I have a group of eight students. It is their first week of school.
We’re going to do some get-to-know-you games, I say. To start, let’s go around the circle and say our name and favorite holiday. You can go first. I gesture to my left. The boy shakes his head as he looks up at me.
You won’t know my favorite holiday, he says.
I know that one. Why’s it your favorite?
We go around the circle. Several kids say Eid. One says Ramadan. No one but me says Earth Day.
Those three are new to school this year, a teacher tells me as the kids take a water break. They’re refugees from Syria.
We play another game. The children run back and forth, switching spots on the polydots.
You can leave the polydots on the ground, I tell one of the boys as he picks them up laughing. Just run from one to another.
You said to steal them.
I pause. I did say that. Steal the dots meaning sneak onto them. It’s a baseball term.
I never phrase the instructions that way again.
We’re building forts at Red Fox Hollow. I let the kids choose their own groups, or work by themselves, if they prefer. I instruct them to use only dead and downed material, but one boy picks a handful of living ferns anyway to use as insulation. I know he’s been labeled as difficult by his teachers. I take the ferns from him and tell him to find something else.
At the end of the session, all of us tour the forts and the students explain why they built them the way they did.
Fern Boy and his classmate have the most impressive fort by far.
I was inspired by Winnie the Pooh, Fern Boy says. See, there’s this one episode when Eeyore is trying to build his house and it doesn’t work, and eventually all of his friends help him. But I remembered how they used one long stick between trees as the top, and leaned other sticks against them. And then all these leaves are insulation.
I ask all the kids to vote on which shelter they’d prefer to spend the night in. All but one vote for Fern Boy’s.
The kids tear down their forts as we head back to camp, but I let Fern Boy leave his up because I love it so much.
A week later I pass by it on a hike. It is still standing. I think of Eeyore.
Minority high school students from Albany and Schenectady flood camp for the day. I lead seven of them on a hike to Stewart’s Ledges, a short but rewarding trip that offers beautiful views of Lake George. The leaves are bursting with color.
We pass several private residences on our way to the trailhead.
Look at those houses! Ryan remarks. They’re made from wood, actual real wood.
Two girls comment how their houses in Nigeria were made from concrete blocks and how you could never punch those walls.
Ryan is seventeen years old.
We take pictures and admire the view from the top. We have extra time, so I lead the group off the rocks and into the trees. Shelter building time. Only dead and downed material, I tell them.
Why is there grass up here? Ryan asks me.
What do you mean?
Why is it here? There’s no one to mow it…
One of the kids snickers. None of them call him stupid or offer an explanation.
It’s wild, I tell him. It’s probably a different type of grass than grass you’d find in a front yard, grass that you’d mow. Wild grass seeds are brought by animals or the wind and then it grows. It grows more over here because there’s no trail, no one’s walking on it. Animals keep it short so it doesn’t need mowing.
He nods and then wanders back to his shelter. He finds a mushroom and picks it to use as a doorknob for his fort. I don’t tell him that mushrooms aren’t dead and downed material. I let him use it. Ryan is seventeen years old. I want this world, the outdoors, to be as magical and welcoming as possible. I don’t want to tell him no. I let him use the mushroom.