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Camp Fire, a century-old nonprofit dedicated to community-based learning and outdoor leadership, is responsible for a broad base of educational programs nationwide. But for the children of Central Oregon, it is associated with one program in particular: Tumalo Day Camp.

For 36 years, Camp Fire’s local branch has hosted three weeklong summer camps at Tumalo State Park, providing local youth with an opportunity to forge relationships, learn new skills and connect with both their community and the outdoors.

Supported by a dedicated group of volunteers, campers explore the Deschutes River, sing traditional Camp Fire songs and participate in creative activities.

A group of campers participate in a craft project at Tumalo Day Camp on July 21, 2025. / Photo Credit: Laney McDonald

For volunteer Kari Szukalski, the most valuable part of Camp Fire Camp is “watching the kids get more independent as they grow.” 

The camp curriculum is designed to build on itself over the years, and Szukalski said that this concept is particularly striking when it comes to the campers’ paracord bracelets: Each year, as the children advance their knowledge of knot-tying, the bracelets become more complex.

A Counselor-in-Training demonstrates tie-dying techniques to his group at Tumalo Day Camp on July 21, 2025. / Photo Credit: Laney McDonald

Though the camp’s programming ends when campers reach eighth grade, participation is still encouraged. The Counselor-in-Training (CIT) program enables dedicated campers to assume leadership roles, guiding younger attendees through activities with the help of adult volunteers.

According to Camp Director Cece Valceschini, it is the CITs who make Camp Fire Camp special. Serving as role models for young campers, they encourage continued involvement and contribute their own unique flavor to the camp’s culture.

“I wanted to stay involved in it because I thought the CITs were really cool people,” said Mars Thiel, a recent graduate of the CIT program who served as a counselor this summer.

Counselor Mars Thiel shows off their wood cookie, a Camp Fire tradition, at Tumalo Day Camp on July 21, 2025. / Photo Credit: Laney McDonald

Like many who return to camp, Thiel was drawn not just by tradition, but by the energy, friendships and memories that make it feel like home. From skits and campfire songs to arts and crafts, the fun is what keeps kids coming back.

However, for many, Camp Fire offers more than summer entertainment: It’s where lifelong bonds begin.

“New friendships are built here,” said Valceschini, who met her best friend at camp 34 years ago. Now, she helps new campers find connection, encouraging them through silly songs and skits. The goal of Camp Fire Camp, she said, is to provide a space where all participants’ voices are heard and even shyer children have an opportunity to forge friendships with their peers.

“My favorite part of summer camp is hanging out with my friends,” said 9-year-old camper Alta.

Campers make mud pies at Tumalo Day Camp on July 21, 2025. / Photo Credit: Laney McDonald

However, as Bend’s population continues to grow, the camp faces increasing challenges in securing space. Valceschini noted that Tumalo State Park, where the camp occurs, grows “fuller and fuller” each year, making it increasingly difficult to reserve the site. 

Yet, despite more construction, higher demand for public spaces and limited access to outdoor facilities, Valceschini is optimistic about continuing traditions. After all, she said, the camp runs largely on community support, and as long as there is a need in Central Oregon for Tumalo Day Camp, she trusts that volunteers will step up to keep the camp alive.

“Come to camp,” Valceschini said. “New volunteers are always welcome.”

Camp Director Cece Valceschini and Counselor-in-Training Director Cayden Jones celebrate pajama day at Tumalo Day Camp on July 21, 2025. / Photo Credit: Laney McDonald

Over 30 years have passed since the inaugural Tumalo Day Camp, and over that period, little has changed. It has seen generations of children pass through — including Valceschini’s three children and her grandchild — and the camp’s relevance to Central Oregon youth hasn’t waned. Instead, it continues to encourage connection, allowing campers to experience nature, friendship and fun in a way that, for many, is all too rare.

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As a member of Gen Z, the generation born between the late 1990s and early 2010s, I have grown up amid near-constant crises: a post-9/11 surveillance state, financial recession, climate change, mass shootings, political upheaval, a global pandemic and escalating global tensions, including renewed fears of military conflict. It’s no wonder our default coping mechanism has become a brand of humor that leans heavily on absurdism, detachment and fatalism.

