Jesus Camp

Lemme break this down on a number of levels -- Developmental Psychologist, Camp Counselor, and as a Christian.

* Developmental Psychologist -- so, we're looking at kids in the concrete operational phase of development and while they are still in that hero worship of parents phase of life. These kids are being taught that if something good happens as a result of prayer, then it's because God and Jesus are happy with them. If they pray and something doesn't happen, then, it's because they have displeased God and/or Jesus in some way. Yup. Complete external loci of control going on there. I could go on and on, but, basically, these people are really not helping the kids become better citizens. Oh, wait -- they don't care to be better citizens because they're going to Heaven in the end -- and I'll touch more on that below.
* Camp Counselor -- yanno -- I don't agree with EVERYTHING we do at my camp, either, but, we have specific foci and everything we do revolves around one core tenant -- everything is focused on the heath, safety, and the joy of the children! We work with them so that they learn how to think independently, to grow and build on the knowledge and skills they have as well as exploring new ideas and skills.
* Christian -- I am a Christian, and I have my beliefs that I'll share. I understand my relationship with God, and I know one thing for sure -- my God is not the same God as these people believe in. I was taught and have learned that God loves and forgives, and that God reserves the right of vengeance and judging. But, these people are not like that. I'm sorry, but, when you use God as a way to put kids to bed ("How are you glorifying God in your actions?") -- again, it's an external locus of control, and it teaches kids that they don't have to be responsible for their actions. The Catholics teach a lot about the idea of the freedom of choices, but, they also teach that you're ultimately the one responsible. I like that idea.

I was told by a student this semester that he can tell just by looking at someone and interacting with them if they're a Christian or not. According to him, I'm not (which prompted me to show him my drivers license). I asked him what his reasoning was and it's because I drink, smoke, swear, and fornicate. Hmmmm...well...he's batting .750 with me...but...then, I asked him if he's a Christian, and he said, "well, yeah."

"Do you drink?"

"yeah, but..."

"Do you smoke?"

"yeah, but..."

"Do you swear?"

"I'm trying to stop..."

"Do you fornicate, or do you just get a good piece of hand from time to time?"

I got him to laugh at that -- thank God he's a former Marine as well. But, then, I asked him, "you do the same things as me. What makes you a Christian, but not me?"

"Well, I go to church."

"Well, I know a lot of people that go to church that aren't the best of Christians."

Interesting.

Do you think it might be you?

Two students plagiarized. I sat them down and told them what they had done. They told me they understood and thanked me for telling them how to improve their papers. One turned hers in last week, the other I just read.

One was a simple case of omission -- didn't cite a single thing. "But, I didn't quote anything." So, I explained to her that her ideas for her paper were based upon the material that she read, and she needs to give those individuals credit for what she's read. The paper she turned in went from zero cites to four -- so, I marked 'no improvement' and handed it back.

The one I just read, well, in the original, she's got cites EVERYWHERE, but the writing is a simple paraphrasing of the articles, not a single original thought in the paper. So, I explain to her that she does need to cite like she has, but, she has to take the information and put it into her own words.

Today, student number 1 comes to my office and is in a HUFF and says "Obviously, I'm too stupid to write the way you want me to."

"Excuse me?" I'm at this point checking her hands because she's not the most stable of people.

"Well, I didn't realize I had to cite the stuff that I didn't quote. That's all I've ever had to do before."

"Ummmm...okay..."

"So, I must just be stupid."

At this point, our hero is close to saying, "you said it,honey, not me." But, he used his superhuman powers of restraint and held his tongue in check.

After not saying anything for a moment, she continues. "I mean, this just doesn't make sense. When did you tell us that we had to cite like that?"

"Are you serious? Look at the handouts I gave you. Ask the others in class. I said it so many times and so many ways that I thought I was being too repetitive."

"WELL, I guess I just wasn't paying attention."

And the skies opened and the angels started to sing as she says in deepest irony what our hero has known all along.

"And who's fault is that?"

She glares at me.

"Seriously. Is that my fault that I stressed it OVER and OVER in class, and that I TOLD you about this last week when we met?"

She continues to glare at me. I sit back into my chair, cross my legs and tent my fingers.

"Well. Can I rewrite it?"

Again, our hero uses his superhuman ability not to yell 'FUCK, NO!' at this student. He just stares at her for a moment, feigning being deep in thought. He's good at that, don'cha know?

"How will this rewrite be different?"

"Well. I'll do what you want me to."

Let's see. I'm having them use APA format. Correct me if I'm wrong, but every academic style of writing requires some sort of citation. If you want, I'll come up with a source for that. It's not ME that set the standard, that developed the style. I'm the one that is teaching it.

"I have to think about this."

So, after class, I give her this option. "All or nothing; one more chance, pass-fail. No help from me. No help from the writing center. You had chances to do that already."

Her friend is standing there -- her friend that did the paper properly from the beginning. "Don't worry, I'll help you."

