​

Our counselors are being lamebrains and making us write letters to our parents. I think it’s some kind of vintagy, hipsterish thing, but it sure beats having a pen pal in Uganda or Uruguay or one of those places, what apparently was the alternative. I even asked our bunk leader if post offices still exist. He said yes, but I think he was lying.

 

My handwriting really sucks, so if you can’t read this, try hiring a criminologist. Doing this kind of reminds me of “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah.” You know, that stupid song that Dad sings in the kitchen to fake ballet moves?

 

But I really don’t know what new to tell you, since you send me like 1000 texts a day and post to my Twitter, Facebook and Instagram account. Please stop asking me if I need more bug spray or sunscreen. You practically sent me with enough for my entire bunk. And how many times do you need to call the camp medic about me? By this point, I’m sure that if he slipped on a soggy bagel and got total amnesia, the one thing he would remember is that I’m allowed to drink water on Jewish fast days because of my ADD medication.

 

What’s the worst part about being here? There’s no Jamba Juice and I totally don’t believe my bunk leader when he tells me that the brownies are gluten-free. Also, the Pilates instructor last summer was so much better than this fraud.

 

There’s this arts and crafts councilor everyone calls the Pederastafarian, since he has crazy dreds, reeks of pot, and is awkwardly close with the B10 boys. Everyone’s convinced that the drama instructor’s an escaped con. He’s got these ginormous muscles covered in tattoos that say “Mom” and “Jesus.” He’s even making us do some crazy musical he wrote about prisoners in Alcatraz who tap dance their way to Broadway.

 

Bobby “The Goat” is telling us to hurry up, because they need to get the art shack ready for the noon glassblowing class and I also need to run to my SAT prep course. So I guess I better find something new to tell you.

 

Well, remember last year how Rabbi Siegel told me at my bar mitzvah that now I was a man and how a few days later we all had this huge argument about whether I could see Mad Max?  Well I still don’t understand why a fully-fledged adult and responsible member of the community of Israel (to quote Rabbi Siegel) who is obligated to pray three times a day and keep all 613 mitzvot, shouldn’t be able to see an ultraviolent post-apocalyptic road movie? Neither apparently does “The Goat,” who everybody now loves because he chose it as the Saturday night movie.

 

You would hate it, but it is SICK! I think the only reason you would ever want to see it is if you were having trouble giving birth and nothing else was working.

 

They’ve started playing Brahms Hungarian Dance #5, which is kind of like the bell here, so I really need to finish up. At Mad Max I was sitting next to a shy kid in my bunk. Funny enough, his name is also Max.  Anyway, during the movie Max kept glancing at me. At first I thought I must have still had some gefilte fish on my lips from dinner. It turned out that he was the one who still had some horseradish on him. I reach over to brush it off his jeans and he put his hand on mine. We locked eyes through our 3D glasses and, I don’t know how to explain what happened, he just kissed me. It was kind of gross coming from another boy, but it was also weirdly nice.

 

Rabbi Siegel always talks about how minorities need to stand up for each other. And you always refer to the women who help you out at the community garden as the “dandelion dyke division” or “triple D.” I still haven’t gotten over that time they came over to bake cookies. Remember how Dad called to it “an afternoon of tea and strumpets?” (If you’re reading this, Nice one Dad!)

 

So what I wanted to ask you is, How do you know when you’re in love? Because I think I’m gay.   

 

Love you lots!

 

- Oswald Fleischer

Bunk B14

Beth Israel Summer Camp

The Berkshires