Prankster's Delight

{Prompt: What role did pranks have at NCSSM}

You may not be old enough to remember, but once upon a time — back in the 70s — aluminum cans were everywhere.  They were nearly as ubiquitous then as Amazon delivery boxes are today.  

Back then, soft drinks were typically sold, and consumed, in cans that held only a modest 12 liquid ounces. 20 ounce plastic bottles were a rarity, if they existed at all.  And even the bottles had simple cylindrical designs, unlike the amped-up, palm-of-your-hand, Transformers-inspired designs of today.

Aluminum Cans.

Recycling was in its heyday as the 80s began, and the environmental movement flourished.  Everyone in the world was recycling their drink containers. People could even get reimbursed for recycled aluminum (just as they could get money back (a nickel) for the glass soda bottles, decades before).  It was quite common for the people, just scraping by, to go deep into public trash cans (or “Dempsey” dumpsters) to collect the aluminum — filling clanking, lumpy, black garbage bags full of the empty aluminum cans, as they meandered from one garbage heap to the next.

At the School of Science and Math, we were fueled by Domino’s pizza and caffeinated beverages, in the evenings when the cafeteria was closed.  But unlike our neighborhoods at home, there was little recycling on campus. And there were no transients to cull the trash bins for aluminum.  Our empty cans of soda began to accumulate — waiting for a purpose—stacked up like building blocks on our wide windowsills.

Sidebar:  The design of an aluminum can is a thing of beauty.  It’s designed to withstand internal pressures from carbonated drinks and external pressures from stacking.  The cylindrical shape and the concave bottom prevent the can from easily crumpling when stacked for storage and transportation, and its design helps it to withstand the wide range of  temperatures that affect the volume and pressure of the liquid inside.

It was only a matter of time before we, too, recognized the outstanding mechanical properties of the aluminum beverage can, gradually stacking them higher and higher, in a sort of dormitory race for supremacy of can-stacking ability. 

Gradually, it became clear that they could be stacked much higher, when stacked next to a wall or another vertical surface—less likely to tilt over to one side and come clattering to the ground.

And from these early subconscious observations it was inevitable that we should make the leap one day, to the creation of a seven-foot wall of aluminum cans, stacked row by row in front of the door of one of our dorm mates. 

Probably, we were eating some Domino’s pizza - procrastinating from our class homework - imagining (with our caffeinated brains) all of the other things that we could be doing besides our assignments. We happened upon the material and the design of an ingenious prank - the modular construction of a wall of aluminum cans. We had only to identify a victim (who shall go nameless) and a date, to bring the project to completion.

A vintage Domino’s Ad

So we began collecting our cans - a clear act of premeditation.  We chose a day and an hour, when the subject of our prank would be ensconced in his room, happily resting.  And we fine-tuned the plans for our edifice, considering the various possibilities - including the choice of adhesives or fasteners, necessary to reach the towering height that we had planned.

Ultimately, we used strips of masking tape to horizontally secure rows of cans to each side of the door frame.  The cans fit nearly perfectly, adjacent to the heavy wooden door, in the space between the external door jambs on either side. 

Gradually the wall was constructed, row by row, as we silently set to work, long after bedtime.  The student sleeping inside was unaware of our late night activities— of his gradual imprisonment—like Fortunato in The Cask of Amontillado.  

We didn’t use tape for every row.  We wanted some of the cans (…about half) to fall cascading to the floor.  Although construction of the barricade was carried out in silence, we hoped that its deconstruction would be nothing less than a percussive cacophony of metal.

And, boy, was it!  After our hijinks in the witching hour, I was sound asleep the next morning, when the discordance of falling cans jolted me awake.

First there were a half dozen “clinks” and “clangs” of bouncing cans.  Then a crashing racket of noise.  Then another scattering ripple of falling aluminum.

I peeked my head out.  A number of other doors on the hall were also opening.  At least a dozen other students were wondering what was causing the commotion.

A massive pile of cans.

At about this time the victim of our prank was trying to work his way through a gap in the aluminum wall, like a caver working his way through a tight spot in an underground tunnel.

As he made his way out, one leg at a time, still more cans came bouncing - clattering— to the ground.  Others scattered from the pile already littering the floor.  A row or two remained perfectly intact inside the door frame, suspended above his head, still attached with beige masking tape.

Our victim took the hazing as well as can be imagined.  He was embarrassed, perhaps, by the unwanted attention; perplexed, perhaps, with what to do with the hundreds of cans; but he seemed to take it in stride.  

Still, I wonder now, how he really felt.  My empathy—my upbringing—makes me wonder if he really was unaffected—if he felt acknowledged or rejected by our group, included or excluded by the act.  

I still imagine the look of bewilderment that he must have had when he opened his room door, to go out for a shower, or to use the bathroom, and found his progress blocked by a door completely filled with empty Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew cans, stacked row upon row—up to the very top of the door.

Today, I feel a certain amount of guilt about the childish glee with which the adventure was undertaken.  But at the time it occurred, I felt only delight and pride in the utter success of our plan - the beauty and simplicity of our engineering achievement.

Kodachrome

{Prompt: Write a story about PDA at NCSSM}

Nothing brings back the romantic memories of high school more than the beginning of Autumn, when the stifling haze, heat, and humidity of summer are finally replaced by delightfully temperate days and cool, starlit nights.

I was young, and naturally, I was hopeful of having a romantic experience, as I settled into my new environs at school in the fall of 1980.  We, the students at NCSSM, were no longer making trips to libraries and auditoriums, taking tours and listening to talking heads.  We had settled into an academic routine.

Outside of class, we were making new friends.  And we were hoping (maybe) we could become more than friends.  

There were lots of opportunities to deepen our friendships.  We went dancing in the basement of Wyche House, lights turned low and stereo-speakers humming.  I remember the anticipation we had, waiting for those social activities to begin.

We dressed up and scurried in clusters through the horrifying haunted house, staged and enacted in the old morgue.  It was delightful.

We went trick-or-treating in opposite sex dorms, a rarely authorized peek into the rooms of our classmates. At all times, coed visitation was strictly regulated.

And sex and mating was strictly forbidden. Life was like a Victorian melodrama. No boy could set foot into a girl’s boudoir. No girl could cross the threshold of a boy’s bedchamber.  Intervisitation was confined to recreation rooms and common areas, unless there was an adult chaperone.

So, instead of dorm rooms, the rec rooms and porches became the settings for affection.  There was cuddling and spooning, hugging and horseplay, out in the open.

I remember the capacious size of the sturdy, pine, This End Up couches, providing plenty of room to lie back in a friend’s lap.  Or you could give a back rub, and receive one in return. 

Magical!

A friend and I — in a big comfy couch in the common area.

Affection came in many forms. On one occasion a classmate gave me a palm reading, earnestly holding my hand and inspecting my lifeline — a rare moment of close contact, and a mystical reading of my nature and fate.

Somewhere, somehow, these sensory experiences got a little too intimate — crossing the line of propriety.  Maybe the participants were publicly kissing, or they were a little too close for comfort.  I’ll never forget the day when word filtered down that the resident advisors (RAs) would be restricting us from “public displays of affection” (PDA).  

What a cruel rebuff of our adolescent desires — our burning libidos!  Neither private nor public displays of affection were permitted, leaving us in limbo — leaving us in the sensory ‘friend zone’ in perpetuity.  

It was doomed to fail.

Nothing could keep us apart. We couldn’t stop ourselves.

We would engage in subversively promiscuous behavior in the hidden nooks and crannies of the campus, or out-of-doors on the outskirts of the sprawling grounds, risking admonishment or discipline if we were caught in flagrante delicto.

Naturally couples formed — an unstoppable, unrestrainable consequence of mutual attraction.  But no coupling came to pass — a minor miracle (if true). 

We adjusted to the confines of our society. We limited our public displays or suppressed our natural desires, as much as we were able or willing.

Gradually the epidemic of PDA began to dissipate and fade.

