I remember worrying the registration ladies had been smothered by the big orange tarp. “I knew it,” I whispered, driving up with a van full of kids from Lakeview, “that tent couldn’t stand with only three legs. Oh boy, here it goes. What next?” Monday morning on the second week of swim camp hadn’t seemed particularly ominous, and I’d noticed no ill omens so far that day. Then again, the previous Monday seemed peaceful right up until the moment Leonora summoned me to her house to begin collecting the scattered pieces of a reorganized plan, the remnants of an evaporated schedule that had taken months to plan. I quickly learned, however, that no tents had fallen, the registration ladies were alive and well, and that the only reason there were tables set up within the frame of the registration tent was because no one had yet set up the big tent, not because it had collapsed. The orange tarp was safely folded along the edge of the frame, waiting patiently for someone to pull it over the metal poles. I breathed a sigh of relief, silently rooting for the tents to make it through the week and hoping they would at least get set up. No one quite knows what to expect when swim camp starts, and I knew right then and there we were in for a great week. Why not have registration in a partially constructed tent? It seemed to fit right in with the mode of the camp itself: even if perhaps lacking in oil at times, camp is still a jumble of gears that manages to move a large wheel. Thankfully, from the time camp began to the time it ended our shanty-like, lean-to tents did nothing to discourage enthusiastic participation from 150 plus Delta children and wonderful volunteers who found much needed shade beneath the bent poles of cleverly assembled scraps from several once complete tent sets. In fact, these shade givers may have encouraged greater excitement in the kids as frolicking under sizable green and orange tents (that, conveniently, never caved in, though I worried they might crumble with a good bust of wind) will often motivate children to good deeds in more ways than snack time…well, almost. Food does have a way of encouraging decent cooperation between kids and adults, just so long as it is the right food. Be wary of slipping anything devoid of bright colors and copious grams of sugar to small hands attached to bodies aching with hunger—sometimes never ending hunger.

From what I observed, the best method is to exclaim, “Hey, who’s hungry for some awesome treats?” and then pause, awaiting from a group of children fervent nods of relief that seem to mutter, finally, some food, before adding, “Alright, go wait over by that tree while I go and fetch your snacks.” This way no matter what the menu offers, at least the kids are sitting down and expecting something tasty instead of clawing through emergency rations of chips, fruit snacks, and whatever didn’t get consumed at breakfast in order to satisfy their ravaging appetite for sweets. Inevitably, the sandwiches prepared with love hours before will fail to satisfy everyone’s dietary needs and particular appetites. I mean, how can we please everyone, right? If a person fails to deliver the “correct” snack several days in a row for a particularly picky child, the only option may be to barter with a neighboring tribe to secure enough quarters to visit the ice cream man who magically appears just in time to remove any semblance of order from groups attempting to migrate between stations, or the neighborhood freeze cup lady who strategically sells candy in addition to an assortment of flavored ice—a sure bet in provoking a smile from famished lips. Plus, it’s cheap. Why not indulge? Camp isn’t the best place for lessons in nutrition due to its complex schedule of events, (There simply isn’t time to convince 9 year olds fresh fruits and vegetables will save their lives.) but if you’ve got some candy, it may make your week less stressful through the efforts of petty bribery. In any case, food is a great way to make a lasting friend, at least that’s how it works at swim camp.

Although I mentioned it was the tents that elicited such raw passion from sweet 8 year olds, rambunctious 6 year olds, quick talking 10 year olds, and maturing 12 year olds, the chaotic atmosphere of camp—organized and intentional, yes, but still chaotic—just as well may have helped to serve up gallons and gallons of shouts, squeals, tackles, foot races, dog piles, and an occasional scuffle among cousins. I’d like to mention, in addition, that the lily pad arrangement of blue tarps spread out in various angles and positions upon the grass and used as uniquely familiar “islands” where adults gathered their campers gave off the impression that the park had recently been visited by a petting zoo or circus, each particular plot boasting some exotic herd not yet domesticated. From behind imaginary fences, the sounds of these human creatures trapped on a foreign, blue soil produced a sort of pandemonium usually reserved for college football games—cheerful yet unrefined. The tarps issued an identity to the 10 groups named for different shades and hues; they provided a secure and semi-orderly place to meet up each morning and even a place to scarf down lunch. Perched on a tarp a child can rule 100 square feet of blue kingdom, not to mention nauseate group leaders who initially lay claim to each plastic plot as their area of influence and control. Power struggles occurred through the duration of camp, similar to the way claustrophobia causes untimely panic attacks—chaos in action. These struggles typically came in the form of indignant stares, pursed lips, feigned ignorance, mumbled excuses, and often escape efforts. As kids ran from tarp to tarp in search of friends, brothers, sisters, and whoever else looked interesting, some looked oddly at ease, like for once in their life, someone actually cared enough to hunt them down and pull them back into the group. Some enjoyed the attention they gained from their disruption. I have to say that watching the kids from camp march from their tarps in the direction of the pool and back in lines that quickly became blobs and then smaller groups stretched out for yards and yards to accommodate diverse attention spans added just the right amount of joy to my day. It was a testament to the merits of chaos. Lives can be changed in the midst of tarp zones. This much I’ll gladly admit.

