wasps and hopes

This post grew out of Mother's Day, and my PhD research project about young people and hope... I know, I know, you can take the girl out of the camp, but you can't take the camp out of the girl. (for notes on usage of elipse-- see previous post)
Anyway, I'm not going to totally bore you, this time, with academic nonsense. The reference is this-- at camp we do this thing called Devotions. It sounds all churchy but it's not really. We just take some time out of the evening to sit together in a circle (best with a campfire) and talk about things that are purposeful, and passionate, and problematic, and possibly fantastic in our minds, bodies, hearts and lives. Yeah, well it's camp. And yes I am getting to the point. Usually there is a central question, or game, that brings out everyone's responses. My favorite game (BWCA rules are the best, but I can make do just about anywhere), the one that give me fire in the belly, is called Hopes and Fears (hence the research topic). And the reason it is so great is as follows: I do NOT have a fear of wasps. Why that is a strange way to start, you say. Yes. But it is significant because I SHOULD be VERY VERY afraid of wasps. All the social theory I can get my hands on tells me that the way I think, the way I hope, the way I fear, is due to past experiences. When I was young (8 maybe?), I climbed up into the treehouse at my cabin with my dad on the ladder behind me. It was a really really high up treehouse. And it had, unbeknownst to us, a really really big wasps nest underneath it. Well, we climbed up into that treehouse, my dad and I, and tromped around. We pissed of those wasps something fierce. And they came a-calling to tell us about it. HUNDREDS of them. And I was in shorts.
I do not remember being stung (over one hundred times). I do not remember being in pain, or being scared. I only remember my dad yelling for my mom and swatting wasps away from me. I only remember him dropping me from the top of the ladder down to my mom waiting below. I only remember her catching me, and running into the house. I only remember her putting baking soda paste onto every sting. I am not afraid of wasps. I don't even flinch. That memory-- the one that Bourdieu and all the other fancy sociologists tell me should always be reminding me to be afraid, only reminds me of how much my parents love me. My dad was stung way more than I. I'll bet he remembers. It's a great memory. And they are fucking great parents. That's an uber-BISA.
Ok and yeah, so if you really want to know, wasps and devotions are pretty much where my PhD is coming from.

BISAs:
well, the whole wasp story, really
the idea of a 'kharma boomerang'-- gets 'em every time.