As Autumn went by, we occupied ourselves with other things besides our infatuations.  We continued our studies. We did our homework. 

We played frisbee with reckless abandon on the sloping, unkempt lawn between the dorms, risking injury when we hurtled too close to the concrete steps.  

We boldly voted to choose our school colors (blue and silver) and our mascot (the fantastical, enchanting Unicorn).  We secured the solidarity and spirit of our student body with a homecoming flag football game, played in the November shade of the stately oak trees of Duke’s East Campus.  

We sang our hopes and fears in a talent show.  We were so full of life.  We were fearless.

The sky turned from a hazy light blue to a deep cerulean as the outside temperatures fell.  The leaves of the poplars, crepe myrtles, sweet gum, and tupelo turned yellow, ochre, red, and scarlet. And they fell to the ground.

We went home to spend Thanksgiving with our families.  We were thankful for all that life had to offer.  And we couldn’t get back to school quickly enough, even with its limits and demands.

Every year, when those picturesque leaves turn and fall, they remind me of the vibrancy of colors and feelings that the world held for me in 1980 when romance was in the air. 

Learning by Heart

{Prompt: Who was your favorite teacher in high school?}

I had a lot of great teachers in high school.

Mr. Braddy was one of the first. He was my 10th grade biology teacher, introducing me to the fantastic world of plants, animals, and microorganisms. He started by teaching the fundamentals of Linnaean classification — taxonomy and binomial nomenclature — big words to describe some basic concepts.

We went through the Helena Curtis textbook, simply called “Biology”, chapter by chapter. I loved every page of it, and I still keep it on a shelf of honor.

We also went on field trips to learn, for example, to identify trees by there twigs using a dichotomous key, or to search for Spring ephemeral wildflowers in the understory of an oak-hickory forest.

I asked Mr. Braddy to write my nomination for the NC School of Science and Math, and he did. He got the ball rolling, and made my tutelage by other great teachers possible.

Here are some examples.

I learned to think about the context and meaning of English Literature from Jon Miller — a man with a natural look of amusement (or bemusement) on his face at all times. He always wore khaki pants, a light blue button-up shirt, and a tie (usually ever-loosening as the day went on), and he spoke in a sonorous baritone voice, with which he wielded both wit and sarcasm in equal measure. It was hard to tell, sometimes, if he was serious or not.

I learned to understand the intricacies of chemistry from the bespectacled Dr. Rufus Owens. A kind and scholarly man, his class notes were always copied in a faint but legible lavender ink. He used the word “facetious” a lot, telling us “Don’t be facetious” or “I’m not being facetious when I say…”. He was quirky. Maybe great chemists are a little funny, that way. He certainly was.

Chuck Britton, who taught physics, was quite the opposite. He was bearded and unpretentious. He was rambunctious and entertaining. He would have us run up the stairways as fast as we could, to demonstrate some principle regarding energy and kinetics. He would do gyroscopic demonstrations with a bicycle wheel to demonstrate the principles of angular momentum.

And there was John Molena, who taught Astrophysics. He wasn’t unusually charismatic, or professorial, or dynamic; but he was amazingly good at teaching the complexities of a super complicated and esoteric subject. He made the subject matter surprisingly understandable, or else he managed to increase my capacity for understanding more than even I expected. He simply taught, step by step, building knowledge from the ground up (literally).

All these teachers have one thing in common.

Have you noticed what it is?

They are all men.

And I needed these men in my life. I was lacking a male role model. These teachers were great role models.

Of course, I also had female teachers in high school and in junior high, just as demanding and inspirational. I just wasn’t able to connect with them in quite the same way.

Branson Brown

I had another male role model in high school; maybe the most impactful of all. His name was Branson Brown.

Strictly speaking, he was my teacher for only one and a half hours of actual curriculum. Believe it or not, he was my physical education (PE) instructor. He taught PE during the two years that I lived in Durham, at NCSSM. He taught me virtually nothing of an academic nature, but I think he taught me quite a bit about being a real human being.

He had a big advantage compared to my other teachers. You see, he lived in the dorm, with me and about 2/3 of the boys in the 80-81 school year, the first year of NCSSM. He was the resident advisor (RA) for my floor, the second floor, one of four male RAs that I can recall (along with Warren Baskett, Andy Minnis, and Zack Smith). As he was testing our physical stamina, during our basic PE class by day, we were testing his patience by night.

First let me tell you a little about his background. Branson was born in 1942. He played minor league baseball during the same year I was born, 1964. (He played for the Sarasota Yankees in Florida as a right-handed pitcher. You can still find his stats online.) At some point he married (his wife Joanie) and he became a physical education instructor.

(Photo of Branson Brown by an impressionable young man.)

Somehow he was chosen to be the “Physical Activities Coordinator” for the School of Science and Math. I don’t know how he got the job. He seemed like an unlikely choice – a retired, semiprofessional athlete at a school for science and technology geeks.

Perhaps the school had low expectations for physical activities in the academic curriculum. (According to Branson himself, the school had absolutely no plans for a varsity sports program.) Perhaps they were in need of someone who could be both an RA and a teacher. Or maybe they saw someone with something intangible — someone with fortitude. I like to think it was the latter.

I think that’s what I learned most from Branson — fortitude and determination.

Branson was the one faculty member with a conspicuous lack of support — the one most handicapped by budgetary and time constraints — and yet he persevered. There were no athletic facilities. None. And by none, I mean there was no baseball field, no football field, no gymnasium, no basketball or tennis courts, no weight room — in fact, no exercise facilities of any kind.

There were no uniforms (but, of course, the school colors and the school mascot were still to be chosen).

There was precious little athletic equipment.

And there were no coaches.

In short, there was no sports program to build on — no history. The school was not a member of any high school sports league, and of course there was no schedule for competition since most competitions required an opponent.

That all changed when a couple of students in my dorm approached Branson to see if they could compete in cross country. Before you knew it they had thrown together a team, manufactured some embarrassingly rudimentary jerseys, and they were competing with credibility against other schools. (They finished the year with a 6-4 record.)

Branson also arranged for a men’s soccer team to practice at an elementary school on Club Boulevard. We had to jog to the field, a mile and a half each way. He arranged for us to play against the NC School for the Deaf in Oxford and against the NC School of the Arts in Greensboro — only two games. But in the following year, we had scheduled games for a full season.

He launched programs in baseball and softball, volleyball and basketball. He found facilities. He found competition. He found coaches from the faculty, or he coached himself.

He even arranged for the only two football games in the school’s history — one away (at the School of the Arts) and one at home —a “home-coming” game, which was played on the intramural fields of Duke’s East Campus.

Branson was the referee for our homecoming game, which sadly was lost, 27-21, despite the adulation of our student body, who produced a makeshift cheer squad, and a pre-game pep rally, planned on short notice.

Branson never seemed discouraged, bitter, or angry. He just got to work, and he did what had to be done.

He was living with his wife, and forty or fifty adolescent boys in a boarding school. He was dealing with teenagers who were pulling late night study sessions and late night pranks. We once completely covered a dorm room door with rows of aluminum soft drink cans, and joyfully listened to them come cascading down in the morning as the unlucky dormmate cast them aside in his bid to escape.

And his wife was pregnant! Joanie Brown lived with Branson in a room at the front of the building — a structure completed in 1910 in a Mission Revival style, with terracotta tile roofing, overhanging eaves, and stucco walls. Their room was adjacent to, and opened onto, the open-air balcony above the front porch.

They could go out on the porch in fair weather, and observe the campus from a nice pair of lightweight foldable beach chairs. My room was right next to theirs, but sadly, I had no balcony. When we came back from winter break, we all discovered that their first son had been born on December 21st — Brenen James Brown: 9 pounds and 6 ounces. Now there was a full-fledged family with a baby, occasionally crying for food, right next to me in the dorm.

Jodi, Brenan, and Branson Brown.

