol of an inward goal. It is called a Rag because it has no traditional value. It's just a symbol.

The Red Rag is a two year goal and when I was getting it, I admittedly was a little emotional. My goal for the next two years is to stop lying so much. I had an epiphany that summer that  I lie. A lot.
And to make it worse, it's always little white likes about stupid and ridiculous stuff. It ranges from, "Noooo I didn't drink your last soda, mom." too "Yeah, I can't hang out. The 'rents, ya know."
My latest one almost got me in trouble. I was talking to my new band teacher and I was really mad. After working 2 years to get the respect of my old band teacher and other students I was shot down to the bottom after having to move. My new school was cool, and there was even another girl trumpet player so I moved up in the ranks quickly, but this new school, the kids were so good. But they we better then me by book terms. I feel like I'm stuck in the limbo of bands. There is the entry level band and then there is the Wind Ensemble. It sounds so prestigious. I'm good enough to be in the WE but at the same time, I'm not.  No body knows who I am, as a trumpet player. So, I lied a wee bit to make me look good. Hubris. Fall of everybody. I told my band teacher that I had the jazz award at my old school. I don't even know  how that lie formulated in my head. It was just," Hi Mr.BandTeacher," and then my mind threw up lies.  He was all excited because he needed someone to improvise in Jazz Band, which I can't do and all I remember in my head was red alarms and a voice yelling, "Abort! Abort!". When ever I do it, I know I am in the wrong but.... I just can't help it. Sometimes I feel worse when I don't lie.

So, I started myself in the face and said, "Self, you need to get your crap together!"
That is what I love about Camp so much. It gives you 2nd and 3rd and 9th chances. All Camp wants to do is help you and I know that I will never be judged at Camp.

Camp makes me a better person everyday.

So I have one thing to say to camp

Hugging it out

It can be really hard being a Christian in today's society. When I tell people I believe in God, I feel like I have to totally explain my belief to them before they walk away. But why do people run at the thoughts of Religion or God? I mean, culturally speaking, we have associated these words with people who are-I guess in a way-taking away their free will and a wee bit crazy.

Take for instance the West Boru Baptist Church. For those who don't know about the WBC, they are the people who picket at soldiers funerals. Their major belief is that God is punishing the States for tolerating Homosexuality. These people are extremists. I feel like I have to give them a little history lesson. The 9/11 attacks were carried out by extremists. Hitler was an extremists. Extremists make everybody look bad. Luckily, America is smart enough not to think that Christianity condones the protesting of Soldiers funerals but  they still absorb the fact that those "Christians" are shoving their belief down the throats of anybody who crosses their way and automatically avoids ever wanting to go near it. That is not what Christianity is about. Being a Christian means you love the Sinner, not the sin and try to help them "see the light" on their own terms. The key word in that sentence being LOVE.


I love Love. Love is amazing. It can take you places that you would have never been able to go. It helps you see things, and it shields you. At Camp we talk about love a lot and what it actually means. It's really cute when the younger campers get asked what they think love means and they say something like, "Love is when mommy lets daddy sleep in the same bed even though he's snoring". I mean, aww! As we grow older we understand love and sadly hate differently.

Why can't we just hug it out?

Roots

Love: noun. A intense feeling of affection for another person.
Harmony: noun. Agreement; combination of musical notes to make a chord.
Camp: noun. Form of lodging in a tent or cabin.
Love, Harmony and Camp. 

Three words. 

Three very simple words. 

I live my life by them. This trifecta of nouns makes up my life.  Love because I believe everybody should be loved and have the right to love. Harmony because my inner-hippie makes me wish there could be world peace among us humans, though I acknowledge, sadly, that world peace is not possible. Lastly ( but clicheily not least) Camp. 

 That word brings to mind a slideshow of pictures, of memories and people. Robin flashes through my head, the horse corral, getting food for everybody because I lost the chug war. 

Being an army brat, I've never been very sure of anything. At some points even questioning what my family will be like in the future. When ever people ask me about my hometown I would stare at them blankly and just say the place I just moved from. Around 5th grade that changed though. In the summer of '05 I went to my first summer at Camp or well, first week of Camp. Both my father and Uncle went to Camp Collins when they were younger and I was excited to go to a summer camp. That first week would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I came home singing ridiculous songs about hippos and elephants and a manic bunny that I wouldn't allow in my row boat. My first counselor was Bubbles. Appropriately named because she could blow bubbles off her tongue. (A trick I am still trying to figure out.) She was and I'm sure she still is, a beautiful soul. Maybe my 3rd day of camp I had a nightmare and ended up at the side of her bed. She asked me what was wrong and then gave me a huge pillow that she used to sleep with when she had nightmares. She tied my first Rag. A Rag is an outward symbol of an inward goal.

Eight years later I don't remember what my goal was, but I know this for sure: As my mother drove away from the Camp parking lot at the end of that week, I knew that I would be going back. Luckily for me I did. Seven times. Camp as been the only sure thing in my life, and without it I would not be same person I am today.