Thurs, Aug. 14
... R-E-S-P-E-C-T
I'm doing really well this week for checking email and writing an entry every day. Go me.
*sigh* Is it a bad thing that I've learned a lot about the kind of person I don't want to grow up to be this week? I've loved the kids, but the adults in this town that we've had to deal with have made life horrendous and taken away from the joy that the kids have given us. They're catty, mean, and very patronizing towards everyone--us and the kids.
It's one of those "you don't know what you're doing" towns. One of the places where Laurel and I feel like kicking in some heads, because people don't seem to understand that we do know what we're doing. She's done this three times; I've been working daycamps for nine years. We both went through training, and this is our seventh week on the road, doing this exact same program. Your children are special, absolutely, but they are not the only ones we've ever dealt with or taught.
You are not the be-all and end-all of VBS in your church. For this week, we are. And beyond us, the committee. You fall very low on the totem pole.
We are here for the children. Those kids. That's why we do this. Not for you. You are a necessary evil in order to make this week possible for the kids. We put up with you because it puts us with them, not because we like you. We don't care. We want to eat supper at your house, and leave as soon as possible. Actually, we'd prefer not to eat there at all, but we don't have a choice, really. We don't care about seeing every square foot of your farm or hearing all your life stories.
There are people at whose houses we don't mind staying longer. That's because they're the ones who treat us with respect. They're the ones who understand what we do and don't try to run it for us. They're the ones who don't insult us to our faces, question our intelligence, and refuse to acknowledge our authority. They're the people who make the evenings as much fun as the mornings. You're the people who make us dread the evenings.
I'm sorry that you've had to put up with us this week, and I'm even more sorry that we've had to put up with you. Most of all, I'm sorry that this may have impacted the kids in any way, because that's the last thing I wanted to do. I want them to have the same great experience that any kid gets to have. I don't want it ruined for them because of your incompetence and rudeness, and if it was, that's an inexcusable faux pas. You don't mess with us, and you don't mess with our kids. That's the last thing you want to be doing here.
God help me if I ever become like that. I hope I at least remember to retain some shred of commen courtesy and kindness, even when I have to relinquish control to a couple of young adults who are 50 years younger than I am. I will not always be at the top of my game. I won't always be the one doing the front-line work. I hope I never become as rude and irritating as some of the people in this town are.
It's too bad, because I really could have liked it, despite the town itself. But when you combine a town the size of the average peanut with volunteers with brains the size of an average mustard seed, it becomes a bad situation, and one that I won't be sad to leave tomorrow.
Sorry you had to read through that, if you even made it to the end. Congratulations, if you're still reading. I hope I don't sound too bitter. I love these kids, and I'll miss them, but that's about it.
infinite || abyss
posted at 3:03 p.m.