If Branson was “knackered”, I never could tell. If anything he seemed focused and energized. He never got angry… at least he never seemed angry — he never lost his temper. There was sometimes a stern look — a look of reprehension. But, as often as not, there would be a look of amusement — a suppressed smile at the humor of our little escapades.

In January of 1981, I asked Branson if we could have a table tennis tournament. (I guess I wasn’t really overly concerned with the demands of his personal life, or his new found fatherhood.) We had had other intramural activities in the Fall, but some of us were getting pretty good at table tennis, which we were fortunate to have available to us in our recreation room. And we would use it at any hour of the day.

So Branson thought about the table tennis tournament for a minute or two — thinking about the logistics — and then he suggested that I go ahead and set it up. It was my turn to step up to the plate—to contribute.

He suggested a ladder tournament format, which I had never heard of before. But this format meant that we could basically play games at any time convenient to the pair of players. One player on the “ladder” simply had to challenge a player on a “rung” somewhere above, and the two players would compete at an agreed-upon time.

The competition was a great success. And it gave me the confidence to be the intramural coordinator for my dorm at NCSU a few years later.

In the Spring of 1981, in March, Branson organized a fundraiser for the American Heart Association, called “Jump Rope for the Heart.” Students were encouraged to form teams of 4 to 6 participants, solicit donations based on how long we could keep jumping rope, and then take turns continuously jumping, until 3 hours had elapsed (if possible).

It seems easy, right? Well… We discovered that jumping rope like Rocky Balboa is hard to do for more than a minute or two at a time. Within 5 minutes, each one of us in turn was skipping like an elementary school child, with one exception, Percil Watkins.

Percil was a member of my team (or maybe I was a member of his team). Either way, Percil saved our team that day. He was small, but he had true cardiovascular fitness. He was a long-distance runner, and he could jump rope seemingly forever. (It was almost a perfect recreation of Breaking Away, the movie released about a year before, where Dave manages to cycle the majority of the bicycle race on his own, along with three other hapless teammates.) Of course, we learned a lesson in humility from that experience.

Quite possibly, this was a lesson that Branson had anticipated.

In the following school year, 1981-82 — my senior year — I was living in a new dorm, with a new RA. Branson was no longer an RA. He was the new physical education and recreation coordinator.

He was busy organizing more teams, with real schedules, for real competition. He must have gained at least a modicum of funding from the school, and some concessions by the administration that students be given more time for sporting activities. They were starting to realize that if they expected students to work hard, they should at least let them play hard too.

It would take time for the equipment and the facilities to follow, but eventually they did. Eventually the school had a competitive varsity sports program (except for football, which was never played again outside of intramural flag football.)

In 1982, Branson had a baseball team with great promise, including a real good pitcher and a bona fide catcher. They were a winning team. I went to watch them at practice once or twice. I got some good photographs. I couldn’t go to the games. They were all on other schools’ fields, and I only had so many hours in the day.

I played varsity soccer instead. That was the game that I loved. Kevin Bartkovich was the coach — one of the mathematics teachers, and he actually knew how to play soccer. He had a n inkling of the strategy and skills that were needed.

I was also a team assistant for the girls soccer team in the Spring — another way for me to participate in sports as something more than a player.

I never took up running or jumping rope, at least not for my own pleasure or fitness. I did attempt to run hurdles for my dorm’s intramural track and field team, once, when no other natural hurdler stepped forward. It wasn’t pretty. And I did run in a 5K with my classmates in medical school when they needed a fourth member for a team.

And much later, I ran three different ridiculous 5K events (a nighttime trail run, a zoo run, and a “bootleg” run), when my daughter showed interest in training for a “Color Run”. I think she may have learned something about cardiovascular fitness that summer, just like I did at the Jump Rope for the Heart event, years before.

So what did I learn from Branson Brown? It’s kind of hard to say. I just know that I left school with greater maturity than when I arrived — ready to act independently, think about my actions, and take responsibility.

I don’t think Branson ever taught me anything in a didactic sense. It wasn’t really his nature to give a wordy lesson with lots of exposition or discourse. He lived by the maxim, “Actions speak louder than words”. He believed that talk was cheap. He believed in setting an example.

That’s exactly what he did. And he did it well. He put his heart and soul into his work. He never expected credit. He never asked for thanks.

But I’m going to give him the credit now—and the thanks that he deserves.

Everything that I learned from him, I learned by example.

And I learned it by “heart.”

Blocks of Time

{Prompt: Describe the academics at NCSSM}

At NCSSM in 1980, we had a very heavy class schedule, and the schedule changed from day to day. We had only 5 minutes to get from one class to another, and on a sprawling campus in the middle of renovations, we sometimes had to run to make it to the next classroom in time.

The courses were all taught in a modified college-style schedule.  By that, I mean that most classes met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays (MWF). About half of those also met on Tuesdays, and the other half also met on Thursdays.

Sometimes it was a challenge to remember what class was next on any given day, and sometimes it was a challenge just to remember what day of the week it was!  

On MWF, classes went for 7 or 8 hours, with a generous break for lunch (thank goodness!).  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, classes ran for about 4 hours in the morning, and stopped at lunch time.  That meant that Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were ostensibly free.  But not really.  (More on that later.)

Example of the Weekly Class Schedule from my Senior year.

The Sciences

Students were expected to take at least one course each in Biology, Chemistry, and Physics within their junior and senior years.  But because we were all science wonks, most of us took four to six science courses in those two years.  I took the following sciences: AP Biology and Biochemistry, Chemistry I and Chemistry II, Physics and Astrophysics.

Dr. Baker

I took my biology courses with Dr. Ross Baker. She had sandy brown hair and big round eyeglasses. She was as methodical and organized as a taxonomy chart, but she was also patient and kind.   

She was always well prepared, except for one occasion, when she was leading an ill-fated lab experiment, an experiment comparing the effect of cooked versus uncooked pineapple on the consistency of gelatin.  The uncooked pineapple contains an enzyme that breaks down the proteins in gelatin, preventing it from solidifying.  In contrast, the enzymes in the cooked pineapple should be deactivated, allowing the gelatin to harden.

But we never got to that point!  As the glass dishes of gelatin and pineapple heated up; one by one they started to break— dramatically! Glass began to shatter like it had been shot — hot gelatin spilling all over the top of the black enameled lab tables — students scrambling for cover.

It turns out that the dishes were not safe to use on a burner.  They weren’t made of Pyrex.  Although the experiment was aborted, I’ll never forget about pineapples, enzymes, and gelatin… or the differences between heating glass and Pyrex.

Dr. Owens

I took my chemistry courses with Dr. Rufus Owens.  He frequently wore pastel-colored button-down shirts, often with a three-piece suit.  He was as neat and clean as an Erlenmeyer flask.  He wore small metallic spectacles, like my grandfather wore, and he loved chemistry. 

His class notes were as neat and tidy as he was.  (I think he must have had an early computer word-processing program — a new development at the time.)  His lectures always went according to plan.  I think he gave us the syllabus for the entire semester on day one, and he stuck to it perfectly.  

Once, he said in the middle of a lecture, that he wasn’t being “facetious” (I don’t recall about what), and we had to stop him so he could explain what the word “facetious” meant.  (It means “flippant” or “tongue-in-cheek”.)  From then on, it became a favorite description of the kind of witty, intellectual humor that we were trying to master.  We would tell each other to “Stop being facetious!” if we were joking around during study time.  But Dr. Owens was never facetious — not when it came to chemistry.

Dr. Britton and Dr. Kolena

I took Physics with Dr. Chuck Britton, and Astrophysics with Dr. John Kolena.  They were both brilliant teachers, but as different as night and day.  Dr. Britton was a tall teacher with a heavy beard.  He liked to do just about anything to demonstrate the properties of kinetic energy. 

