A long time ago in a faraway land called Huntington, Massachusetts, I went to a sleepaway camp for six consecutive summers. It was there – in the fresh air and to a schedule dictated by a bugle – that that I had my first kiss with a cute blonde boy, where I learned to do the butterfly stroke in the dark and murky lake, and where I engaged in fierce battles of Color War when the entire camp was split into two groups and we spent a week engaged in tug-of-war battles that could get real ugly real fast. I was never the most competitive kid in the bunk, but during Color War all bets were off; I wanted to fucking win.
The enforced division turned us all briefly into adversaries, but once the week ended and we were back in our bunks and allowed to wear any color shirt that we damn well pleased, the harmony came flooding back. And maybe nothing said “harmony” in those days quite as strongly as when a girl I had been brawling with all week over games of volleyball – during which I “accidentally” lobbed a ball straight at her head – smiled widely at me and then allowed me to borrow her Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt to wear to the dining hall.