We teach English.

To kids.

At a summer camp.

On a university campus.

Weird.

Luckily, we have assistants who take care of the kids when they go swimming and play sports. It is our job to teach our campers the English language for five hours a day, and then correct their journals every evening.

Joshua’s class is full of University students (let’s call them CIT’s) but my kids are a lot younger. My youngest is ten, and my oldest is fifteen. I am a teacher, but I have other duties, too. When Tracy has a nosebleed, when David needs tissue to go the bathroom, when Ivy gets homesick, I turn into a camp counselor.

Let me introduce you to a few of my campers:

Tracy is my favorite. She just turned eleven and she is absolutely fearless. She once asked if she could join me and Josh at our table in the cafeteria. Over dinner, Tracy asked us if we had any pets. We both told her about the dogs and cats of our childhoods. Josh mentioned his hamsters. She didn’t know what hamsters were, so we described them to her. Hamsters are like mice, but they are fat with long hair and short tails. “Oh, yes,” said Tracy, flashing a totally infectious smile, “they are very delicious!”

Ivy speaks English much better than the other campers. She is only fifteen, but she is good enough to transfer into Josh’s class. I talked to her about it the other day, but she said she would prefer to stay in my group with the younger kids. When I was correcting her English diary, I discovered the reason: She was afraid of Josh’s beard! Josh will probably be immortalized in summer-camp legends as the werewolf counselor of ‘06.

Sirius is fourteen. She named herself after Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather. She is very tall, thin as a beanpole and extremely shy. She is also the best writer in the class. Most of my students struggle with the simple past tense, but Sirius is a real stylist. Her journal entries are full of colorful images and creative descriptions. Sirius is exhibit “A” in my argument for why Harry Potter is good for children the world round.

David is my problem child. He is only eleven, and this is his first time away from home. He doesn’t want to be here at all. Every hour I have to take toys away from him. Sometimes he puts up some resistance. I say, “give me the toy, David,” and he says, “no,” but then he gives it to me anyway. David knows the directors of this camp are trying to pull a fast one. Camp is a place where children play outside. If you have to stay in class for five hours a day, you aren’t at camp, you are in school. David knows it, and he’s not amused.