I’ll never forget an experiment that he devised that had the whole class running up two or three flights of stairs, to demonstrate a simple calculation of power. We figured out the amount of work required to ascend the steps (which also depended on the students’ weight), and we measured the time of each students’ ascension, and then we calculated everyone’s power. Amazingly, one of the heaviest students in the class demonstrated the greatest horsepower. He got to the top using both his arms (on the handrails) and his legs!

In contrast to Dr. Britton, Dr. Kolena was quiet and reserved. He was clean-shaven and young, but he had a bit of a comb-over.  He was usually at the chalkboard explaining the properties of light and space.  But what a great teacher!  I took Astrophysics on a friend’s recommendation, but I really thought it was going to be over my head. Dr. Kolena made it completely understandable, reproducible, and interesting.

———

Math and Computers

Students were assigned to a math course each year, ranging from Algebra II to Differential Equations, depending upon their ability.  And we took a math-related computer lab.  I took Precalculus & Calculus with Dr. Steven Davis, and I took Calculus BC with Dr. Dot Doyle.

Dr. Davis

Dr. Davis was an excellent teacher, but it always seemed like he was happiest in the computer lab, and it seemed like he was in the computer lab all the time.  (Early on, there were power surges each day that would shut the computers down, and they would have to be rebooted—daily!  You would never, ever write a program, or create a document, without saving the work frequently - like every minute or two.) 

There were many students who were passionate about programming, and I think that, for them, Dr. Davis was an incredible mentor.  I enjoyed the cool things that computers could do (at the dawn of personal computing), but for me it was more of a curiosity and a pastime.  I had no ambition of becoming a programmer or a software engineer. 

 

Dr. Doyle

Dr. Doyle was the math teacher for me.  She stuck to the math and kept us progressing through the curriculum.  From time to time, if the weather was nice, she would take the class outside for a lesson in the fresh air.  Once or twice she held a lecture on the grassy embankment outside of Beall pavilion, as the leaves were falling from the giant oak trees in autumn.

By the time I left NCSSM, my math teachers had me well prepared for college-level calculus.   But unfortunately, in college, I ended up changing my major from engineering to medicine, and the years of preparation in math went by the wayside. Still, the caliber of the mathematics education at NCSSM, and the access to a state-of-the-art computer lab (in the early ‘80s) was unbelievable.

Early PC with floppy disk drives. (Credit: 1982 Odyssey)

American Studies

American history and American literature were required during the junior year, and taught by a team of history and English professors.  Aside from your choice of foreign language, there were no electives in the humanities (in the junior year).  Every single student had to take “American Studies”.

Dr. Clark

Dr. Neill Clark was my English instructor for the course.    He had silvery gray hair and he liked to stand up and walk around the front of the class in rolled up jeans or khakis.  He always wore a pair of white tennis shoes.  He was such a laid back teacher, he sort of embodied the “beat” generation.  As a class, we meandered our way through the Anthology of American Literature at a steady pace, and I still vaguely remember the progression of American authors, and a few of the readings.

Dr. Meadows

Dr. Jackie Meadows was not quite so laissez-faire as Dr. Clark.  She was my history instructor, and she had high expectations.  In spite of her efforts, I remember little from that class, except for a phrase that she used from week to week.  She would say, “In your spare blocks of time, read ….”  It was hard to suppress a bitter laugh.  For us a “spare block of time” would have been a luxury.  We barely had spare “snatches” of time.  But she always said it without the slightest sense of irony. 

As a matter of fact, the American studies classes required an unbelievable amount of out-of-class reading.  And in my opinion, that reading homework pretty much torpedoed any chance for me to use free time in more constructive ways (like finding career mentors or identifying suitable research subjects).

As humanities teachers, they were tasked with creating well-rounded and thoughtful individuals, but I think we were pretty attentive and caring to begin with.  Whether or not “American Studies” helped to make us better citizens is subject to debate.

Part of the required reading for American Studies

Other Humanities

In our junior year, as I said, there really were no electives available to us, unless you include the choice of a language (Latin, Spanish, French, or German) and the choice of either Music or Art. But in the Senior year, a smattering of new elective classes became available.  My humanities electives were Spanish, English Literature, and World Religions.

Dr. Houpe

Dr. Don Houpe was my Spanish instructor for Spanish I and II.  He was a lanky gentleman who was encouraging and kind.  He usually had a gentle smile on his face as he listened to our embarrassing attempts to sort out the grammar and speak with the right pronunciation and accent.  (Thankfully, the class size was small, and the extent of my embarrassment was confined to less than a dozen classmates.) 

In retrospect, I wish that I had taken more advanced foreign language classes, but I dropped foreign language classes without a second thought when I went off to college.  I hated conjugating verbs, worrying about the gender of nouns, inverting word order, and basically… struggling to speak.  Still… I regret that I squandered the good start that I was given. 

Dr. Miller

In English Literature, I learned to think about context and meaning from Dr. Jon Miller, a man with a natural look of amusement (or bemusement) on his face at all times. He always wore khaki pants, a light blue button-down shirt, and a tie (ever loosening as the day went on), and he spoke in a sonorous baritone voice, with which he wielded both wit and sarcasm, in equal measure.  Sometimes, it was hard to tell if he was serious.

In class, he often told us to take out “a half sheet of paper”, and then we would have to write an impromptu paragraph or two, regarding a question related to a recent reading assignment.  He was a great believer in brevity and clarity, as I learned from his feedback.

Dr. Wilson and Dr. Litle

I also took World Religions, a wonderful course taught by Dr. Ginger Wilson and Dr. James Litle. I remember taking a couple of field trips to witness other houses (and forms) of worship (i.e. not Methodist). I was surprised to discover that there were Protestant denominations that I had never even heard of, like the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) church. It was an example of just how segregated my life was, as a white boy in the South, even 10 years after school desegregation in my hometown.  This course on world religions did a lot to expand my appreciation of other people, religions, and cultures.

Spanish class with Dr. Houpe (Credit 1981 Odyssey)

Art Class

Of all the classes that I took at NCSSM, I loved this one the most. I had never taken an art class before, even though my father was a technical draftsman for a company that made electrical switches, and he was skilled in calligraphy as a hobby.  My mother loved taking pictures and doing all kinds of crafts, so there had always been some art in my childhood.

But I had never really learned about art or photography in a systematic way. So when I entered Joe Liles’s art studio to learn the principles and techniques of art; it was like a revelation.

Joe Liles was an earnest young man with a pony tail, who sometimes wore a bandana or a hat.  He liked to hike and he liked to tell stories. He usually had a camera strapped over his shoulder, or somewhere nearby, ready to go. He was skilled in architectural drawing, printing, photography, and other art media. 

He was also one of the most instrumental members of the original faculty, in my opinion. He took photos of the school, including candid pictures of the students, staff, and faculty for a number of early publications. He created an art studio and an arts program from the abandoned buildings of the historic Watts Hospital (probably on a shoestring budget).

He also began the tradition of a year-end slideshow, set to contemporary music, which became a moment to reflect and bond after a year of tribulations.  I’m pretty sure our class slideshow (class of 1982) began with the swirling synthesizer intro, evocative lyrics, and haunting melody of “Dreamweaver” by Gary Wright. It’s etched in my memory.

Joe also established a yearly Native American Powwow at the school. I think the first one was somewhere near the Ninth Street entrance to the school (the Bryan Living and Learning Center) — somewhere on the grounds outside.  We, the students, were sitting in a very big circle, and members of a local North Carolina tribe (Haliwa-Saponi, Cherokee, or Lumbee) gave a dramatic demonstration of the visceral music and dance of their tribe, in full voice and costume.

Joe’s photo studio

As for his art class, Joe was a wonderful teacher, and we had unparalleled access to the studio, including darkrooms and screen-printing presses.  For a brief moment in time it seemed like half of us had SLR cameras and a small allotment of black and white film, provided by the school.  If you weren’t careful, you would surely end up in someone’s photograph.  (I think I spent as much time with a camera in my hand as I did with a soccer ball at my feet… which is really saying something.)