North Helena park hosted the most fun in all Helena-West Helena these past two weeks, and I got the unique opportunity to observe camp from near the registration tent between and amidst my varied and diverse schedule: sometimes I chauffeured a kid or two between the pool and park; once I hauled extra lunches back from the pool; I exterminated wasps, assembled tables and chairs, propped up tents, secured tarps, and lugged the music equipment in my car, ferrying it back and forth to its designated location; I rummaged for lost items in the back of Leonora’s van (an impossible task at times); I went on missions to Wal-Mart, the community center, the Newel’s house, the gardens, the construction trailer, wherever vital camp items had disappeared to; I distributed lunches to group leaders; I filled in for the camp director once, briefly, nervously handling the radio and receiving instructions from Mollie as paparazzi surrounded Kristen, forcing her into an interview; I handled a couple of behavior problems, pretending to sound intense as I suggested that swimming was a much better option than sitting in a chair facing a tree for the rest of the afternoon; I offered to serve as a lifeguard during the morning when the pool crew showed up a few minutes late; I shuttled kids from the community center to camp in the mornings; I ushered a couple of preschoolers to their camp location; occasionally I exchanged pleasantries with the registration ladies, being certain to catch all the details about Corry’s peanut butter cake; most importantly, however, I laminated name tags and moved boxes of T-shirts and books, tasks that proved the extent of my MANpower. In the afternoons I had an assortment of other tasks which I need not mention here, except to say that I always wondered about camp, smiling inside as I though of all the excited children with tote bags dangling from their shoulders, ready to swim, ready to take on the world.

I tried to be at camp as much as my assignments allowed, shocked to discover that the kids I’d met in early June had now captured my heart more than ever. I wanted to run up and hug them each time they walked by my car or splashed around in the pool. If there is some magic in their smiles, the way they want to climb up on my neck, or how they shout “Mr. Levi,” then I’ve been doused in it, soaked in the bone with a love I’ve never before encountered. I’m not sure how to proceed in life knowing their piercing eyes and remarkable smiles which silently plead Pick me up. Hold me. Don’t leave. I love you. Pay attention to me. I’m fascinated by the emotion I feel for kids who see my freckled skin and say “Hey, why you got those dots all over you.” To which I always laugh and reply, “The sun gives them to me. I was born that way. I never had a choice in the matter, really, but I kinda like them.” When they examine my skin, their dark hands provide a beautiful contrast to my pale complexion, and I’m immediately sure of one thing: I would give anything to secure a future for all my kids, to give them hope and a voice and a reason to fight for their community. Sure it is a crazy, chaotic jumble of activities, but the All Church Challenge happens for the kids, and it continues to cross and repair a racial divide that has damaged far too many dreams. The kids at swim camp 2008 learned to swim, yes, but they also unknowingly waded into a pool full of promises, grabbing hands with their brothers and sisters who have gathered together, partnering for the cause of hope—a hope for equality, for justice, for mercy, and especially for understanding.

I’d like to additionally offer many thanks to Kristen Muse for her tireless instruction concerning the proper lunch distribution procedure. Many lives were saved because of her professionalism and attention to detail. Not one child was left behind or left unfed. Kristen, you are my hero. You’ve given me a skill I can now market to the world. Look out! Here comes Levi Gill and the lunch ladies.

– Levi Gill, Student.Go Intern with Together for Hope