3B

Wednesday, February 26, 2020 // The Statement3B

A

s I sat on a boulder in the middle 
of the Saluda River in North 
Carolina, I raised a can of Twisted 

Tea to my lips. I had never tried one before, 
and the taste was sweet and lemony — 
easily mistakable for a non-alcoholic 
beverage. “That’s dangerous,” I said to my 
friends, noting its satisfying intake that 
could have easily led me to drink five more. 

The relaxing sensation of the wind 

lightly bristled through my hair. It was the 
Fourth of July and I was conveniently on 
my day-off from working as a counselor at 
a nearby sleepaway summer camp. Calmly, 
I wandered back through the torso-deep 
waters to the riverbank to check my 
phone. I was prepared to head back to my 
camp later that afternoon, along with the 
miscellaneous crew of counselors that had 
shared an Airbnb with me the previous 
night. I was excited for that evening. I 
anticipated I would be assisting with 
the ceremonious ritual of shooting off 
fireworks for all of camp — nearly 300 
children ages six to 16 — to see. At our 
camp, the firework lighting was an honor 
reserved for only male counselors with at 
least a summer of prior camp experience. 
It was going to be a fun event which I had 
been looking forward to for weeks. 

As I checked the GroupMe app, I realized 

I had been removed from the coveted 
“Bomb Squad” chat. I quickly received a 
call from Trent, a peer who was the head of 
the boys camp. He flustered while he tried 
to explain why I had suddenly been left out. 

“What’s the issue?” I asked puzzledly. 
“They’re scared you’re going to shoot 

the fireworks at the kids,” he answered, 

referring to our managers. 

I immediately began to 

regret having been so open 
about my mental health to 
my coworkers.

My 
own 
experience 

with depression arose in 
the fall of my sophomore 
year of college, when I 
was desperately trying to 
transfer to the University 
of Michigan out of the 
elite arts university I was 
attending in New York 
City. For the better part 
of a year, I encountered 
loneliness 
unlike 
any 

kind I had experienced 
before. I essentially lived 
alone in my dorm room. 
I did everything alone: 
museums, 
basketball 

games, Broadway plays. 
In spite of my sadness, I 
was committed to making 
it work. I participated in 
intramural sports, wrote 
for a satire magazine and 
even rushed a fraternity in 
hopes of meeting someone, 
anyone, with whom I could 
form a deep connection. I 

didn’t succeed. My classes, while superb 
in instruction, were not enough to keep 
me from quickly losing maintenance of 
my social life in such a large city. It felt too 
adult, and I was too young.

At times I did not feel like I was even 

attending a university. As a theater major, 
only two-fifths of my classes were taught 
by university faculty — the others were 
led by third-party teachers from a local 
acting studio. I was essentially a glorified 
conservatory student with a lunch plan. 
Lost in the rat race of the New York City 
rush hour, I often recognized my own face 
as the youngest out of everyone on the 
subway during my commutes to and from 
classes. As my condition quickly turned 
unbearable, I turned to prescription 
medication to help alleviate the profound 
level of sadness I was experiencing.

When I was accepted to the University, 

I decided to give up a summer internship 
with a well-known improv training center 
in Chicago. I figured I needed a space that 
was familiar so I could regroup emotionally. 
I had been a counselor at the North Carolina 
summer camp before, so returning to it was 
supposed to be a refresher, something I 
hoped would be a peaceful bridge between 
one chaotic timeline to another, more 
relaxed one. I love working with kids, and 
I had hoped my summer would be just as 
enjoyable as the last. Upon my arrival, I was 
understandably questioned by my fellow 
counselors about my sudden departure 
from New York. I answered them honestly: 
I was new to medication. I was depressed. I 
needed simplicity.

B

ack on the riverbank, my call with 
Trent ended abruptly. I nearly 
dropped my iPhone into the water 

below as I became furious and fraught with 
confusion. I couldn’t think straight. My 
good friend, Henry, offered to drive my car 
back to camp as I sat in the passenger seat. 
We drove in silence before he spoke up. 

“I’m sorry, do you want to talk about it?” 

he asked. 

“What is there to talk about?” I replied. 

“I’m being punished for something I can’t 
control.” 

When I had applied to be a camp 

counselor, at no point in the application 
process was I asked about the status of my 
mental well-being. I had assumed with the 
current tide of the zeitgeist, I wouldn’t be 
barred from opportunities. It seemed like 
“Reduce The Stigma” was the catchphrase 
of 2019. It turned out my confidence in 
the public’s far-reaching acceptance of 
mental health’s destigmatization was over-
assumed. 