In art class, I learned the principles of photographic composition.  I learned about shutter speed, and aperture, and the effect of  both on depth of field.  And then, when all the pictures had been taken for a single roll of film, the rest of the class and I learned to unload the film canisters and wind them onto developing spools in a pitch black darkroom! 

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sequence of moves or the dexterity required to: open the film canister, insert the tab into the center axle of the winding spool, gently bend the film while winding it onto the reel, and then cut the end off the film, and pop it into the developing canister.  After developing the film, we would cut it into strips of four or five frames, and hang them on a string in the photo lab to dry.

That was only half of the process, because then you had to choose which negatives were worth developing (if the film hadn’t been ruined by exposure).

After choosing which negatives to enlarge, there was a long process of loading the enlarger, exposing the photographic paper, dodging areas to be highlighted, dropping the paper into developing chemicals to achieve the right amount of contrast, transferring the print to the “fixer” tray to stop development, then rinsing and drying.  All without the services of a pharmacy.  (That’s where we sent film to be developed, in those days, before the advent of digital cameras.)

I think it is nearly impossible to imagine how much photography has changed, if you grew up in the digital age.  I’m incredibly proud to say that I was able to take a picture from concept to fruition, using a film camera and a darkroom.  It was incredibly hard, with so many steps between the click of the camera and the final product (with none of the instantaneous feedback that is available today).  Here’s one example:

Richard Saccocia pitching during the baseball season - 1982.

Physical Education

The school also included a recreation and sports requirement in the Junior year, worth half a credit.  Perhaps it was a concession to student and parent concerns for more sports activities.  Branson Brown was the instructor.

Branson played minor league baseball in Florida before he became a physical education (PE) instructor.  I think he always brought a team mentality to his work.  During his first year at NCSSM, he was also working as a resident advisor in Wyche House, and he had a real challenge trying to mold a bunch of boys into a “winning team”.  He also believed in the virtues of “less talk and more action”, and in “leading by example”.

I only remember snippets of the PE course… a little bit of golf to demonstrate the importance of life-long sporting activities… a fitness test in which we found ourselves running circles in the southeast parking lot… a relaxation demonstration in which many of the participants fell fast asleep.  He also arranged a fundraiser called “Jump Rope for the Heart”.  And… oh yeah… he (and Joanie) had a baby boy during the winter break.

Fitness test for the Sports and Recreation class

Outside of fatherhood, and the PE class, Branson was busy running intramurals in everything from ping pong to basketball — arranging competition for flag football (against the School of the Arts), soccer (against the School for the Deaf), and other sports, including cross country— the first of any varsity sport to compete against other schools.  In the 80-81 school year, NCSSM was not yet a member of any high school league.  But only a year later, Branson had made arrangements for a full interscholastic sports program for NCSSM (except for football).

Joanie, Branson, and son Brennan (Dialogues Newsletter 1981)

Work & Community Service

But wait, I’m not done. In addition to class requirements, every student was required to perform a certain amount of weekly work service, doing things like washing dishes in the kitchen, or distributing fresh linens; and a certain amount of weekly community service, doing things like tutoring young children or assisting with Durham parks and recreation programs.

Remember those “free” Tuesday and Thursday afternoons?  If we weren’t busy studying, we were often trying to complete our weekly requirement of work and/or community service.  I personally, became well acquainted with the conveyor style dishwasher of our basement cafeteria, and I saw the impressive capacity of the cafeteria’s walk-in freezer and cooler.

In the winter, it was much nicer, and less repulsive, to work for the laundry, distributing the freshly dried blankets, sheets, and towels in the big blue plastic utility carts.

Robert Lee washing trays in the cafeteria (Credit: 1981 Odyssey)

Research

For students with an interest in research, there was also time set aside on every other Saturday morning for independent research.  For the rest of us, I think it became a time for independent study — another disappointing loss of free time.

Mentorship opportunities were available at Duke University, only a mile or two away, and many students found a chance to conduct research there during “Special Projects” week, in April 1981.  However, those of us without a mentor or a plan for research found ourselves attending mini-lecture style classes on topics like Solar Energy, Non-Euclidean Geometry, and Jungian Psychology.  Bleh.

Ami Shah - Drug Synthesis  (Credit - Ravi Rao)

Academia at NCSSM

A remarkable amount of learning occurred in each of the four semesters of our junior and senior years— learning in science and math, arts and humanities, work and community service, physical education, and independent research.

Although didactic class time was usually packed to the gills with information (and sometimes pop quizzes), there was usually time outside of class to meet with the teachers for questions and conversation—during lab and studio sessions or during the teachers’ office hours.

It was quite common to see a teacher and a couple of students engaged in lively discussion in an office as dinnertime approached.  Eventually the teacher would have to bring the discussion to an end, and head for home. The students, in contrast, would head to their dorm rooms or to supper in the cafeteria.  We were already at “home.”

Dedicated staff and faculty made all those academic opportunities possible… all vying for the students’ interest and commitment… all divvying up our “free blocks of time” into time for homework, lab work, art studio, music ensemble, independent study, or research.  

Although the details of the lessons have (largely) been lost to time, some experiences (like shattering glasses of gelatin) were unforgettable. And on the whole, like clay in an art studio, the content of our characters was stretched, molded, and fired into a useful form by the teachers that formed the founding faculty of the School of Science and Math.

Stippled ink drawing of a photo projection from art class - 1980.

A Defining Experience

{Prompt: What did it mean to be a “Pioneer”?}

Pi·o·neer  (pī′ə-nîr’)

How do you define a “pioneer”?

In 1980, when 150 students were selected to attend the NC School of Science and Mathematics, including myself, we were often described as “pioneers.” Sometimes it was the news media. Sometimes it was Governor Hunt, or a proxy of his on the Governor’s Planning Committee. Sometimes it was our own school director, Charles Eilber.

It became so common to be called a “pioneer” that it became a cliché. It became an inside joke. We laughed at the thought that we were “pioneers”. We were only teenagers after all — most of us only 16 or 17 years old — some of us even younger. We were just going to a different school — a specialized residential school in Durham.

And we grew tired of the moniker.  We had been through a pretty grueling admissions process: a request for nomination, completion of application forms, psychological and aptitude testing, and interviews.  We didn’t feel as if we needed even more pressure from the outside world.  We didn’t want to be perceived as “pioneers”.  We wanted to stop applying and start attending.  We wanted to do our own thing!

But we couldn’t escape the idea that we were “pioneers”. 

The book, The Pioneers, by James Fenimore Cooper was recommended for summer reading.  As we began moving in a bit of a panic swept through the student body, as we began to debate whether it was a summer reading recommendation or a requirement.  I opted not to read it and take my chances. Nothing happened.  (However, to assuage my guilt, I finally read it 42 years later, before our 40th reunion.)  

When dedication day arrived on October 11, after only a month of classes, the media blitz was surreal. The word “pioneers” was used easily and often, referring to us, the first class, as trailblazers. Ironically, the so-called pioneers acquiesced to many school demands during the school’s dedication — sitting through mandated speeches and ceremonies. We felt more like settlers than pioneers.

“Pioneers” was even included in the list of options for the school mascot.  We voted for the school mascot and school colors on November 8th, 1980.  “Pioneers” was soundly defeated.  “Unicorns” won in a landslide.

I didn’t appreciate the appellation at the time, but eventually I grew to appreciate the distinction of being a “pioneer” — a member of the first class of the School of Science and Math.  

I proudly wear my high school ring, the ring of the class of ‘82. It has a Unicorn on one side, and the Flaming Diaper logo on the other.

I’m proud to proclaim my membership in the first class, even if it was, in part, an accident of my age, and the luck of timing — being a rising eleventh grader at the time of the school’s inception.

It even seems historic.  In 2030, the school will be 50 years old.  I was there when it all began.

But what did I do that was “pioneering”? What did I bring to the table? What did I offer? Am I really a pioneer?

Pioneer, in the dictionary.

Definition 1.

