{Learning}

Here's something people might not guess about me: I was wild in my youth.

Not wild wild. I never had any desire to drink or do drugs (though there was a phase during my teenagehood that I considered planting a pack of cigarettes in my bedroom just so my parents would think I was wayward, thus making anything "bad" I did afterwards not seem so bad after all. [I never did follow through with that notion. I guess it wasn't such a great idea. They probably would have shipped me off to Dr. Phil's boot camp]).

No, my wildness was fairly mild. [That's right--I was a mild wild child.] Basically I was just...off the walls. Hyper. Enthusiastic. Passionate. Enigmatic. Psycho.

Adults hated me, essentially.

If I--as an adult--had known me then, I would have hated me. I mean, just look at me:


I was the girl who made even the most stalwart primary teachers beg to be released (there's a true story to back me up on that one). Every time I run into someone who used to be in our ward, I cringe--they always start out saying, "You're Camille? Camille Strate? Man...I remember when..."

I was the Marky Davis of the Maricopa Stake.

As most hyper, enthusiastic, psychotic children do, I got in trouble a lot. Most of the time, "getting into trouble" was no big deal. I'd get sent to my room. I liked my room. It gave me time to think about what I'd done and look at my rock collection. [I named my rocks. (Like I said: psycho.)] But occasionally, I would get in trouble and it would really stick. I knew I'd crossed the line. I knew I was busted. And I hated it.

Like the time I was shimmying up the palm trees at Lincoln Elementary and Ms. Hinshaw, the P.E. teacher, came out and gave me 3-day detention. I guess climbling trees wasn't allowed--unfortunate, since I had such a knack for scaling tall edifices.

And the time I got my good friend's bike stolen. Oh boy, was that bad.

And the time I skipped Mr. Buck's Junior AP U.S. History class to addend a boy's volleyball tournament--which Mr. Buck just happened to attend, also. That was a big-time bust. (Though I distinctly remember getting in less trouble than Sadie Babbott*, who did the same thing and lied about it. At least B and I told the truth...) But it was nevertheless bad.

There have been more recent escapades, too. Right after high school graduation, for example, I went to England with my good friend and got into a nice heated debate with the bobbies. We'd been misbehaving, naturally. I was so ashamed of myself.

I still get in trouble occasionally; only as an adult, I can't simply go to my room. As an adult, "going to my room" would mean I'm just running away from confrontation. I suppose part of being an adult is 1) not getting into trouble anymore, and 2) owning up to it if I do.

I got in trouble recently, and it was bad. I could feel the confrontation brewing just like granny can feel a storm coming on; I could feel it in my bones. And in my blood pressure. My heart beats faster. My hands shake. My eyes dart about the premises, frantically searching for the nearest escape--anywhere but "here" will do. That is me in the face of confrontation.

I am such a little girl. 21 years old, and I might as well be a toddler, for all the "growing up" I've done.

These kinds of realisations are most unpleasant... When I was a little kid, "saying sorry" was such a good solution--the natural solution--to all of my tight spots. It worked every time. My question now is...am I past that? Is there anything that we adults are supposed to do differently--anything more sincere than "sorry?" And if so, why don't they teach a class on that in high school? It would have been substantially more valuable than most of the other blather I sat through...

*Names have been changed for privacy's sake*