Summer, Summer Summertime!

Middletown, upstate New York, June 2006. An eighteen-year-old man, was on a summer exchange program about to embark one of the biggest challenges of his life: Living alone for 4 months in another country without his parents. I have had the pleasure of living in Jamaica, but this was different. This was American summer camp; just like I saw on TV. The first thing that sprung to mind was: I was going to bring back the flyest garments the U.K. has ever seen. Yeah I know, priorities right?

My girlfriend Henrietta, was convinced Camp America was the experience of a lifetime that no-one should miss. I remember her saying to me it's the break I needed to reconnect with myself. The old Aaron hasn't been around since secondary school; this was the opportunity needed to get him back. I was adamant that I had failed my A-Levels and I wasn't going to be accepted into Uni, so hey. What did I have to lose? During this time, we had to do courses in Youth Aid which was a community centre in Catford. The aim of the courses were to fill out your CV with experiences making you a more desirable candidate for camp. I would dread going to these courses. I had to meet new people, in another new environment, with another set of social rules. Every single one of my insecurities I had in college would flare up. Or, in this case, I would adopt the diluted version of myself. Not standing out is better than going against grain, right? It meant I had one less thing to worry about. I remember feeling the same inadequate feeling I had at college. Everyone drove, had on designer clothes, some lived on their own, some had partners up to 6 years their senior. I was taking the bus and lived with my mother. My stomach would sink and my heart would race. This would be my cycle for weeks on end. Some days I was starting college at 9am, finishing at 5pm, then going for evening courses 6pm until 9pm. That's 12 hours of having to self-console and placate my emotions. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted; I wasn't capable of learning how to safeguard children, or learning emergency first aid.

My girlfriend, knew me too well and would load me up with strawberry Ribeana, ham and cheese sandwiches and candy pencils. Give me sweets and I'm a happy man. Seriously, make my day with some fizzy, tangy sweeties and I'm gleeful. She knows I don't eat regularly, and this was the only way I was going to get through the day. Most of my frustrations were taken out on her. I only realise now in hindsight how much strain I was putting on her. If I just spoke about it, allowed her to support me, I wouldn't feel so overwhelmed. I put the barrier up; she was driving and earning more money than I was. I felt out of my depth, punching above my weight. Why would she want to be with me when in this very room, there are at least 8 men who could provide for her in ways I couldn't? Material things don't matter, I felt I wasn't equal to her; I wasn't masculine enough for her. I withdrew from her. At no point did she ever say I wasn't good enough for her, she loved me and told me so, was there for me during my darkest hours. No matter how hard I pushed her, she held on tighter. I've only ever experienced loyalty like that from my family.

Coloured post-it notes littered my mum's house with court cases, statues, references, case studies and quotes. I was doing mock exams and timing myself to finish exam papers in less than the allotted time. The dining table was awash with Law, Psychology and Communications books, papers, coloured pens and BBQ Hula Hoop packets. The revision schedule was gruelling; I would go to bed at two, sometimes 3am every morning. You went in the bathroom to take a crap, you were learning some Law trivia. Making scrabbled eggs, you were learning about Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Everyone believed I was a busy teenager, and I was. I left at the crack of dawn, got home in the evening and was revising until god knowns when, or coming home at nearly midnight some nights. My granddad's death was still very raw, my mum wasn't very well either. I was battling with psychosis, anxiety attacks and mood swings, I was depressed and my days were long and mentally exhausting. I don't know how I didn't have a breakdown. Actually, I do know. I used everything in my life at the time to distract me from actually tackling any of the issues. They were a great excuse to front that everything was fine. I looked independent, like i had everything together. In fact, it was all being held together with PlayDoh. I was patching cracks as fast as they appeared.

On top of all of this, I had to finalise all of my UCAS applications, university open days, interviews for Camp and the Camp Fair were coming up. You had a two stage interview you had to pass to be accepted and chosen by a camp. I needed a visa which meant going to the US Embassy in central London. During all of this, I hadn't sought permission from my parents about going. I had one obstacle in my way, my dad. My mum is always cool about things like this and her consent was implied. Dad however, wasn't going to let his eighteen-year-old son, go to America, on his own, for four months. I had paid application fee and had already had and passed the initial interview. I had completed the majority of the courses, exams were in full swing and threatening to kick my arse. Facing dad over this, at eighteen, legal to make my own decisions, sounded ridiculous to me. My parents broke up when I was about five, and haven't lived together since. Dad, would come to visit my brother and I. We would usually sit in the kitchen discussing various things. These topics would usually be: Do you think people are born gay?, who's the hottest actress at the moment? or, do you believe in heaven? Deep or shallow, we still have these conversations with my parents to this very day.

I broached today's meeting with: "Dad, how do you feel about summer exchange programmes?". Silence. No one spoke. My brother stared at my dad waiting for a reaction. My mum didn't speak because she already knew what I was doing. "You're not going; If I can't jump in my car and see you, you're not going". "Daddy, it's an amazing opportunity where I mentor kids in America for the summer. It'll be good for me and the kids". "Why can't you mentor the kids here, in this country. There are thousands of them you can mentor" Dad replied. "Yeah but it's not America, Dad. Plus this will look good on my CV as it's voluntary work". "Volunteer here! Matter of fact volunteer to look after your brother, I'll write an evaluation at the end of the summer. Put that on your CV", Dad replied jokingly. "This isn't funny, Dad. I already paid the application fee and passed the interview". It was at this point I could see my Dad having some internal conflict. Stone faced with flashes of confusion. One fist balled up on one knee, the other, palm flat. I knew he had an overwhelming urge to help me see stars and darken an eye. But, that pushed back at him with equal force. I was eighteen. Legally, I didn't need his consent. I was asking him out of respect. Whatever he said, I was going. "Did you already know about this?", he shot at my mother. "Yes, I did. He's eighteen, sensible and I've seen his schedule. He's so busy he could do with getting out the country before starting Uni". Again, silence. This was frightening me, I needed to shit so bad my stomach started making loud noises. I was certain I was going to the embassy appointment with a black eye. Actually, I was certain was never leaving the country again with parental chaperone. "I want all the paperwork, contact telephone numbers, I want to hear from you once a week and I need bank account details" Dad said quietly. That was really hard for him, and if I thought I couldn't love my dad anymore, I did that day. He was letting me go. He was letting me be independent.