One who opens up new areas of thought, research, or development. ^1

By this definition, I feel almost certain that I was not a “pioneer.” I may have been a “settler,” but I was following a path laid out by many of the people who were working hard to establish the School of Science and Math before I arrived on the scene.  There were many who were thinking about, researching, and developing the school before the students arrived.  There were many “pioneers.”

There was Governor Hunt, who proposed the residential school for talented students, in part to benefit the entire state of North Carolina.  He brought the idea to the Governor’s office, to the public, and to the legislature. He got the school established.

Back in 1977, it was only a dream.  In September of that year, in his letter to educators and experts exploring the concept, he said, “Among the ideas and of much personal interest to me, I am considering recommending a new state residential high school of science and mathematics.” ²

There was Charles Eilber, who served as the founding Director.  He codified the goals and purpose.  He organized the administration, and he hired faculty and staff.  He oversaw the renovation of the Watts Hospital campus.  He sought and raised millions of dollars in private philanthropic funding.  He inspired the high standards of “living and learning” that were to follow.

In his August report to the Board of Trustees, in 1980, Charles Eilber said, “While I am sure that not everything will be perfectly in place, and that the pioneering aspects of this first year will be obvious, there appears to be no reason why we can’t anticipate a good beginning and the eventual fulfillment of the many expectations that all of us have for the first year of operation.” ³

There was the school’s administrative staff: Ola Stringer, Michael Collins, Borden Mace, Kathleen Benzaquin, and a team of Residential Advisors, among others. They developed the system for admissions, the policies for student personnel, and the plan to care for the whole life of the students… the children… that they were charged with looking after and educating.

Ola Stringer, Head of Admissions, said, “The development and distribution of the admissions packet, which was a cooperative effort by all School staff members, sparked the realization of the magnitude of work facing the Admissions Office.”” ^4 The early staff were working together to produce materials on all aspects of the school, including the instructional program and the student handbook—materials that did not even exist at the time applications began.

There was the school’s founding faculty: Ginger Wilson, Jon Miller, Ross Baker, Don Houpe, Ama Shabazz, Stephen Davis, Chuck Britton, Joe Liles, Dot Doyle, Jackie Meadows, Kevin Bartkovich, Branson Brown, Randy Foy, and James Henry. They were hired about the same time that prospective students were applying, and they must have worked hard to prepare a curriculum plan, putting into operation the lofty concepts and dreams of the governor, the board of trustees, and the administration.

Dr. Miller, in his remarks on the beginning of the 35th year of classes, said, “There was no one to ask, because no one knew any more than the asker…. There was to be a program; but nobody knew what the program was to be…. By some incredible fluke we were given charge of this great educational dream.” ^5

And there were the parents. They sent their “pioneer” children from all over the state. They were taking on faith the promises of the School, which had no track record to rely on. They were sending away children that they had been raising for fifteen years or more.  Comments from my own mother, in a questionnaire for parents, sent in 1980, may give you some idea of what was probably a common feeling.  She said, “Believing that I have taught my son all he can learn from me; also, I have given him all I have to give for his benefit (except continued love and interest). I am encouraged that the community (specifically NCSSM) will now take over this responsibility and privilege.”^6

Definition 2.

One who ventures into unknown or unclaimed territory to settle. ^1

By this definition, I feel almost certain that I was a “pioneer”.  We were certainly venturing into the unknown. And we were going into “unclaimed territory to settle.” We were going to live in dormitories vacated by the Watts School of Nursing, and repurposed for the residential high school — the School of Science and Math.

I was willing to take a wild risk on a completely unproven concept.  I was willing to leave home… and my homeschool… and start over.  Like a pioneer, I was independent and adventurous, but I was also communal and friendly — fun-loving and approachable.  I was looking forward to building a new community… maybe a better community, in a new place… potentially a better place. 

But above all, I think I was attracted by the unknown. 

I admired the heroes of the “golden age of exploration” — captains who would sail off into the unknown, on trips across the ocean, or around the world.  And I admired the fictional heroes of Star Trek, who voyaged off into “Space… the final frontier… to boldly go where no man has gone before.”  I was ready for my own voyage of adventure and discovery.

So I applied for the school, asking my Biology teacher to complete the nomination form.  I completed the application forms.  I took the SAT.  I went to the interview and the regional testing.  

And they saw some potential in me — perhaps a bit of swashbuckling bravado.  They saw something of a pioneer spirit.  After all, I was determined — eager, hard-working, and enthusiastic.  I was committed to the ideals of the school — to excel not only in science and math, but in all subjects.  

And I was committed to the state of North Carolina (although I didn’t know it ’til later).  I affirmed the expectations of Governor Hunt, that the school would nourish and grow scientific talent within the state.  I went to college in the Triangle.  I got a medical degree at Duke.  And after residency, I spent all but three years practicing medicine in the state of North Carolina.  

I tried to do honor to the opportunity that was given — to the doors that were opened to me by my admission to the first class.

Definition 3

A soldier who performs construction and demolition work in the field to facilitate troop movements. ^1

I wasn’t alone, of course. Or unique. We all took a leap of faith together, like members of a battalion.  We performed feats of “construction”… and we did a little “demolition work,” too.  

With regard to construction… building things up… we established student organizations: the Outing Club, the Chorus and Wind Ensemble, the Dance Club, the Yearbook Club, the Student Activities Board, and the Student Government.  (I recall students discussing the creation of a constitution for the student government! It was something I had always taken for granted in the past.)  

We petitioned for activities and events: including varsity sports, a talent show, dance parties, a haunted house, casino night, junior and (later) senior proms.  I personally was involved in organizing a small social club, playing and assisting in varsity soccer, and organizing an intramural pingpong tournament.  In my senior year, I joined three other students in a bicycle trip across the state. Later, I helped organize fundraising activities so my hall could hold a weekend barbecue at a city park, off campus — a chance for us to invite special guests, to show them our appreciation.

We did a little tearing down, too. We tested the code of conduct in every respect.  As we got to know one another, pranks became epidemic. It was almost an expression of affection — to pull a prank on the residents of your hall.  

But more direct expressions of affection were a problem too.  Hugging and cuddling became so common that the school had to clarify the limits of proper decorum.  I believe that they issued a memorandum — a statement to discourage “public displays of affection” within weeks of the school’s opening.

We tested the bounds of destructive behavior with shaving cream filled self-detonating balloons, smelly biochemical compounds and other experiments in D.I.Y. chemistry and engineering.

We tested the bounds of curfew and trespass in every imaginable way.  

And we pushed back on the incredible demands on our time.  Our free time was virtually nonexistent, between the cumulative assignments of homework from the faculty, and the dictates of work service, community service, and other requirements from the administration.  We pushed back in acceptable channels of communication: via student government, newsletter commentaries, and informal discussions with faculty. 

And we pushed back with unsanctioned revolutionary actions. We had a spontaneous snow day called into the local news station by an enterprising “pioneer”, one winter.  And we organized a “Senior Skip” day at Sarah P. Duke Gardens in the Spring of 1982.  

Definition 4

A species that is typically among the first to become established in a bare, open, or disturbed area. ^1

So… were we pioneers?

I think so… absolutely. 

But not just me. And not just the students.

Each population that established the school — each “species”, as it were…. from the NC Governor’s Office and the Board of Trustees… to the Director and the administration… to the staff and the faculty… to the parents and teachers of the student applicants… to the students themselves… — each of them created something new: a new symbiotic, living, and functional institution — from the “bare” bones of the ratified bill of the NC General Assembly, to the “open” framework of the planning committee, and the “disturbed” soil and structures of the renovated Watts Hospital campus.

Charles Eilber, himself, described the development of this unique environment in his message in the front of the first student handbook. ^7 I don’t think I can describe it any better.  He said:

The content has been planned, discussed, and revised over many months by an experienced staff and faculty, and it represents our effort to assure students and parents of an orderly environment in which living and learning can begin to happen.

