Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

Dear Human Resources Manager,
Currently I am an Arts and Crafts Specialist, where I teach basic and advanced art projects to campers aged 8 to 17.

As I weaved around a tiny gravel road located on the top of a mountain in Nowheresville, I wondered if I was ready for the job I was taking. Now, a week later, I am still apprehensive, but I am looking forward to meeting my girls and teaching them how to make cool, practical stuff with everyday, boring things.

For security reasons, I cannot say exactly where I am, but I can say that this is a very unique working environment. First of all, everyone is expected to have a camp nickname. I read in the information brochure that nicknames were given, but what I didn't know was that I would be taking on a totally new identification. When I got out of my car and was greeted by the rest of the staff, they all asked me if I had chosen a nickname. I had assumed that a nickname was given, but I wanted to take the opportunity to name myself, rather than be stuck with a moniker like "Zits" or "Squishy."

I tried playing on alternate versions of my own name: Grixie... Pixie? Oh, there's already a Pixie. Ellie... Ellie-fant... Jelly... Jelly Belly.... Um.... I also mentally ran through the X-Men roster. Rogue? Storm? I like starting fires, should I be Pyro? I also started thinking about some of my favorite book characters, and since I had just finished reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" for the millionth time, I decided to be called Scout. So now, all of my co-workers know me only as Scout, and it is my decision if I would like to reveal my true identity to any of them.

One of the main drawbacks of living way up here is the total lack of modern conveniences, like Wi-Fi, cell phone reception, electricity, flush toilets, and mirrors. My only access to any of those comforts is through a 30-minute drive into the nearest town. I am at the moment sitting in a too-cold Barnes and Noble cafe, sipping a very cold beverage which I only purchased so that I wouldn't feel guilty about taking up a table for an hour while I look for jobs. My job search has dramatically slackened during the past week, but I am determined to send off at least one application a week. The prospect of making follow-up calls from a Panera Bread Company is uncomfortable, but the prospect of ending yet another odd job and staring over the vast canyon of unemployment is unendurable.

I am freezing, so I'm going to wrap up my little rant now. I would like to leave you with one story: the latrines out here are called a "Biffy": Bathrooms In Forest For You, and they boast the combined fragrances of toothpaste and shit, as one would expect from a chemical toilet. One follows the tightrope walker's credo of Don't Look Down when using them, and it is disconcerting to have a moment's silence between the disposal and the impact. But the ceiling is a small splendor. The roof is made of particle board, and little flakes protrude from the ceiling from where the nails are driven through. At night, hordes of moths congregate around the lightbulbs, and their folded wings match the shape and color of the wood. When you come in and close the door, the moths flutter in a way that suggests that pieces of the roof are coming to life and are flying away.