on beachside campfires
reflections on stability in friendships and inclusion
I’ve never been to a campfire by the oceanside before. It’s never been on my lifetime bucket list. Frankly, it’s not something I ever dreamed of when I was younger, but in recent years, I realized that campfires on the beach have always been a symbol of what I can’t have.
In high school, my fellow classmates used to host campfires on the beachfront by my high school. They would set up a volleyball net, bring some weed gummies and beer, and engage in as much debauchery as suburban kids in a West Coast town who are obsessed with staying in the same state for their entire life are comfortable with.
I never got invited to them, which I convinced myself didn’t really bother me that much. Obviously, deep down, it did hurt a lot knowing that I had never gotten close to my classmates because none of them could understand how much I was sacrificing to try to get out of the town. I did consider some of them friends, and it always sucked to hear them rave about the campfires the day after while we were sitting in journalism together.
I no longer have the original voice recording of my song “when i leave” because the first take of it consisted of me singing through tears. I wrote it on a particularly bad night when I had been thinking about the loneliness of high school. It starts with: “I drove past the campsite last night / I saw the blazing bonfire / Everyone was laughing and getting drunk / It was then that I realized I’d never have that much fun.” Fairly innocuous.
Then, it escalates like all emotions do: “I need to get out of this city I’d be happier if I was pretty / I’d be a thousand times better if I wasn’t me / being loved is more important than being happy / And I have a habit of constantly hiding / Whatever I think you would absolutely despise.” The sheer heartbreak of writing these lines still resonates with me when I play it today.
When I left my hometown, I thought that might be the last time I would think about not having an invitation to a beachside campfire. After all, college was a fresh start, and literally, not a single person from my high school was going to be at my college.
For a while, this really rang true. I would go to campfires by our campus center hosted by student clubs with my friends. We’d make S’mores, have hot chocolate, and laugh about the campfire smell staining our hair for hours after. But like all history, the beachside campfire would return again.
One year in college, when the seniors on my team were on the cusp of graduating, I saw that they had gone to a beach in South Carolina during spring break. Apparently, it’s traditional for many athletes at our school to go to this beach town in South Carolina and go out clubbing. They often bring younger members with them, and the festivities culminate in a giant campfire by the beach.
Suddenly, I was brought back to being 17 years old, sitting on the floor of my room with my guitar and clutching it like it was the only friend I had. I can’t help but envy all the people who went, thinking about how they could all afford to fly and rent a place together in South Carolina for a weekend while I was on campus trying to work extra hours at my student job to cover the cost of moving cities for my summer job.
I feel guilty complaining about not being invited or being excluded because I don’t really think I want to be surrounded by a bunch of drunk people I barely know by one of nature’s most dangerous phenomena. But I do want to feel as carefree as they do.
After moving to a new place this semester and meeting new people, I’ve been struggling to express that exclusion is hard for me to deal with since a lot of the people I spend time with sometimes make plans without me behind my back. I know they don’t mean to, but it feels like I have to relive watching the beachfront campfire over and over again every time I’m not invited. They’re trying to make an effort to include me more, but it’s definitely still an active struggle.
Asserting my needs and sharing when I feel upset is a new skill I’m still learning. I try very hard to not bother people if I can help, but I think I’ve let people bother me long enough that it’s time for me to stand up for myself.
The idea of a beachside campfire seems fun, but I know I’d hate getting the sand in between my toes. I know I’d hate leaving empty bottles in the sand and having to clean up after everybody else who got messy drunk. So maybe beachside campfires aren’t for me, but I think getting invited would be the first step for me to figure out how to find that feeling of belonging. It’s always nice to know you’re important enough to be remembered.
real