However, as we live together and learn from the experiences of this first year, the Handbook must reflect the lessons of experience. It will evolve and change because many more of us - including students and parents - will be here to contribute to its use and development.

From this beginning we will work together to build a structure within which each of us can grow as an individual, and this school can grow as a community.

Footnotes

 ^1 American Heritage Dictionary 2022

² Governor James Hunt. NCSSM background paper; February 1978; NCSSM Digital Collection

³ Director’s Progress Report to the Board of Trustees; August 1, 1980; NCSSM Digital Collection

^4 Director’s Progress Report to the Board of Trustees; March 1980; NCSSM Digital Collections

^5 NCSSM in 1980. Jon Miller on NCSSM’s Opening Year. YouTube video created by the NC School of Science and Math.

^6 NCSSM Confidential Questionnaire for Parents - September 1980.  Sent by Cecily B Selby - Special Assistant for Academic Planning. Personal Copy

^7 Student Handbook (1980); NCSSM Digital Collections

Response to request for NCSSM parent feedback - 1980:

I appreciated…the… considerations given to parents.  We need the assurance that we have done the right thing for our children and ourselves.

Believing that I have taught my son all he can learn from me; also, I have given him all I have to give for his benefit (except continued love and interest). I am encouraged that the community (specifically NCSSM) will now take over this responsibility and privilege.

My faith in God leads me to hope that NCSSM will bring to North Carolina something of truth and value within the lives of all who live here.

-Margaret Gallup, 9/27/80

All Over Tarnation

{Prompt: Write about your first days at NCSSM}

I remember two things about moving into the School of Science and Math in 1980:  I remember walking around… a lot. And I remember meeting people… a lot of people.

Talking

We started meeting people the minute we set foot on campus. I have no idea who I met first. It could have been a member of the “Residential Life” staff… or maybe a teacher… or an administrator. It could have been my first residential advisor (RA), Branson Brown, wearing his baseball cap. It could have been another student, or a parent, carrying boxes from their car.  

We were all pulled up on the already aging, chip-seal road, parking as close as we could get to the road’s hard curb with its faded yellow paint — parking in front of the dorms or on the wide, looping circle in front of the 1908 building, with its Mission-style, taupe stucco walls and terra-cotta roofing tiles.

At some point, the parents went to the Parents’ Orientation Meeting, and we were left to meet and greet people on our own. I imagine I was getting to know my first roommate, as we unpacked our stuff in the Wyche House dorm.

I found out in due course that Gary was an avid bicycle rider, even competing in bicycle races. (We both had nice bikes, so it was a theme of mutual interest.) He told me he was a little pigeon-toed, and that gave him a slight aerodynamic advantage when riding. I have no idea what personal disclosures I made about myself.  I’ve forgotten the rest of our conversation, but I could tell right away that he was a good guy—forthright and honest.

It wasn’t long before I was meeting people from all over the state. I had to get out a map of North Carolina to find all the places.

There were people from places out west, like Mocksville, Statesville, Hickory, and Drexel - places I’d seen on road signs on Interstate 40, on the way to the mountains. 

There were people from the coast, like Manteo, Elizabeth City, and Wilmington - places on the way to the beach.

There were people from the big cities, like Raleigh, Durham, Greensboro, and Charlotte; and people from the cities in between, like Sanford, Pittsboro, and High Point. 

…People from Scotland Neck, Bear Creek, Waxhaw, and Horseshoe. 

…From Rose Hill, Maple Hill, and Chapel Hill. 

We all lived in North Carolina, but we spoke slightly differently. And we had to drive different distances and different directions in transit.

The official North Carolina DOT map.

There were “Black” people, “White” people, and people of the Lumbee Indian Tribe.  There were people of South Asian descent, Chinese descent, Japanese descent, Korean descent, Persian descent, Arab descent, and Brazilian descent.  (But none of Mexican descent, that I can recall.)  We all came from different family and ancestral backgrounds.

Despite our differences in hometown, race, and heritage, we were all excited to be in Durham, at the School of Science and Math. We all had that in common. We were all a little bookish. 

It wasn’t long before we began to realize just how nerdy we were. And we could talk like nerds, out in the open! We could do nerdy things without fear or stigma. We could sit and discuss math, robots, computers, and science (or science fiction).We could brandish a Rubik’s cube in public, and we frequently did.  (There was a bit of a Rubik’s cube craze in the fall of 1980.  We spent time with each other to learn how to solve the puzzle , to learn the sequence of moves that could help us swap the colored corners of the cube, so crucial to completing the challenge.)

During our first week on campus, orientation gave us ample opportunity to meet nearly every other member of the entering class.  We met during RA floor meetings on day one, and while roaming the halls before curfew. 

We met during bus rides to Duke Homestead during our tour of Durham.  We met at the Pig Pickin’ and square dance on our first Saturday in town (after three days of class).  We had to awkwardly pair up to “Dosey Doe” at the “Hoe Down”.

Walking

When we weren’t meeting one another in class or in orientation, we were walking.

Only one day after arrival, we were on our feet.  On that Monday morning, we had a class schedule walk through, so that we could find our classrooms when classes began on Wednesday.  We were walking back and forth, from our dorm rooms, to the classrooms in the basement of Hill House, to the side entrance of the Main Building, and up to the classrooms on one of the upper floors. 

We were looking for the science classrooms, the American Studies classrooms, the mailroom, the computer lab, the library, the art studio, maybe even the administrative wing.  We were free to explore, within limits.  You see, there were many “off-limits” areas — places still under construction and unsafe to explore (which made them all the more tempting to see).  

One of the places that wasn’t ready was the cafeteria.  In the first week of our stay, the cafeteria wasn’t open.  Some necessary equipment had not arrived.  So, we had to walk to the cafeteria at E. K. Powe Elementary School, two and a half blocks away. 

We walked up and down Ninth Street to the “Icky Poo” cafeteria, twice a day.  With 149 students in transit, it was like a parade, passing Durham Fire Station Number 2, morning and evening.  Those firemen must have been greatly amused.  I think that most of us students were not—grumbling or muttering curses under our breath, or thrown off by the absurdity of our situation. 

If the cafeteria seating at Powe had been just a bit bigger, that would have helped, but most of it was designed for the children.  There were a limited number of adult-sized tables and chairs.

View from 9th street.  (Credit: Erik Rasmussen - 1996)

In week two student life became so much better.  Our cafeteria was ready for us, in the basement of the “brick addition”.  Now we had adult-sized chairs and circular tables, practically at our fingertips.  No more parades down Ninth Street for grub!

But the school wasn’t done testing our fitness.  At some point early in our stay, the head of our physical education class had us jog around the south parking lots.  You see the school had no track… or field, for that matter.  Instead of on a running track, our test run took place in a parking lot, beneath ancient oak trees, beside the former patient pavilions of Watts Hospital, which were waiting to be converted to additional dorms in the coming years. 

When a soccer team formed later in the fall, we did our “conditioning” by running a mile and a half down West Club Boulevard (past Northgate Mall) to another elementary school, which had an all-purpose field that we could use for training.  There was no other way of getting to the training field — no activity bus — and so no way to avoid the conditioning runs that were required.

Not all walking and jogging was mandatory.  As time went by, we made friends, and made excursions off campus with our friends… voluntary excursions.  We went to Northgate Mall to play arcade games like Galaxian or Asteroids… and later, Centipede or Defender. 

We were warned to be vigilant when walking to Northgate Mall, because we were passing through Walltown, a neighborhood deemed somewhat unsafe by the School, but we were willing to take that risk, to get away from our homework for a while — to play classic arcade games, like Pac-Man, on a console with sturdy pushbuttons and a joy stick.

Arcade at Northgate Mall - 1980s. (Credit: Patrick Pritchard)

Alternatively, we might walk up Broad Street (which was considered somewhat safer), and get ourselves a nice sandwich at the Grinderswitch subway shop. This little business became so popular that one time our dorm assembled a big group of patrons — big enough to order and eat a 10-foot long sub.  I don’t know how we did it, or where we ate it, but we felt like we had accomplished a pretty magnificent feat, and Grinderswitch, with their crazy group-sized sandwich promotion, helped make it happen.

