My permanent record.
These three simple words which strike fear into the souls of any man, woman or child. A simple piece of paper that has haunted my very existence since my first year in school. Every rule, every cautionary piece of advice, every threat, are all made using those three little words. .
"Make good grades. They"ll be part of your permanent record.".
"Don't get into trouble. It"ll go on your permanent record.".
Now, that piece of paper long concealed in a metal file cabinet is staring me in the face. .
The early years look pretty good. Great grades, ribbons from years of competitive swimming. Several honors for my work in Camp Fire Girls.
I"ll never forget my first year at Camp El Tesoro, the local resident camp for Camp Fire Boys and Girls. My parents dropped me off for two weeks the summer between the second and third grade. I didn't know a soul. But instinctively I knew I was going to love every hot, sweaty minute of those two weeks. I became so enamored with Camp El Tesoro that I returned every summer for years, until I was old enough to complete the Counselor in Training program. And in the summer of 2004, I will proudly return as a counselor where I hope to see myself reflected in those young, eager faces.
Yes, I"d say my permanent record was pretty much flawless until my middle school years. That's when I decided that school was a drag and I began to question the path my parents had charted for me. I was enrolled in a rigorous academic program at a private school more than 20 miles from our home. My mother made that drive daily assuring me that I would thank her one-day for the advantages this prep school education would provide. I had my doubts, but continued to grin and bear every moment of it, despite a struggle. .
Upper school finally arrived, and with it came new privileges. More freedom. More choices. I played volleyball for four years, playing with the varsity team beginning my junior year.