When I was 7, the story goes, I wanted to listen to my parents' Jimi Hendrix albums but my parents wouldn't let me. They said something to the effect of me not being old enough and I somehow got it into my head that if I went to sleepaway camp for a week, that would demonstrate my maturity. My neo-bohemian parents agreed, and off we rode to a camp in the Ozarks. In a word, the experience was traumatic. Seven is entirely too young for a week away at sleepaway camp, especially if you're a little black girl who can't braid her own hair yet. I didn't like that I was assigned to the Osage tribe when it had been made clear that the cool kids were Apache. I didn't like boating because I couldn't swim. I didn't like sleeping in a strange room with strangers. I didn't like being forced to perform in plays when I'd rather just find a tree and read. The only pleasant memory I have is buying orange soda and candy at the "Trading Post".

Still I kept my eye on the prize -- if I could endure these barbaric conditions for 7 days, hours and hours of listening pleasure would be mine! At some point I stole away from some dreaded crafting or water-based activity to mail this postcard, reminding my parents of our unspoken agreement:

I survived Camp Pa-het-si, my parents honored the agreement, and my fanatical pursuit of good music continues to this day.