Campers form a half-moon around the flagpole, feet in the dewy grass, chests rising and falling in breaths that dance with the morning birdsong.
They are 7 and 9 and 12 and 14, dressed in bandannas and dirt. For 90 seconds, they close their eyes and breathe — in through the nose, out through the mouth — and think about their happy place. For many, that place is this campground.
There is the boy who cries when he talks about the baby sister he no longer sees. Here, he brings the house down for Led Zeppelin karaoke. There’s the girl who watched helplessly as her father hit her brother. Here, she speaks up for a peer being teased. There are the siblings weeks away from middle school whose mom died. Here, they comfort friends who know the same pain.
For the last four years, the local arm of Camp HOPE America has invited child survivors of domestic violence into a summer rite of passage: Come, spend five nights singing songs, tubing down the river, dangling from bunk beds. But do so with peers who understand your past, those who know the enduring horrors of brutality at home.
The sleepaway camp is put on by local domestic violence resource centers the Spring of Tampa Bay, CASA Pinellas and Sunrise of Pasco County in partnership with the Girl Scouts of West Central Florida. Camp is free regardless of family income. The Times is withholding the full names of the attendees and camp location to protect survivors of domestic violence.
At the beginning of the week, campers are outfitted with water bottles, sleeping bags and personal hygiene kits they take when they leave — not all of them have such basic needs covered at home. Through workbooks and chats around campfires, they learn how to cope. To talk. To dream.
Statistics show that millions of children in the U.S. witness violence at home each year. They’re more likely to struggle with drugs or alcohol. Many live with anxiety, and some develop post-traumatic stress disorder.
Mindy Murphy, CEO of The Spring of Tampa Bay, sees the fallout.
“Not every kiddo is going to grow up to become a victim or an abuser,” Murphy said. “But an awful lot of them are without some sort of intervention.”
Camp HOPE is the antidote, she said — at least part of it.
The morning breathing ritual ends. Eyes flutter open to the sound of a timer. The campers throw their hands up in a final stretch before they walk in groups to the breakfast hall.
“You guys did it,” says a counselor with John Lennon glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. “We’re on the last day!”
Excitement and sadness mingle in the group’s hollers and moans. Soon, they will return to school, sleep in their own beds, leave this place of whimsy and heart.
But not just yet.
***
In a lodge with concrete floors and wide tables, the campers fill their plates. They chow on walking tacos served in Doritos bags and pizza baguettes dressed in marinara. This morning, they pile dishes with pancakes and strawberries.
“Holy moly!” a counselor calls.
“Guacamole!” the campers roar back.
“Mac and cheese!” the counselor booms.
“Everybody freeze!” the campers sing, and a hush falls over the dining hall.
From the outside, this camp looks like any other. That’s by design.
But woven into days of horseback riding and scavenger hunts and hours at the campground pool, small-group activities help kids make sense of their most difficult experiences.
“At other camps, I might get called a cry baby,” says a girl with curly brown hair. “But it’s just trauma that they wouldn’t understand.”
A red-headed friend throws an arm around the girl’s shoulder and nods.
Camp HOPE was founded in San Diego in 2003. Organizers believed that, while women escaping violence needed nuanced, thoughtful services, so did their families. The effects of trauma can take years to manifest in kids, showing up in new ways as they form their own relationships. Many are the children of women who sought help at domestic violence centers in Hillsborough, Pinellas and Pasco counties, Murphy said. Others come through word of mouth — a friend shared a flier and the parent reached out.
More than two decades later, camps operate in at least 23 states. Campers report becoming more resilient. They begin to part with the notion that all conflict results in violence, to learn that debate doesn’t have to spell harm.
“That’s what they’ve seen,” Murphy said. “We’re teaching them that it doesn’t have to be dangerous. You can disagree with somebody, and nobody gets hurt.”
Many campers arrive with their heads down. They’ve seen their dad strangle their mom. They’ve been physically violated. Those memories don’t go away just because the abuser does.
On this morning, three girls with beaded bracelets that read “brave” and “compassion” line up before their table and break out in a jagged dance, limbs flying. They quickly melt into giggles.
“See how funny we can be sometimes?” one says.
A counselor in her early 20s listens in.
“You are funny,” she affirms. “You are full of joy.”
***
Under a pavilion, kids with sticky fingers click on helmets and try to find bikes that fit their growing bodies.
“Raise your hand if you don’t know how to ride,” a counselor instructs.
Annelise steps forward.
At 14, she is one of the oldest in the group. Tall and thin, she carries a small pink backpack and a water bottle covered in stickers. She rode once when she was little, she says, but that was years ago.
At Camp HOPE, campers memorize “truth statements,” positive mantras they call on when things get hard.
Life is tough, but so are you.
Hope fuels my every step.
Hope is never lost.
With a big inhale, Annelise steps forward.
“I’m going to try,” she says. “Let me just do a little breathing so I can relax.”
Annelise straddles the seat and pushes off. A counselor walks alongside her, steadying the handles, and she begins to pedal.
It is not smooth. It is not fast. She falls to the side, then gets back up and falls again. She wobbles but keeps on pedaling, eventually circumventing the track of sod and sand. When she returns to the starting line, everyone claps.
“That was awesome,” says a boy. “You didn’t give up.”
Later, during archery, Annelise doesn’t hit the bullseye, but she gets pretty close, sinking her arrows into the target. When a younger camper fails to get a single on the board, he breaks down in frustrated tears.
“You can do this,” Annelise says, wrapping him in a hug. “Hope is never lost.”
• • •
To get help around Tampa Bay
Pinellas County:
CASA (Community Action Stops Abuse) can be reached on its 24-hour hotline at 727-895-4912 and via an online chat feature at casapinellas.org. Walk-ins are welcome at the Family Justice Center at 1011 1st Ave. N in St. Petersburg.
The Haven at Hope Villages can be reached on its 24-hour hotline at 727-442-4128 and hopevillagesofamerica.org.
Hillsborough County:
The Spring of Tampa Bay can be reached on its 24-hour hotline at 813-247-7233 and thespring.org.
Pasco County:
Sunrise of Pasco County can be reached on its 24-hour hotline at 888-668-7273 or 352-521-3120 and at sunrisepasco.org.
If you are in immediate danger, call 911.
