
Denise Sherer Jacobson
The summer I was eight, I was sent to a sleep-away camp for the month of July. The girls slept in a big dormitory, and my bed was in the center aisle. I have only one other memory about the camp—just one incident that has stayed with me all these years: The time my bed wasn’t made!
I can’t recall why it didn’t get made during the day. But by the time we were ready to go to sleep at the end of a gusty, stormy day, a thick layer of soot and dust covered the white sheet. My counselor scowled when she pushed my wheelchair over to the bed and saw the filthy mess, annoyed that she had extra work to do. She began swiping the dirt over the bed’s edge, and I, trying to help, started to do the same.
“Stop it!” she reprimanded sharply. “Get your hands away now so I can clean this up!”
I recoiled, biting my lip to keep from crying. She hadn’t even seen me as capable of wanting to help. [continue reading…]