"No, you won't. She has to do this on her own. I will consider any outside help as collusion, and collusion is a form of cheating." Turning back to the student. "You need to tell me by tomorrow what your decision will be. If you pass, you get a 70%. If you don't pass, you get a 59%." If she takes the option, she's also going to have to sign an agreement that will state she is not to ask for or accept any help from others.

That's right, I'm going to be a BFB -- Big Fucking Bastard.

The paper I just got done reading -- she went through, changed a few key words, and resubmitted. The thing that's pissing me off about this is that she's treating me like I'm an idiot.

So, I'm not feeling anxious tonight. I'm pissed and I have 8 more papers to grade.

Confusion (Part 2 of the Flood Series)

Confusion.

That was the operant word for most of 1997. Blizzards turned to ice storms turned to floods turned to red tape. Often, the information changed day by day. Others, it was minute to minute.

After we decided to leave, Crys and I had to decide where we were going to go. What to take. What to leave. And we left a lot – we were on the second floor. The water would have to get over 60+ feet for it to reach our floor. My car was parked high in the ramp across the street, and we took a week’s worth of clothes each.

Two mornings later, when we realized we weren’t returning home, I started making calls. First it was Qwest. They were cool. Told us that they’d disconnect the service and when we were ready to restart our service, they wouldn’t charge us a set-up fee or deposit. Then, it was Northern States Power (NSP, now Xcel). I told the operator that we needed to disconnect our service and told her where we lived.

“Well, we can’t turn off the service until Tuesday. We need to send someone out to read the meter.”

“Did you hear what I said? I was in one of the buildings in downtown Grand Forks. One of the buildings that burned.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that. We still need to send out a meter reader.”

“Well, he better be in a boat and have SCUBA gear – it’s under about 10 feet of water.”

“You don’t need to get snippy with me, sir.”

“Lady – you lose everything in a flood and fire and then we can talk. Until then, I’ll be snippy if I want.”

FEMA was the worst, though. Calling them every day. Getting suggestions in Grand Forks of places we could go try and rent – mostly basement apartments in the downtown area.

We went into Jamestown on Sunday to get some things. While we were standing in the Wal Mart, I realized I didn’t have a razor. Or underwear. As I took a few steps towards health and hygiene, it hit me...

I didn’t have any underwear.

I sat on the floor of the Wal Mart and started to cry. That’s when it hit me that I had lost everything including my underwear. People walked by as if I were a freak. Someone took my picture. I think I made the newspaper that week.

From Jamestown, we headed to my sister’s in Minnesota. We weren’t sure if the bridge across the Red would be open at Fargo – chances were that we’d have to drive into South Dakota to get across. Finally, we received definitive word that the I-94 bridge was open and we headed off down the road.

Between Valley City and Fargo, the freeway went to one lane – the river there had flooded as well. We went through on a strip of gravel, and then...it was into Fargo.

We got to Lori’s in the early evening. FEMA had announced that we should keep in contact with them so they could contact us as needed. I called in from Lori’s, and got shifted three or four times through the phone tree before someone could help me. While I was talking with the woman on the other end, I asked her what the progress on our case was. “Well, if your place burned, we can’t help you.”

“What????”

“It says here that your home was destroyed in a fire. We only are covering damage from the flood.”

“Lady – (this was before I started asking for the names of the person on the other end of the line – it’s amazing how much more helpful people become when you say their name over and over while you talk with them – it’s good to be a psychologist) – my apartment was in one of the buildings that burned during the flood in Grand Forks.”

“I realize that. But, we aren’t covering fire damage.”

I took a deep breath. Looked towards the heavens. Prayed. Then, fueled by divine intervention, said, “okay...here’s what happened. We lived on the second floor. The fire ate the fucking floor out from under all our stuff, and it fell into the goddamed water! Does that work?”

“Sir, there is no need for profanities.”

“Lady, you ain’ heard anything profane yet!” And just as I was getting ready to rip into her, I heard a “beep” on her end, a beep that signaled the computer must have been updated.

“Sir, what was the address again?” I told her, and she said “Sir, I’m sorry. There has been some confusion here as you may have guessed. I just got an update that says if your home was in a specific area that you do qualify for flood relief.” She apologized a few more times, then told me what I needed to do in order to get the paperwork in motion. She had it sent to us at my sister’s, and we got it three days later.

Confusion.

Crys forgot her glasses in the apartment before we left. I forgot the disk that had my notes and drafts for my comprehensive exams on the computer desk. We were homeless and damn near broke. I had a sinus infection and Crys was suffering from panic attacks. She was blaming the fires on her premonition ... “what if it burns?” ... Those words and my flippant response haunted us both.

Confusion.

“You’ll need to do a complete inventory of loss,” the FEMA lady said. “Write down as much as you can remember and be as specific as possible.”

“Why do we have to fill out an SBA (Small Business Administration) Loan application?”

“That’s just part of the process.”

“Well, the replacement money people have been talking about – is it a grant or a loan?”

“I don’t understand the question, Sir.”

“Will I have to pay this money back?”

“Just fill out the application, Sir.”

“You’re not answering my question!”

“Sir, I’ve only been working here for three days...”

Confusion.

