Read Online Not a Happy Camper by Mindy Schneider - Free Book Online
Authors: Mindy Schneider
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excelled in the role of a dancing ear of corn. My father hadnât been able to take time off from work and my mother hadnât yet learned how to drive, rendering them unable to attend the performance. Determined they would share in my exultation, and in spite of the fact that it had started to rain in the middle of the play, causing my green and yellow crepe paper costume to dissolve,I wore the remains home on the bus and re-enacted the dance for my entire family in the middle of the kitchen while my mother prepared lamb chops, Minute Rice and wax beans.
But soon, oh too soon, my luck ran out. It happened during my first summer at sleepaway camp. Every play put on at Camp Cicada was an adaptation of an extravagant Broadway musical, though they kept the costs down by doing only the first act. Due to this restriction, the two oldest bunksâ production of
1776
ended with Congress still in disagreement and nobody ever signed the Declaration of Independence.
When it came time for my bunkâs play, I wasnât sure if I could sing well enough. Though everyone in my family loved to sing, I suspected we were not worthy of acclaim. One time, while walking around the block with my mother and learning the words to
Jeepers Creepers
, a kid passing by on a red tricycle rang the bell on the handlebars with the streamers and asked us to âquit disturbing the peace.â The King Family Singers had nothing to fear from us.
Further decreasing my chances for a plum role in the play was the fact that I was unpopular at Camp Cicada and feared I might not get cast at all. I opted to go for the biggest non-singing part, which was also a non-speaking part, and played Nana the dog in Act I of
Peter Pan
. It gave me plenty of time onstage, even if I couldnât show off my loud voice, and best of all, it was a role no one else wanted.
My chance to sing anonymously would arise later in the summer during âThe Annual Girlsâ Side Sing,â a competition in which a theme was chosen, the counselors wrote songs and the campers performed them. There were no individual parts to play so we would all be treated as equals. Supposedly. This yearâs theme wasâWomenâs Rightsâ and my counselor, Sherry Merlin, wanted to win. We rehearsed for three days straight and were even excused from General Swim. Hours before the performance, which would be judged by the Camp Cicada boys, we ran through the songs one last time. In the middle of âSusan B. Anthony/You have done so much for me,â Sherry stopped us.
âI think someone is slightly off-key,â she remarked. No one responded.
Anxious to win my bunkmatesâ favor, I raised my hand. âI guess it might be me.â
Sherry thought for a moment, then sternly looked at me and said, âYou know, sometimes
not
singing is just as important as singing.â
I nodded in agreement. What else could I do? That night, as I stood onstage, I mouthed the words. When we came in second, I knew it wasnât my fault weâd lost, but being asked not to sing in public had a lasting effect and I vowed never to do it again.
The one exception was my Bat Mitzvah. Because the Orthodox synagogue didnât offer a Hebrew school, my parents also maintained a membership at the townâs Conservative temple, in spite of the fact that my father considered it slumming. My parents enrolled my brothers and me at Temple Beth Shalom where the principal, Mr. Lazar, was forever warning us that our Hebrew school grades would go on our permanent records. These thrice-weekly sessions were so excruciatingly boring that one day I brought along a Tootsie Pop and really did count how many licks it takes to reach the chewy center. Eight hundred sixty-four. I also made sure to make the Honor Roll every semester and upon graduation received a certificate with a shiny gold sticker, which I promptly stuffed in a drawer in my bedroom.
Orthodox girls donât have to become
But soon, oh too soon, my luck ran out. It happened during my first summer at sleepaway camp. Every play put on at Camp Cicada was an adaptation of an extravagant Broadway musical, though they kept the costs down by doing only the first act. Due to this restriction, the two oldest bunksâ production of
1776
ended with Congress still in disagreement and nobody ever signed the Declaration of Independence.
When it came time for my bunkâs play, I wasnât sure if I could sing well enough. Though everyone in my family loved to sing, I suspected we were not worthy of acclaim. One time, while walking around the block with my mother and learning the words to
Jeepers Creepers
, a kid passing by on a red tricycle rang the bell on the handlebars with the streamers and asked us to âquit disturbing the peace.â The King Family Singers had nothing to fear from us.
Further decreasing my chances for a plum role in the play was the fact that I was unpopular at Camp Cicada and feared I might not get cast at all. I opted to go for the biggest non-singing part, which was also a non-speaking part, and played Nana the dog in Act I of
Peter Pan
. It gave me plenty of time onstage, even if I couldnât show off my loud voice, and best of all, it was a role no one else wanted.
My chance to sing anonymously would arise later in the summer during âThe Annual Girlsâ Side Sing,â a competition in which a theme was chosen, the counselors wrote songs and the campers performed them. There were no individual parts to play so we would all be treated as equals. Supposedly. This yearâs theme wasâWomenâs Rightsâ and my counselor, Sherry Merlin, wanted to win. We rehearsed for three days straight and were even excused from General Swim. Hours before the performance, which would be judged by the Camp Cicada boys, we ran through the songs one last time. In the middle of âSusan B. Anthony/You have done so much for me,â Sherry stopped us.
âI think someone is slightly off-key,â she remarked. No one responded.
Anxious to win my bunkmatesâ favor, I raised my hand. âI guess it might be me.â
Sherry thought for a moment, then sternly looked at me and said, âYou know, sometimes
not
singing is just as important as singing.â
I nodded in agreement. What else could I do? That night, as I stood onstage, I mouthed the words. When we came in second, I knew it wasnât my fault weâd lost, but being asked not to sing in public had a lasting effect and I vowed never to do it again.
The one exception was my Bat Mitzvah. Because the Orthodox synagogue didnât offer a Hebrew school, my parents also maintained a membership at the townâs Conservative temple, in spite of the fact that my father considered it slumming. My parents enrolled my brothers and me at Temple Beth Shalom where the principal, Mr. Lazar, was forever warning us that our Hebrew school grades would go on our permanent records. These thrice-weekly sessions were so excruciatingly boring that one day I brought along a Tootsie Pop and really did count how many licks it takes to reach the chewy center. Eight hundred sixty-four. I also made sure to make the Honor Roll every semester and upon graduation received a certificate with a shiny gold sticker, which I promptly stuffed in a drawer in my bedroom.
Orthodox girls donât have to become
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