As I became more and more open about 

discussing these topics the first few weeks 
of camp, the summer I desired went out 
the window. Suddenly, I wasn’t leading any 
overnight camping trips. I wasn’t being 
asked to help read the daily paper aloud to 
campers in the mornings. Any scavenger 
hunt or evening activity that required a 
counselor to perform did not include me. 
This was especially unnerving when I 
would be passed up for playing characters 
or putting on costumes to judge talent 
shows. I was an acting major, after all. I had 
energy and dedication to spare that wasn’t 
being utilized. 

I knew I was being treated wrongly 

by my managers’ logic. In my mind, 
caring for a horde of 12-year-old boys in 
a woodland cabin surely must hold more 
responsibility than lighting off fireworks. 
When I returned to camp from my day 
off, I sat down with my employers face-to-
face. Both were in their twenties, like me. 
I asked them: “Should I still be allowed to 
work here?” To me, the question wasn’t 
about pettiness or simply being angry 
about not being able to light fireworks. It 
was about who they thought I was because 
of my depression, which began to shape my 
own interpretations of myself. 

Through some struggle in explaining, 

my administrator Francis countered. She 
had some pity in her eyes. “It’s not that we 
don’t trust you, we just don’t trust your 
judgment. Gut feeling? We didn’t think 
it would work.” My heart sank. Word of 
my depression had clearly gotten back to 
my managers on account of my openness. 
I felt sterilized. Meanwhile in Chicago, 
participants of my abandoned internship 
were 
meeting 
privately 
with 
Lorne 

Michaels after viewing an invite-only SNL 
audition. I left the meeting in a blur, feeling 
like I had easily accepted defeat. 

I should’ve gotten angrier, I thought, and 

more curt about the pattern of exclusion I 
had been facing for the past few weeks. 

I wished I could have conveyed how 
desperately I wanted to feel included 
rather than excluded. Any incorporation or 
trust between me and my employers would 
have done wonders for my self-confidence.

That night, the fireworks were rained 

out. 10 days later, when they were 
rescheduled, I was conveniently placed on 
another day off.

After the Fourth of July incident, 

I considered quitting my job entirely. 
However, that would’ve meant I would 
have to pack my things and head home 
for the remainder of the summer with no 
friends around and certainly no means of 
making money. For my financial and social 
health, I was stuck working under the 
heavily circumscribed agency I was being 
handed. 

From 
an 
occupational 
perspective, 

the largest roadblock in reducing mental 
health stigma seems to be the actual 
implementation 
of 
nondiscriminatory 

policies. Although it is illegal for employees 
to be fired on account of their mental health, 
an employer may request information 
about a mental health condition when there 
is objective evidence that an employee may 
pose a safety risk. This loophole is broad. 
While it may keep some workers employed, 
this rule certainly has great potential to be 
abused. 

Looking back on the disappointment 

of this past summer, I’m still fortunate 
for a lot of reasons. I’m grateful I have 
the opportunity to make such sweeping 
adjustments to my life if I’m feeling I 
require them. I’m grateful to have a 
supportive family and the option of 
pursuing higher education. I’m grateful I 
have the choice to live without medication, 
as I’ve been practicing since August. 
However, I’m aware that many others may 
find themselves in dire circumstances 
similar to mine and lack the necessary 
resources to create changes.

At the University, I volunteer on the 

Depression Center’s student advisory 
board. I joined because I wanted no 
student to feel the way I felt. Before the 
ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, we had been 
preparing to participate in mental health 
crisis training, so that we could learn to 
uplift and support friends and colleagues 
who are in danger of physical harm. 

As our culture continues to “reduce the 

stigma,” I’d like to see more initiatives 
focusing on similar crisis training which 
become 
commonplace 
for 
employers. 

Hopefully these would be taught in the 
same manner we teach CPR or anti-sexual 
harassment seminars. I’m no doctor, I’m a 
camp counselor — my best expertise is in 
playing “Capture the Flag.” But it seems 
like a good place to start.

.

Maxwell 
Barnes 
is 
studying 

Communications and Media in LSA and 
a Daily Staff Writer for Arts. He can be 
reached at mxwell@umich.edu.

How Michigan taught me to live

BY MAXWELL BARNES, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR

PHOTO COURTESY OF MAXWELL BARNES

The summer with no fireworks

