Have you all thought enough about children in cages yet?
Boy, when Nick was in fifth grade and the subject of camp came up, I worried, first of all, if he could fall sleep in those saggy and screechy bunk beds they always seemed to have at camp. I remembered camp nights. The first night, I woke up every single time I or anyone else shifted and those ancient springs shrieked flat, plastic mattresses into my ear.
What I've forgotten until I think of it now is that by the second night, my brain adjusted to the nighttime sounds of thirty-two girls sleeping, of the rusted springs groaning under me, and of the questionable springs stretching over my head from the girl who nabbed the top bunk. I slept just fine. The daytime was a joy, running through green leaves in the woods, following trails, looking for paw prints not already trampled by sneakers.
Outdoor school was a joy. Outdoor school made learning so easy. I loved outdoor school, even though the bed sounds remained shockingly loud as I fell asleep at night in my own cozy sleeping bag.
So, when it was Nick's turn, the first thing I wondered about was that sound and if he would sleep.
But when he came home, he chattered on about finding sea stars on the beach and miniature crabs under rocks. He talked about how he was the best at orienteering and paddling because none of the other kids had done it before so he taught a dozen kids what to do once they were out of earshot of an adult. He gathered up a bunch of gravel and showed me how to clean dirty water and growled at me when I wouldn't drink the results.
I'm not a big fan of giardia and told him my filtered water needed to go through a known aperture of so many microns before I felt safe to drink it. I'm pretty sure he drank his when I wasn't looking.
For all my worrying, Nick had been fine. He'd been away from home five nights, but the camp counselors were cheerful, teachers and a nurse were available for skinned knees, the food was intended to be nutritious, and the surrounding woods seemed endless. He knew we could come pick him up any time he needed us. He knew which day he would come back home with his stories to tell.
Nick hadn't spent five days and nights corralled into a bunk room with twenty-seven other boys twenty-four hours a day. He hadn't been locked in. And he'd been eleven before he spent one night more than fifteen minutes away from home.
So, I keep imagining those kids that ICE put into concentration camps at our southern border. Were they being given decent food to eat? Why couldn't they get decent sleeping bags instead of those awful space blankets? Why weren't there mattress on the bunks? Why did they have to stay in cages inside chain link fencing? Why wasn't there carpet or at least rugs on the floors? Why weren't there comfortable chairs to sit in? Is anyone in charge of activities to engage all those young minds? Has anyone talked to them in their own language to explain what would happen to them? Are their medical needs being met? And what about the ones I saw that looked to be in diapers still? Who is taking care of them, comforting them?
Someone needs to answer for this malevolent act.
Thank you for listening, jules
Boy, when Nick was in fifth grade and the subject of camp came up, I worried, first of all, if he could fall sleep in those saggy and screechy bunk beds they always seemed to have at camp. I remembered camp nights. The first night, I woke up every single time I or anyone else shifted and those ancient springs shrieked flat, plastic mattresses into my ear.
What I've forgotten until I think of it now is that by the second night, my brain adjusted to the nighttime sounds of thirty-two girls sleeping, of the rusted springs groaning under me, and of the questionable springs stretching over my head from the girl who nabbed the top bunk. I slept just fine. The daytime was a joy, running through green leaves in the woods, following trails, looking for paw prints not already trampled by sneakers.
Outdoor school was a joy. Outdoor school made learning so easy. I loved outdoor school, even though the bed sounds remained shockingly loud as I fell asleep at night in my own cozy sleeping bag.
So, when it was Nick's turn, the first thing I wondered about was that sound and if he would sleep.
But when he came home, he chattered on about finding sea stars on the beach and miniature crabs under rocks. He talked about how he was the best at orienteering and paddling because none of the other kids had done it before so he taught a dozen kids what to do once they were out of earshot of an adult. He gathered up a bunch of gravel and showed me how to clean dirty water and growled at me when I wouldn't drink the results.
I'm not a big fan of giardia and told him my filtered water needed to go through a known aperture of so many microns before I felt safe to drink it. I'm pretty sure he drank his when I wasn't looking.
For all my worrying, Nick had been fine. He'd been away from home five nights, but the camp counselors were cheerful, teachers and a nurse were available for skinned knees, the food was intended to be nutritious, and the surrounding woods seemed endless. He knew we could come pick him up any time he needed us. He knew which day he would come back home with his stories to tell.
Nick hadn't spent five days and nights corralled into a bunk room with twenty-seven other boys twenty-four hours a day. He hadn't been locked in. And he'd been eleven before he spent one night more than fifteen minutes away from home.
So, I keep imagining those kids that ICE put into concentration camps at our southern border. Were they being given decent food to eat? Why couldn't they get decent sleeping bags instead of those awful space blankets? Why weren't there mattress on the bunks? Why did they have to stay in cages inside chain link fencing? Why wasn't there carpet or at least rugs on the floors? Why weren't there comfortable chairs to sit in? Is anyone in charge of activities to engage all those young minds? Has anyone talked to them in their own language to explain what would happen to them? Are their medical needs being met? And what about the ones I saw that looked to be in diapers still? Who is taking care of them, comforting them?
Someone needs to answer for this malevolent act.
Thank you for listening, jules
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