“YOU GUYS HAVE TO BE CAREFUL! The things you work with can KILL people!” Rapids of guilt ran through my body as these words shot out of the furious camp caretaker’s mouth like bullets. Mental note – Never leave the cleaning chemicals laying around the kitchen ever again; one of the many rules I learned this summer about working in a kitchen. However, within the nine weeks I spent as a “Staff In Training” (aka SIT) at Camp Haiastan, an Armenian camp, rules were not the only thing I learned from my summer job.
Every day that I walked into that kitchen I knew what I was putting myself up against. Two hours of searing back pain, unavoidable sweat, and horribly pruned fingers. Two hours of steam and heat sticking and clinging to my skin. Why? Imagine having two hundred sauce covered trays, two hundred cups, and four hundred filthy utensils to rinse and send through the sanitizing machine under the alias of “Jackson”. Physical endurance was a necessity in the kitchen. Without it, carrying the skyscraper high stacks of clean trays and cups, and pots larger than life would be near impossible. It was like carrying the weight of the world. If that didn’t sound rigorous enough, multiply it all by three for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was an agonizing total of six hours standing upright consisted of six hundred cups, six hundred trays, and twelve hundred pieces of silverware….This was only the physical aspect of the job.
Mentally, working in the kitchen was like entering a battlefield. Two or three of my fellow co workers would usually accompany me in the kitchen and suddenly become my enemies in the battlefield. The pounding stress of the workload in addition to heavy fatigue joined forces to establish the short temper that caused us to easily get frustrated with one another. Frustration with one another was a normal thing behind the doors of the kitchen; however it never followed us outside of the kitchen. Not only that, but the deafening sounds of searing hot water simultaneously running in three industrial sinks sounded like white water rapids, washing my thoughts away and preventing me from even hearing myself think. The hollow “CLANK” of Jackson’s metal doors closing rang through my ears every minute. In addition, a war went on between the clichéd imaginary devil and angel sitting on my shoulders. The devil was tempting me to give up and scream “I QUIT!”, while the angel encouraged me to power me through the work so that I could have the usual reward of juicy red cherry popsicles with my friends; no longer enemies after a long day’s work.
“Hi Ungerouhi Nareh!”, “Good morning Ungerouhi Nareh!”, “Thank you Ungerouhi Nareh!” were things I heard on a daily basis from both my fellow staff members and campers as well. At Camp Haiastan, the proper way to address a counselor is by stating Unger or Ungerouhi before his or her name; Unger for male counselors, and Ungerouhi for the females. In Armenian, the words “unger” and “ungerouhi” mean friend. However for me, that title stands for a lot more than just “friend”. It is a reward; a privilege that has to be earned to be called ungerouhi. And what exactly got someone that title? Hard work. Dedication. Initiative. Leadership. From the age of nine up until sixteen, many of my summers were spent as a camper at Camp Haiastan, "the greatest place on Earth" as my boss would say. But of course even that was an understatement. No words could do justice to the innumerable things this place had given to me growing up. But this summer, it was my turn. No longer was I Nareh Mkrtschjan the camper. I was Ungerouhi Nareh Mkrtschjan, Staff in Training. I became the hard worker; the leader. I had dedication and initiative; and it all started in that kitchen. Those countless hours cooped up beside sinks and dirty trays taught me a little more than just kitchen protocol. They taught me things I never knew about myself. I surprised myself with how dedicated I was. Even with the minimum pay I was receiving, I did not fail to work hard and give the job my all. It was not about the money, it was about the beneficial experience and test of will power. Even when I was a hair's width away from collapsing and giving up, I refused to do so. I had to be the leader, the ungerouhi for the campers and future SIT's to come.