Lost in Translation

     As a teacher-in-training, I like to think that I know what my students think is cool. After all, I’m only a handful-and-a-half years older than them at most, so I try to tell myself that I haven’t changed so much since I was their age that I can no longer put myself back in their shoes. However, my experiences as a summer camp counselor have shined the harsh light of reality in my eyes: I apparently no longer speak (or understand, for that matter) the Klingon-like language of “pre-teen.”

     Last summer, while working as a summer day-camp counselor, one of the pre-teen campers was starting trouble, so naturally, I wanted to step up and sort it out.
     “Can JIMBOB* and me go behind the stage? I lost my bracelet.”
     The girl** (I don’t really know what to call her, but all I can think of is Britney Spears’ lyric “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman…”) Her dark bangs fell into her eyes, and I knew then as I struggled to make eye contact with her why my own mother always yelled at me to get my hair out of my face when I was a kid. I considered the girl’s question for a second. It was a likely story. And by likely, I mean completely and utterly false. I know what pre-teens like to do behind large structures where no one can see them. I told her my thoughts.
     “No, you may not go behind the stage. We’ll be going outside shortly, so I’m going to tell everyone to line up. You might be able to check after drink break, but only if another counselor goes with you.”
The girl-creature’s eyes narrowed at me; darkening with demon-like intensity.
     “But what if someone takes it!” Her voice was insistent, screeching.
     “No one will take it. Here, I can check for it while you’re outside.” I offered. I looked at her wrist to see a multitude of colorful rubber bracelets. How could she possibly know if she was missing one?   
     Having had to deal with this girl before, I acknowledged that she probably just wanted to hide behind the stage so she wouldn’t have to participate at camp. She was the type of girl that her parents probably forced to attend the program so she wouldn’t be in the house with her raging hormones and her bad attitude. I began to feel sorry for her.
     “Only I know where it is though!” She tried again, not even trying to suck up to me like I would’ve done when I was her age.
     “Then you can tell me where it is.” I attempted to reason. I could not believe I was arguing with a 12 year-old about a bracelet, when there are more serious issues out there, like world hunger, poverty, or finding the cure for cancer.
     She opened her mouth again to complain, but I was quickly losing my patience despite the few extra minutes I had spent that morning in front of the bathroom mirror taking deep, calming breaths.

I closed my eyes to keep from raising my voice, and opening them again, I exhaled.
“Dude, just go outside, I’ll look for the bracelet. Don’t worry about it.”

     The little beast drew back in rage with an intensity only the violently coursing hormones of a twelve-year-old girl could muster.
     “DID YOU JUST CALL ME ‘DUDE’?!”
My eyes widened as I quickly tried to think of ways to clarify what I meant, but not apologize. I wasn’t going to back down to her. I had no idea if the severity of the offense I had just committed warranted her outraged response. “Dude” was a term of endearment to me. It was reassuring. It was a word I grew up with. Everyone, regardless of gender, was “dude.” I’ve come to notice that a habit of mine when I start to lose my temper is that my use of the word “dude” increases to Big Lebowski-ish proportions to prevent me from saying other, less friendly words that could cause me to lose my job. Watching the girl huff before me, I began to wonder: had the meaning of “dude” changed since I was her age?

     The irrationally angry girl stormed off towards the playground doors, letting them slam behind her. She would talk about me to her friends, and tell them I called her “dude.” They would all in turn talk about how lame I was, and how I didn’t know any Justin Bieber songs, or watch TeenNick on the weekends. It wouldn’t matter to them that I put up with their horrendous and unpredictable behavior five days a week to make minimum wage. Nor would it impress them that I’d been to roughly five concerts that summer, or that I was planning to go on a road trip with the money I made from working at camp. It mattered not that I had my own car, that I went to college, or that I wanted to be a teacher because I did, in fact, enjoy working with kids. To them, I just wasn’t cool, and I never would be.




*Not his actual name.
**I'm not sure if I consider pre-teens to be of the human variety at this juncture.


Here's a funny mash-up of scenes from the Big Lebowski set to Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Looking Out My Back Door." Gotta love the 90's.