News came that the Interstate to Grand Forks had reopened. We thought about it, and then decided that it would be best to get back north as fast as possible. After a week at my sister’s, we headed back. On the way north, we heard that there was a deadline for submitting our inventory. Since I type better than I can write neatly, I had hammered out an inventory (which I still run into from time to time), but, I didn’t have a printer, I had no way to make a hard copy. We heard this while we were in Fargo, and I started thinking “who do I know in town that might have a computer...”

The main offices for the camp I spend my summers at (and where Crys had worked with me the year before) was right across the river in Moorhead. The next morning, with a floppy disk in hand, we went over to the offices and they allowed us to use one of the computers that was hooked to a printer. We were there for an hour working on the inventory and getting it all squared away. (And I’ll write more about what happened at the offices in the next installment of this journey.)

Then, back to Fargo to where FEMA and the Red Cross had set up a warehouse and help center. We checked in with the FEMA workers, and tried to give them our SBA application and inventory. “Oh, we don’t that here – you need to send that in to this office,” some guy in polyester slacks and a red FEMA vest explained, pointing to an address at the very bottom of the form.

“But, the guy I spoke with on the phone said we could drop it off here. Hell, that’s what the radio people have been saying all day.”

“Well, they’re wrong.”

“Fuck.”

“Sir, is there...”

“Why can’t this be easy? Huh? Jesus Christ, we don’t need this!”

At that point, a different FEMA worker came over, figured out what was happening, and said, “No, we DO take these here. Come over here with me,” she said, motioning for Crys and me to follow her over to a different set of tables.

Confusion.

After we got done with FEMA, we walked through the Red Cross part of the warehouse, and picking out stuff that we needed. “Take what you need,” we were told over and over, and we had people helping us with carts until we had enough, more than enough stuff. Then it came time to go through the check out. “Boy, you have a lot of stuff,” one of the people said, “do you think you have enough?” The way the volunteer said “enough” made Crystal feel like we were abusing the system.

Confusion.

For the better part of three weeks, we fought hard against the confusion. Often, I felt like it would be easier to just give up. To just give in to the feelings of inadequacy and in to the feelings of fear and the sheer utter hopelessness. But, every time I felt like giving up, I’d look at Crys and realize that I needed to be strong for her. Regardless, things worked out, even though the confusion was mind-numbing at times.

From confusion ...

strength and character grows.

"Are you fussin' with me?"

I have this student this semester that is a DNFAH (Definitely NOT From Around Here). She's an older-than-average student, has a few kids, stay-at-home mom, and doesn't believe a single thing either the book or I have to say. Basically, if it doesn't fit into her extremely narrow view of the world its either wrong or not worthy of consideration. Everything is an argument with her and she refuses to accept other views.

Anyway...

In that class, it's required that students write a research paper. This is a pretty standard requirement for Intro to Psyc classes. I've been working with all my students over the course of the semester, but, for a number of them, they didn't realize how serious this assignment was until they received a failing grade on the paper.

Now, it's my goal to help them be successful. So, I have a policy that if a student gets below a specific grade they have a chance for a rewrite. However, the ticket unto that ride is that they need to have a conference with me so I can explain to them what the issues with their papers are and why I'd really like it if they took the assignment a bit more seriously and DID the work.

Today, she comes in, and is full of attitude. I ask if she has her paper with her (I ask this of all my students), and she snaps "Of COURSE I dO. Do you think I'm STUPID?"

"No, I don't. However, most students when they come in hand me their paper right away."

She Ha-RUMPS and pulls it out. I look it over to refresh myself (reading close to 100 papers in two weeks, yeah, I sometimes forget what the issues with a specific paper might happen to be). Then, we start to discuss the issues.

The cover page is the wrong format and has three words mispelled.

The References page is not alphabetical nor is the format correct. When I point this out to her, she states "but, I have them listed in the order that they come up in the paper."

"But, they need to be alphabetical."

"Says who?"

"The America Psychology Association. And the Modern Languages Association. And pretty much EVERY other organization that publishes a style guide."

"Mine makes more sense."

"To you, perhaps, but there is a reason why it's done this way."

"Well, I'm going to do it my way."

"That's your choice. If you do so, you will lose points."

"Why?"

"Because you're not doing it CORRECTLY."

She stops. Glares. Places her hands on her hips.

"Are you fussin' with me?" It actually comes out as "areyoufussin'withme?"

I looked right back at her and said "Are you fussin' with ME? Because if you are, I want to explain something to you. I KNOW how to do this. You're the one in the class and you're the one that has to work to the standard I set. I don't work to the standard you set because I'm the one considered by the school and the state as the expert in this material. Now..."

I paused and looked at her...

"Do you wish to learn how to do this properly, or are we done and you're going to accept the grade as it stands?"

She gets quiet for a moment and then says, "you're a bit of a bastard, aren't you?"

"What I am is someone that is WILLING to take MY time to help my STUDENTS succeed. It's your choice if you wish to be here. It's your choice if you want the help. Decide now, or, I'm going to ask you to leave."

I have to say...

The rest of the session was amazing.

Sometimes...you just have to fuss.