Camp Holocaust
<p>I was not the world’s best camper. Day camp was a complete bust. And, unlike most of the Jewish kids in my town that trotted off to sleepaway camp in Western N.Y. each summer, I spent my summers at the pool in my apartment complex, sneaking cigarettes behind Burger King with my posse of rugrats, jumping fences at night to pool hop, jumping backward off bridges, skateboarding, talking back, getting slapped, getting grounded for months at a time, and doing load after load of laundry to try and work off my punishments. By seventh grade, my home life had become a horror show.</p>
<p>So, to save my own life, with my sights on the summer before 8th grade, I asked to partake in the strange (to me) Jewish rite of passage that was sleepaway camp. To be honest, it could have just as easily been a fishing boat trip in Alaska. I simply wanted out.</p>
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