This isn’t simply a quirk of internet culture. Dark or ironic humor can be a defense mechanism for anxiety or a sense of powerlessness.  However—or perhaps because of—our immersion in global events via digital media, Gen Z embodies a paradox: high awareness but inconsistent civic action. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, only 44% of 18 to 24-year-olds voted in the 2022 midterms, compared to approximately 67.6% of voters over 40. While Gen Z’s number was higher than in previous years, the gap highlights a generational divide between awareness and mobilization.

It’s undeniable that my generation has been flooded with information, and our propensity to peruse online platforms has made us highly opinionated on a wide range of topics. So, if we’re so passionate about the issues around us, why are we not voting? 

Gen Z’s lack of civil engagement can lead to what some call “performative nihilism,” a mindset where serious issues are acknowledged but treated as inevitable and unsolvable. This response may be shaped by years of watching institutions fail to meet challenges, from stalled climate policy to deepening economic inequality. 

The result is a kind of learned helplessness. Gen Z is politically literate, highly connected and fluent in the language of critique, but often skeptical of traditional forms of engagement. Online discourse becomes the outlet, but without coordinated offline action, the energy dissipates into apathy. We could make a thousand TikToks about why an issue matters, and although we may be spreading the word, it’s not making much of a difference. 

This is not to say Gen Z is politically inert. Many of us have participated in protests, and youth-led movements like March for Our Lives and the Sunrise Movement show that when activated, Gen Z can be a powerful force. But these efforts remain fragmented, often disconnected from broader political infrastructures and voter participation.

The challenge ahead is not only about registering more young voters or coaxing them into political parties. It’s about rebuilding trust, creating tangible pathways for agency—real, accessible steps for activism, from volunteering with impactful organizations to attending community meetings or protests—and bridging the gap between online consciousness and real-world impact. 

Our humor is not inherently a bad thing. Laughter has always been important. But if we want to shape the world we inherit—rather than merely survive it—it’s time to turn away from joking about global conflicts and start working to prevent them. The stakes are no longer theoretical, and the future will be decided by those who show up.

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Since its creation TikTok has subtly reshaped the music industry, transforming unknown tracks into global hits overnight and influencing billions of corresponding video content. In fact, according to TikTok’s reflection on 2024, the platform’s top ten songs alone were used in over 200 million videos and generated more than eight million streams on Spotify. Yet, as the Recording Academy adapts to this digital age, I’m left wondering: is the rise of TikTok-driven music a celebration of diversity or indicative of a diminishing musical depth?

On one hand, TikTok’s impact has democratized music discovery, giving independent artists a chance to reach millions—without the backing of major labels. The platform enables fresh, diverse voices, challenging the previously selective system and infusing our music scene with some vibrant, innovative sounds. This is, without a doubt, an incredible accomplishment for modern music.

However, the platform’s emphasis on short, viral clips might be eroding the very fabric of musical artistry. TikTok’s ability to take one song and set it racing up the charts is sought-after, and for good reason. It’s no wonder some artists seem to focus on a catchy 15-second hook—think Benson Boone’s “Beautiful Things,” which only gained popularity for its chorus before the release of the rest of the song—rather than crafting a complete composition. Additionally, artists may put more energy into one song than the rest of the album, banking on one viral dance to skyrocket their streams. But when the measure of a song’s value becomes its shareability, we are sacrificing long-term artistic merit for temporary virality. 

The evolution of the Grammys reflects this tension. In recent years, several Grammy-winning tracks were catapulted into the spotlight because they went viral on TikTok. From the 2023 Record of the Year winner—Lizzo’s “About Damn Time”–to 2025’s winner, Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us,” the influence of TikTok is everywhere. While this shift allows the awards to stay relevant with younger audiences, it illustrates the Grammys’ preference for viral songs. 

This year’s Grammy nominations further underscore this issue. The most popular artists inevitably receive invites, often sidelining more innovative or overlooked talent. For example, Taylor Swift’s latest album dominated the conversation, but did it truly deserve its nomination over lesser-known, yet artistically ambitious, works? For instance, while subjectivity is a vital aspect of music, Maya Hawke’s album “Chaos Angel” has largely gone unnoticed, despite her being a household name and the album’s appealing originality.

The Academy keeps legacy acts like The Rolling Stones and Green Day in the mix, which sure, provides a sense of continuity, but it’s the chart-toppers who drive viewership. 15.4 million Americans tuned into the awards this year, but how many were just waiting for Billie Eilish? 

