The Beauty of a Belly Flop
Star Aliyah | Excel Montepio | Digital
The Beauty of a Belly Flop by Maya Tarnoff
As I stare into my camper’s eyes, he stares right back at me, his eyes filling up with tears. I realize we aren’t getting anywhere, and I kind of want to cry, too. Not because of his failure, but because of mine. As Zach’s inclusion counselor, it’s my job to push him to overcome challenges and face his fears.
Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to actually push him into the pool.
“Come on, Zachie. I know you can do it. Can you try putting your toes in the water?”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Why don’t you want to do it?”
“Cause I don’t wanna.”
“But why? All you have to do is swim to me, and try to get these rings. We can even take a video for Mommy and Daddy! They’ll be so proud of you…”
“I can’t do it. I wanna see Mommy and Daddy!”
The start of my job as an inclusion counselor at Camp JCC is not smooth sailing. There are waves of setbacks, pushing me down and making me feel like I will never be good enough. Most days, I leave work with all my energy drained out of me, needing to sit in my car and recharge. But no matter how tired, frustrated, or close to pushing my camper in the pool I am, I never stop being his strongest advocate.
I have always taken pride in my ability to represent people, advocating for their needs. When asked to attend a seminar about “Activating Racial Equity” at my temple, I was the only attendant below 30. As the social action vice-president of my youth group, I was asked to speak on behalf of all teens at my temple on whether we were making progress on becoming a more inclusive environment, particularly towards Jews of color. While a daunting task, it felt empowering to be able to share my perspective and know all of these adults, most of them prominent leaders at the synagogue, valued what I had to say.
I have to speak up for Zach too. Being five years old and neurodivergent makes it difficult to express his wants and needs. I talk to the adults in charge at the pool, making sure he is allowed to swim without a life jacket. He is an excellent swimmer, and his fear of the swim test shouldn’t stop him from being able to have fun in the pool.
I also speak up for him in other ways. When I notice a budding friendship between him and a girl, Sage, in our group, I do my best to help it thrive. When Sage asks me, “Why is Zach funny?” or, “Why does Zach go to speech?” I don’t shoot down her questions, making her think something is wrong with him. Instead, I explain that some people need a little more help expressing themselves. And that’s okay. When Sage gets upset because Zach gets distracted on the playground and won’t play with her, I nudge him to remind her that he still wants to be her friend.
Best of all, when Zach and Sage say they want to have a playdate together, I ensure that their parents make it happen. “My camper, Zach, is having a playdate today with his new best friend, Sage,” I proudly tell my fellow counselors, and everyone cheers. They’re cheering for Zach, but they’re cheering for me.
Zach never ended up taking the swim test, but I don’t feel like a failure. I couldn’t care less about the swim test when, on the last day, he hugs Sage goodbye, promising to have another playdate soon. My pride for him warms my heart and makes me feel strong, even as I fight off tears when I wave goodbye. It’s almost as if Zach is the one pushing me into the pool.
