I
planned
to
write
about
how
great
Pride
weekend
is,
but
how
we
need
to
also
show
pride
on
July
15
when
Georgia
voters
go
to
the
polls
for
primary
elections,
and
again
on
Nov.
4,
when
the
presidency
and
many
statewide
races
are
at
stake.
Then
I
spent
Monday
taking
my
older
daughter
to
summer
camp,
and
I
realized
that
no
matter
how
much
I
might
write
about
the
importance
of
political
involvement,
that
isn’t
what
Pride
means
to
me
at
all.
Away
from
my
daughter
for
the
longest
time
in
her
life,
I’ve
spent
the
week
feeling
adrift.
But
this
isn’t
a
column
about
motherhood,
either.
Many
gay
people
have
a
moment
when
they
said
“enough,”
when
they
wouldn’t
take
one
more
oppressive
act
one
minute
longer.
This
is
mine.
FOR
MOST
OF
MY
CHILDHOOD,
I
spent
the
best
weeks
of
every
summer
at
an
all-girls
camp
nestled
in
the
North
Georgia
mountains.
It
has
a
name,
of
course,
but
we
usually
called
it
simply
“Camp,”
as
if
there
were
no
others
in
the
world.
It
was
my
haven
during
years
of
family
turmoil,
and
then
later
as
I
came
to
recognize
and
finally
name
my
own
difference
from
the
girls
who
surrounded
me
throughout
most
of
the
year.
But
at
Camp,
I
felt
at
home.
I
felt
accepted
for
who
I
was,
not
judged
for
who
I
wasn’t
—
and
there
was
always
something
(a
cheerleader,
part
of
the
popular
crowd,
and
finally,
straight)
that
I
wasn’t.
On
the
mountain,
none
of
that
mattered.
This
was
no
sissy
camp.
There
were
no
awkward
arranged
dances
with
boys’
camps
or
lessons
in
aerobics
or
cheerleading.
We
lived
in
platform
tents
and
learned
to
chop
wood,
cook
over
a
campfire,
and
fall
asleep
listening
to
crickets
and
the
rustle
of
the
river.
No
matter
how
different
we
might
have
been
during
the
rest
of
the
year,
in
those
summers,
we
learned
to
be
strong
girls
and
loyal
friends.
We
learned
to
be
proud
of
what
we
could
accomplish
with
teamwork
and
our
own
two
hands.
Then,
in
not
even
two
days,
it
was
over.
THE
SUMMER
AFTER
I
graduated
from
high
school,
I
was
thrilled
to
finally
be
old
enough
to
work
as
a
counselor
at
Camp.
I
grew
closer
to
two
young
women
I
had
known
for
years,
and
we
quietly
came
out
to
each
other.
During
the
day,
we
taught
crafts
and
songs
and
outdoor
living
skills;
at
night,
when
we
thought
no
one
else
was
awake,
we
compared
notes
on
the
lives
we
were
just
starting
to
understand
and
make
for
ourselves.
But
there
were
lesbian
rumors
about
one
of
my
friends,
and
like
the
game
of
Telephone
we
sometimes
played
around
the
campfire
—
where
one
girl
whispers
something
to
the
next,
and
so
on,
until
the
message
comes
out
totally
distorted
in
the
end
—
it
grew
big
and
ugly
and
out
of
control.
A
camper
told
her
parents,
who
called
and
complained.
Camp
leaders
could
have
handled
it
differently,
by
stopping
the
rumors
in
their
tracks.
To
this
day,
I
don’t
know
why
they
didn’t
—
if
they
somehow
believed
the
truly
absurd
lies,
if
their
own
internalized
homophobia
kept
them
silent,
or
if
the
times
were
just
different
then
and
the
rumors
were
so
potentially
damaging
to
Camp
that
the
truth
simply
ceased
to
matter.
Whatever
the
reason,
they
told
my
friend
she
had
to
resign.
Four
of
us
were
told
we
could
stay,
but
they
would
understand
if
we
wanted
to
leave.
The
next
morning,
five
girls
headed
down
the
mountain
—
three
gay,
two
straight,
all
sobbing.
Before
I
left,
I
went
to
the
director’s
office,
although
I
doubted
she
was
the
one
responsible.
I
told
her
that
she
knew
the
only
reason
this
was
happening
was
because
my
friend
was
gay,
and
that
I
was
gay,
and
that
I
couldn’t
stay
there
and
be
part
of
covering
this
up.
I
was
terrified
that
they
would
tell
my
parents.
Yet
I
knew
that
I
couldn’t
leave,
that
I
couldn’t
rip
a
hole
in
my
heart
so
huge,
without
confronting
someone
about
why.
I
don’t
remember
what
she
said.
I
do
remember
that
she
quit
at
the
end
of
the
summer.
FOR
A
DECADE,
I
tried
not
to
think
about
Camp.
I
built
a
wall
...
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