This emphasis on mainstream appeal makes the awards feel increasingly hollow. Recognition is tied more to commercial success than artistic excellence. If the Grammys genuinely sought to honor the best in music, the nomination process should require voters to listen to every song that exceeds a certain streaming threshold, rather than defaulting to the top 10% of hits.

Ultimately, the TikTokification of the Grammys embodies a broader cultural and artistic debate. Yes, TikTok has ushered in an era of access and diversity, but as the Grammys increasingly spotlight songs that owe their success to viral trends, we may end up trading depth for digital convenience. The challenge moving forward will be finding a balance that honors the immediacy of TikTok while preserving the enduring qualities of musical artistry.

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In 2025, theaters are being flooded with remakes, reboots and “live-action” versions of beloved animated classics, such as Disney’s “Lilo and Stich” and Dreamwork’s “How to Train Your Dragon.” While such projects can evoke nostalgia and attract wide audiences, the sheer volume of these films—and the simultaneous decline in support of original stories—signals a troubling trend: Hollywood increasingly sidelines creativity in favor of safe, marketable content. This limits the potential for innovative storytelling and mirrors a broader issue across entertainment industries, such as Netflix’s tendency to cancel promising shows before they can find an audience.

One of the primary drivers of the remake boom is the predictability of profit. Established intellectual properties (IPs) come with built-in audiences and proven narratives, making them less risky investments for studios. Even if “A Minecraft Movie” is receiving nothing but hate, it will undoubtedly get attention. A live-action reimagining of a beloved classic guarantees headlines, nostalgic interest, and merchandising opportunities (even if the “live-action” film just jacks up the CGI). This approach reflects Hollywood’s growing reluctance to support original screenplays and films, especially in an era where blockbuster franchises dominate box offices. Financially, it makes sense: people flock to familiar brands. Creatively, however, it signals a stagnation that could weaken the industry long-term.

Original films, particularly those without an obvious IP attachment, struggle not because they lack quality but because audiences have been conditioned to view them as gambles, due to high ticket prices and the inevitability of streaming. When these films get greenlit, they often lack marketing support or are buried under the avalanche of high-budget franchise films. This creates a vicious cycle where originality is viewed as unprofitable, leaving fewer opportunities for unique stories to captivate audiences. Without risk-taking and innovation, we lose the potential for game-changing movies that expand cinematic boundaries.

This trend is paralleled in the streaming industry, particularly on platforms like Netflix. In recent years, Netflix has developed a reputation for canceling shows after only one season. The refreshing “Teenage Bounty Hunters,” a comedy about fraternal twin “bail-skipping baddies” and the ridiculous “Kaos,” 2024’s star-studded contemporary take on Greek mythology, were both canceled after one season—with massive cliffhangers. ARGH! 

Both “Kaos” and “Teenage Bounty Hunters”  were only given a month (Kaos) or two (Bounty Hunters) before being cut off. Yet they saw little to no advertising, which Netflix heavily relied on for record-breakers like “Squid Game” and “Stranger Things.”

Why? Because success in streaming is measured by immediate engagement, not the gradual building of an audience. If a show isn’t a breakout hit within weeks of release, it’s deemed unworthy of further investment, including advertising. Instant hits like “Squid Game” and “Stranger Things” are rare, and are influenced, in a large part, by the effort Netflix chooses to put into them, and some well-timed TikToks. 

In fact, many of the shows we consider classics didn’t see success until well after their first season—“The Office,” “Seinfeld” and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” to name a few. Much like the remake boom, this prioritization of instant gratification over long-term cultural impact undermines the growth of original, meaningful storytelling.

At their core, films and shows are meant to tell stories, to surprise and challenge audiences with new ideas. When studios prioritize familiarity over creativity, they punish filmmakers for the diversity that makes cinema so magical. Likewise, when streaming platforms cancel shows prematurely, they alienate loyal fans and discourage creators from taking risks.

If studios and platforms continue this path of risk aversion and short-term thinking, we will face an era of artistic conformity, where only the safest ideas survive. We don’t need another shot-by-shot recreation of a classic story, especially not of a perfect animated film, like “How To Train Your Dragon.” We need stories that take chances, challenge us and encourage us to see the world in a whole new way. That’s the magic of cinema—and it’s worth fighting for.

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