As the 1991-92 school year ended, I was relieved and excited. But some of my bliss was due in part to emerging from the crushing weight of the previous three years -- as I gradually morphed from a happy, confident child into a saddled adolescent. Trying to suppress two anxiety disorders while dealing with puberty and frequent bullying at school, the illnesses and then deaths of both of my close maternal grandparents and life-long family pet, and attending a school I loathed every weekday…it had all nearly beaten me down.
One consequence: At some point in seventh or eighth grade, I almost completely stopped sharing my thoughts and problems with anyone – including Mom, once my biggest confidant. By the time I turned 14 late in eighth grade that school year, many of my thoughts and issues terrified me. I was pretty sure I was crazy, and more afraid of anybody finding out.
So, while I had already been hiding the disorders for a while, I was now covering up other things germinating inside my head as well. From crushes, to concerns about my pubic hair, to my fear of being ditched by close friends, I was keeping virtually everything in.
Then the summer started. The break from my school, the usual summertime thaw, getting used to the mood swings and drama of adolescence…it was all that and more: I started to feel better, optimistic even.
After caring for her parents and our pet, watching them suffer and die over those three years, Mom was too fried to plan any substantial family vacations. She just needed a break.
That allowed me to attend sleepaway camp for most of the summer. I thrived there, much as I had the previous summer, and don’t recall missing anyone as I enjoyed playing in basketball and baseball tournaments, co-hosting shows at our radio station, and flirting with girls like it was my job. There was something about being away from all the noise of the school year – including certain classmates and teachers – that freed me up mentally.
One Saturday we traded the first session-only campers for new campers arriving to join me and other kids for session two, leaving the day mostly open. I felt bored and probably wistful after seeing off a few friends.
Our camp usually gave us one weekend day off from organized activities every week and many kids used to take advantage of that time to call home.
Over nearly two months spanning two summers, that thought had never crossed my mind. My check-in conversations with Mom during middle school in suburban Washington, D.C. – from Montgomery Mall, Putt Putt golf, a friend’s house, etc. – usually lasted less than a few seconds (“I’m fine!” Click.) And my counselors had to threaten me (“Want your canteen tokens, or not?!”) to get me to follow the rule that every camper write home at least weekly, which still failed to match Mom’s nearly daily outgoing correspondence.
On this Saturday in mid-July, however, I was suddenly drawn to the camp office. I walked in, picked up a phone and made a collect call. At the prompt, I uttered my first name.
The phone rang a couple times until I heard a click. I then heard Mom’s classic, congenial phone-answering voice from the days before we had caller ID: “Hello?”
An early AI model spoke: “Will you ac-cept a col-lect call from…Ryan?” The last word featured my assertive, deepening voice.
“Yes.” The call was connected. “Hi honey!” Her voice bore much excitement and surprise. I had called her! From camp! On my own volition!
“Hi Mah,” I replied, feeling a wide smile overtake my face.
We spoke for about an hour and she filled me in on what I was missing at home. But I spent most of the time pouring out nearly every detail about my camp life. (Not every detail; there were still some things I would never tell my mother at 14.)
It was very unlike me at that age, or anytime during middle and high school. After the summer ended, I went back to telling my parents as little as possible.
But for one hour and a few weeks afterwards, the Red Sea of my adolescence parted. No biblical miracle was needed, though 14-year-old me opening up was arguably more astonishing. When I hung up, I felt relaxed. A couple weeks later my brother Tyler (7) and my parents arrived for visiting day. As it rained on this cool day, I showed them my messy, congested bunk; took them for a tour around camp; even introduced them to friends. After they left that night, I actually missed them and felt homesick.
A couple weeks later, the sun reflected off Mom’s dark sunglasses and she wore an expectant look while my packed bus pulled into a parking lot near our home, dropping off us local campers. She was right there, so close that I feared she would get run over for a second. But I was too at ease to be embarrassed. (It helped that some of the other Jewish mothers had also congregated dangerously close to a school bus that was actively trying to park amidst a sea of parents, siblings, and parked cars.) I did not care either what anyone thought as we embraced in a long hug as soon as I stepped off the bus.
We had been drifting apart for so long and yet seemingly so quickly, I never bothered to think about it. And I scarcely cared. For one afternoon on the phone and again at the end of summer, though, we reconnected: Mother and first-born son. (And I returned home to find the Orioles engaged in another division race with the Blow Jays, to boot.) Who cares how long that lasted?
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
Read more vignettes like this in my new book, Death of a Childhood: A Memoir of 1989 and the “Why Not?” Baltimore Orioles.
For more about me and the book, check out my website.
