Growing up, I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. There we were, all of us in our matching plaid uniform skirts, at the knee. Okay, most of us. Maybe. Earrings and shoes, our only fashion accessories. I won’t lie, it was nice to not have to think about what to wear every day, and just spend your time focused on other things. It must be why to this day I still like plaid and the orderly look of a uniform. But I am not here to talk about school uniforms. Today, I am sharing a different kind of story.
Back to high school.
While there, I became friends with two girls that had an almost identical experience growing up as I did but in another language. From the moment of their birth, it was a full on ethnic immersion. A couple of American-born girls, who were as Latvian as I was Greek. They went to Latvian school and learned about their language, traditions, and cultural history, just like I went to Greek school to learn about mine. They were so wrapped up in their cultural heritage that it was a religion. I knew this feeling. It was familiar to me. I understood them and I instantly felt at home around them.
When we graduated high school, we all went to college at the University of Illinois in Urbana. My two Latvian high school friends were roommates in the same dorm I was at, living only two floors above me in Saunders Hall. No surprise to anyone, my roommate was Greek and my dorm neighbor was Greek too. So there we were. All daughters of immigrants, all friends sharing a common experience, eventually becoming roommates in our first college apartments too. During this time, I got to meet more Latvians. Lots of them. Maybe even all of them, at least the ones from Chicago. All had unique names, all with blond hair and light blue eyes and they all absolutely knew how to throw a party. It must have been part of their DNA. I remember a lot of beer, vodka & lemonade drinks. It was some kind of punched up Latvian summer shandy. And always dancing at the end of the night to “Oh, What a Night” by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Pants optional. True story.
The unique thing about this little group of Chicago-based Latvians, was that they all knew each other from the time they were born. They grew up together, they went to school together, they travelled together, they even went to summer camp together. Everything. Together. If you didn’t know better you would have thought they had the same mother. And in many ways they did, mother Latvia. Their dedication to her was unwavering and admirable.
What stood out to me, when my Latvian girlfriends would tell me their stories growing up, were the ones about summer camp. This camp was forever etched into my imagination. Every summer, an annual pilgrimage to a small lakeside enclave in Wisconsin to be with all the other Latvian kids they grew up with. Their moms would run camp programs, their dads would visit over the weekend. An outdoor, Catholic Mass on Sundays, celebrated in Latvian. They would play volleyball all day, party into the night, while dancing around a big bonfire singing Latvian folk songs. It sounded like magic.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I went to a Greek village every summer of my life, which was great. It was like summer camp when I was a kid. In the early years, the bathroom was an outhouse. Electricity didn’t make it to our village until the 80s. I was there surrounded by all my Greek aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. In many ways it was very similar to that Latvian camp experience, except in one critical way. Many of my Latvian friends could not go back to Latvia every summer like I did to Greece. Latvia was part of the Soviet Union during that time and did not gain independence until 1991. This one detail was important and the main reason Latvian summer camp took on a different meaning for them. It was a proxy Latvia. It was where Latvians could come together and be free.
Right about now, you might be wondering why I am telling you this story? Well, this weekend I went to Camp Wandawega. And Camp Wandawega, I will have you know, is where this Latvian summer camp used to be. The actual camp location where my Latvian friends and their community would come together every summer. I know, pretty cool, right? Now, this is not meant to be a puff piece extolling the epic coolness of Camp Wandawega. I am not here to “influence” you. I am not going to talk about all the Instagram-ready vignettes dotted around the resort paying an homage to retro camping and the history of this lakeside area. Though they are beautiful, there have been a multitude of media pieces covering this resort far better than I ever could, which you could read about here and here.
But this camp, this weekend, made me smile and took me back in time. It forced me to disconnect from my city life: all the technology, television and the general pre-occupation with keeping busy. It forced me to slow down and remind myself of a different life. A simpler life. One where I could hear myself think and appreciate the general sights and sounds of nature instead of looking at them on my iPhone. And I love knowing that the current stewards of this property, Dave Hernandez (another Latvian) and his wife, Tereasa Surratt were able to preserve this camp and share it with all of us. Nostalgia lives on. It’s not just me who longs for the past and simpler times.
(I mean he got the chance to keep his boyhood summer camp! Come on! I love that!!!)
In the distance when I heard other camp visitors laughing and talking, in my mind’s eye I could see and hear my Latvian friends playing volleyball and later dancing around a bonfire singing to the Cikagas Piecisi. And it made me smile.
Carry on. Cheers!
Now go make some s’mores.
-Kallie
