I grew up really poor. I never knew my father, and my mother was abusive. I think life turned her that way and she took her frustration out on me. Because of the way things were, I tried to spend as much time as I could away from

home. Things were clearly different in the 70s for kids like me. The bullying and the obvious

signs of abuse were often overlooked or ignored by teachers and grown-ups.

My school had what they called Eco Week where they would take us up to

cabins in the mountains. Well, I loved Eco Week. Not knowing my father meant that I never went

on fishing trips or camping trips. And unlike other boys, I had no one to show me how to bait

a hook. I never had the chance

to relive the hunting stories that fathers passed down to their sons.

We all piled into the school buses. The popular kids sat anywhere they wanted. Well, I scrambled

to find a seat. Getting to the camp area, the first time was completely overwhelming. I had never been to

anything like this. We were assigned to a cabin, each with four bunk beds. The windows were small,

which allowed light to stream into the cabin, but high enough to keep anyone from spying on you

from the outside.

We each chose a bed and we laid out our sleeping bags. My bunkmate was a heavyset boy with

glasses named Eric. He was quiet and he was shy and he became an immediate target for the older

bullies in our group.

I was big for my age and I had learned a long time ago how to put up a front

thanks to the frequent beatings from my mother.

The bullies were fooled by my tough demeanor and generally left me alone.

After a night of sitting around the campfire roasting schmores, the counselors

ordered us back to our rooms for the night. I helped put the supplies away and doused the fire.

In lieu of not having a healthy role model in my life, I craved the attention of the adult counselors

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