All exams were sat, UCAS applications sent, courses for Camp completed, Embassy appointment completed, noticed handed in at my job, sports and gym clothes bought, suitcase packed. I was ready! Flight was in a week. Eek! Henrietta and I decided that going to separate camps was probably best to maximise the chances of making friends. I was selected for a camp in upstate New York, she was in New Jersey. We had the same flight out.

We landed in JFK at around 8pm. Henrietta's Camp were already waiting for her at the arrivals gate with the name of the camp she was attending. I, on the other hand, had to spend a night in a hotel room and get a Greyhound in the morning from Port Authority bus terminal. The hotel, shuttles and Greyhound had been prearranged. It was all on an itinerary I had printed out. This was my first time in New York. Everything was huge and busy. I made my way to the shuttle desk. I squeaked to the attitude riddled desk attendant where I needed to go. "Hey honey, you need bus number 5. It's downstairs, take this elevator downstairs and look out for bus number 5, K?". Her nails, elaborately decorated, long, and overarching pointed at the lifts. All of this done with zero eye contact. I gathered all my papers up awkwardly and timidly made my way to the concrete underground. A row of unmarked, white and silver busses were parked on the left with the rest of the cavernous car park empty. To get to it, I had to cross three, huge roads. After what felt like a mile of dragging a suitcase and crossing motorways, I found bus number five. The bus driver took my suitcase and stored it away. I climbed the stairs to the bus to see it was empty. I made my way to the middle of the bus, near the back. I sat down, put my headphones in. I missed home already. "Oh god, what have I done! I have made the biggest mistake!" I thought. After a while the bus filled up, but not to capacity. Some people sat together taking, others sat alone. Of course, I was on my own. Twenty minuets later the bus pulls up outside a Marriott hotel. I get off the bus and my suitcase is already waiting for me. The bus driver, pats me on the back and says "You're going to be fine. This will be one of the best summer's of your life". I smiled at him nervously and made my way to the front desk. Once on the curb I looked back at the bus driver. He made no conversation with anyone else, he didn't even hand them their bags.

At the front desk, I tell the attendant my name. He hands me a key card and tells me "to take the elevator to the second floor". I do. I make my way to the room, slide the key in the electronic lock and try to push open the door. It's kind of jammed, so I apply a little more force. As I enter the room, 8 people are already inside. Both beds are taken, everyone else is on the floor is sleeping bags. It looked like human Jenga. I made my way back downstairs to the front desk. "Excuse me?", I said quietly. "I think this room is full". He took the card from me, slide another one over to me on the desk and pointed upstairs. My hospitable impressions of Americans at this point was waning, fast. I made it back upstairs, hauling this suitcase around. I was tired, sweaty and hungry. I just wanted to sleep. I approached the door and slid the key in the lock, slightly trepidatious of opening the door. It was empty! Inside my head I did the Carlton dance. I put my suitcase by my bed, took out clean underwear and had the longest shower of my life. As soon as I came out the shower and my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.

I needed to pee. I woke up, disorientated not initially recognising where I was. Once I adjusted, I made my way to the bathroom. The room didn't feel empty. I shrugged it off. I went toilet, door open. As I climbed into the bed, I kicked something firm but soft. The object coughed. I turned on the bed side light, four people were sleeping on the floor in sleeping bags. One was by the bathroom door. If that person was awake they definitely saw my whole junk as I pee'd in the toilet. I slept light the rest of the night. I got up at 7am, skipped breakfast and made my way downstairs to get on the bus to Port Authority.

Port Authority is a maze of a bus station and massive. I collected my ticket from the desk and walked to the terminal. The bus had the destination on the front: Middletown NY. It was the last stop and would take about two hours. I wanted to go home. I was tearful. I was frightened. I had no idea what to expect and somehow convinced myself this bus was taking to me a human slaughterhouse. I would never see my family again. The bus was packed. Every seat was taken. As the bus made stops, it emptied out. We were heading towards the final stop; on the bus were about five other people. When it stopped, and pulled up, I got off the bus, got my case and waited. I was in the middle of nowhere. Trees for days, electric lines above and convenience store. Another guy was also waiting about a hundred metres down from where I was stood. His held a dark red, A5 book in his hand with gold writing embossed on it. A fellow Brit! Perfect! If I were to get murdered, we will get murdered together. I relaxed a little. My stomach gurgled; I was hungry. Hauling my stuff into the convenience store, I bought Hershey's chocolate and Oreos. I sat on my case outside the store waiting for the Camp Director. Earphones in, I started an album. I was content, until I realised I had just heard the whole seventeen track album. Where was this Camp Director? All I knew was his name was William 'Bill' Trinkle. I had a contact number that was a landline.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?