Garifuna Baptism

It’s the year 2000. I am 16. I’m so nervous. The concrete around the Camp Deerpark pool scorches the bottoms of my feet as I stand in line, waiting my turn for the plunge. I hear drums in the background, thundering to the rhythm of my heartbeat. The women are singing in high-pitched voices. I tiptoe into the water and reach for my father’s hand. He baptizes me, en el Nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo … Amen! As I am sub-merged, all I can think is . . . this water is so cold.

Our culture and language is called Garifuna. It has always been a blessing that we can live out our faith within our cultural context when we are at Camp Deerpark. Growing up in New York City, people were not always so understanding. I remember my friends thinking that Garifuna was a culture I had concocted, just for the sake of being unique. It confused some people when they saw a black girl, fluent in Spanish, claiming to be from Honduras, but with African roots, and speaking another language that sounded like . . .who knows what?

However, I looked forward to summers at Camp Deerpark, where I and members of the Garifuna Church in the Bronx could just be ourselves. It was home, because we were welcomed to make ourselves at home . . . and we did (and still do)! Of course, camp isn’t anything like Honduras, but there is always that sense of belonging.

At camp, our culture is not just accommodated; it is celebrated. Sometimes we come up to camp and put up a piñata under a tree. The churchwomen screech like schoolgirls as they set up the Maripol (Maypole) dance with ribbons around the volleyball pitch. We are always extra happy when the kitchen staff makes us beans and tortillas because it reminds us of Baleadas from home. And when our churches come to Camp Deerpark, you can count on hearing our Garaoun (traditional drums) resounding our rhythms loudly from the poolside, campfire sites and through the chapel walls. Our rich culture infiltrates everything we do. It is who we are; and we are proud of it.

I am now 33. I call the name of the next youth in line, as she nervously awaits her turn. She tiptoes to the edge of the pool and with a shiver, she reaches for my hand. I walk her over to my father, and just like he did with me years ago, he baptizes her in the Name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit . . . Amen! The water is cold, but we are not in the Camp Deerpark pool. This time around, we are across the globe, in Kenya.

It is an honor to live in a continent where the Garifuna culture is rooted. Every time my parents visit, I hear my mother say for the millionth time, “This is just like Honduras!” I chuckle. Soon, I will return the visit to New York. While there, it’s a must that I visit my most favorite place in the world. I rest assured, knowing that there is a place upstate that reminds us all of home, even when we are very far from it. There is a place, nestled in the mountains and in our hearts, where we can eat, dance, sing and share in languages other than English and traditions rooted in faraway lands. It is Camp Deerpark . . . a place where we will always belong.

Celmali Jaime Okonji, program director in 2006–7, attended Evangelical Garifuna Church and King of Glory Tabernacle, both in the Bronx.

Related Entries

• 50 Years of Camp Deerpark Buildings
• 50 Years of Camp Deerpark Directors
• A Beautiful Scene
• A Conscious Decision
• A Place on the Hill