Over time, we spent less time walking and talking.  We met just about everyone on campus that there was to meet.  We hooked up with a group, or with several groups of friends.  We made close friends; boyfriends and girlfriends.  We began to feel less lost, all the time.  We came to know our way around campus.  We no longer wandered around looking for the right door or breezeway.  

Academics Take Precedence

Over time, we had less time for exploring and socializing.  We had to go to class.  We had to go to required labs.  We had to do our homework, which kept coming, in a seemingly endless stream. 

We also worked on Saturday morning projects or independent study.  We sat through dedication week speeches and seminars.  We went to off-campus sites to perform community service, and went to on-campus sites to do our work service.  We had tons of requirements and tons of expectations. 

And yet, we still got involved in other activities.  We immersed ourselves in music or art, or in sporting activities.  We joined wind ensemble, chorus, or dance.  We took photos and developed them in the darkroom, or created screen-printed posters and t-shirts.  We played intramurals or table tennis or Ultimate Frisbee.  We began joining clubs and planning activities.

We were going to school and learning, and then going back to our dorm rooms and studying (or procrastinating). 

We were busy fulfilling academic expectations, or taking a break and burning off steam. 

Before that, during the first few weeks of school, we met everyone and we walked seemingly everywhere. 

But after that — after those first few weeks — the days of walking all over tarnation… and meeting people from all over tarnation… came to an end.

 Site of NCSSM cafeteria meals - first week of school in 1980.

Durham Fire Station 2 - Where we walked by twice a day.

Life Before Cyberspace

{Prompt: Write about the campus of NCSSM}

Watts Hospital - The Backdrop

When we moved into the School of Science and Mathematics, on September 7th, 1980, our group photo (in shorts and short-sleeved shirts) was taken in front of the edifice of the renovated 1908 Building of the historic Watts Hospital.

And on the day we graduated, on May 30th, 1982, our group photo (in cap and gown) was taken on the lawn, with the 1908 Building and Wyche House in the background.  Our high school experience was book-ended by portraits in front of the venerable buildings that for seventy years had been emblematic of Watts Hospital and the Watts School of Nursing.  

The facade of the 1908 building — with its red tiled overhanging roofs, its stuccoed walls, its ornamented loggia, and its ornate Moorish cupola — subsequently became symbolic of the new institution — the NC School of Science and Math — and symbolic of high expectations. 

The iconic cupola even served as the school’s logo for many years (after the “Flaming Diaper”… before the “Catalyst”).

The cupola of the 1908 building.

As a backdrop, it was awe-inspiring and exciting.  To prospective applicants and to students, it was inviting.  In fact it was designed to be inviting when the hospital opened 70 years before—to encourage patients to feel at ease as they entered the institution.

But even though the dramatic and historic architecture of the buildings served as a testament to great philanthropy and innovative planning… even though the buildings were home to decades of medical care, including life and death… all that meant little to the young students, including myself, all embarked upon an entirely new adventure.

For us, the grandeur of the buildings served only as a backdrop to a grand experiment – a newly funded residential high school for gifted students, in the state of North Carolina.

The entering class (and staff) in September 1980.

The High School Campus

In 1980, there was no student center or student commons… no gymnasium… no auditorium… not even a cafeteria.  Classrooms were confined to the basements, generally functional, but nothing more.  The teachers had barely enough time to move in — to make the classrooms their own.

Other parts of campus — places awaiting renovation — were off limits completely.  I didn’t even see the elegant lobby of the 1908 building until years later.  And the school administration, though housed on campus, was (happily) assigned to office space that was quite far from our student living quarters.

Our dormitories were the places most filled with the bustle of activity during that first year.  There were a little fewer than 150 students, assigned to roughly five halls on campus: two halls at Wyche House (male), two halls at Hill House (female), and one hall on the third floor of the Main Building (also male). 

In our rooms we might study… or more likely, unwind with our radio or cassette player or hi-fi stereo (depending on our audiophile nerdiness), or read a book, or discuss our day with friends.  Over time, those conversations would grow to include everything from the mundane to the existential, including our hopes and fears.

I had no roommate during most of the first year, so I spent most of my time not in my room, but in the recreation room in the basement of Wyche House.  I played ping pong down there… a lot of ping pong.  I met the other guys in the dorm down there.  We talked about random topics.  We ate Domino’s Pizza.  We started a “secret” society — a fraternity of sorts — “The Callipygian Correspondents’ Collaboration Club.”

Sidebar: “4C” as it was known, was inspired by the chance discovery of a slightly naughty word in the “C” section of the dictionary (no internet, remember), and ginned up into existence by some aspect of group mob mentality — adolescent social dynamics.  In retrospect, it’s not surprising that this blatantly misogynistic “gentleman’s club” would become an embarrassment — a testament to my immaturity.

Those social spaces… those recreation rooms, porches, and lounges… were unforgettable.  All kinds of events and activities, both sanctioned and unsanctioned, took place in those spaces.  They were the “melting pots” of our differing perspectives — our different origins.  They were the places where friend groups and close relationships were kindled.  Those experiences became the kernel of growing hall pride.

A gaggle of eleventh graders gathered for Halloween.

The Places In Between

But our daily lives, our personal time and our meanderings, were often found in the liminal spaces — the halls and breezeways between buildings, the elevator and elevator lobbies of Beall (Valinda Beall Watts Pavilion), the steps of Wyche or Hill House, the grassy quad between the dorms, and the road that crossed the middle of campus.

For me the most memorable space in which I lingered, between scheduled classes and activities, would be the mail room. It was on the ground floor of Hill House.  It may sound like a dull utilitarian space, but it was nothing of the kind.  The mailbox doors were all made of brass, designed in the 1920s, creating an antique, but regal, grid of lock boxes on the wall.  Each mailbox door was about the size of a deck of cards… maybe a little bit bigger… about 3 by 4 inches in size.  Each student had their own box, and their own combination.

A typical mailbox. 

Upon opening the brass door, on any given day, a myriad of contents could be discovered.  The mail room was the dispensary for postage-stamped letters, with news and loving encouragement from the family at home… and for some students, home was quite far away.  With virtually no internet in existence, the mail room was the source of contact with the outside world.

But the mailroom also became the essential hub of internal communications, from administration, staff, and faculty. Even student newsletters and announcements found their way into the rectangular mail cubicles. It was nearly every day that some memorandum, amusement, assignment, or directive was found curled up inside the slot at the back of the mailbox door. 

It was a little like having a mystery gift delivered in a beautiful brass box.  It could be unlocked and retrieved with a secret combination. 

But the contents must have also been quite important.  I still have a dream, to this day that I’m running late… and I can’t find my class, somewhere on campus… I can’t find the administrative office, to find out where the class is located… and I can’t find my mailbox with the crucial directions… or I’ve forgotten my combination.  My efforts to find my way are thwarted at every turn.  I wake up, realizing that it’s only a dream, and thank heavens that I made it to all my requisite courses, way back then.

Keith Promislow at his mailbox in 1980-81.

What Makes a (renovated) Hospital a Home?

The NC School of Science and Math began as a dream — an aspirational repurposing of a historically, culturally, and architecturally significant campus — the Watts Hospital Campus. The expectations were high that our class, and future classes, would honor the legacy of the hospital that had served Durham for decades. The 1908 Building was like the representation of, and the portal for, all those expectations.

But, when we walked across the threshold and through that symbolic portal, a school and a community quickly developed. It had interior functional spaces — classrooms and lounges – to facilitate the mixture of attitudes and opinions from students and faculty, from the farthest reaches of the state. 

It was a physical space where learning flowed in both directions, between the young and the old – between the book-smart, impetuous, and ambitious student body and the cautious, judicious, and moderating faculty and staff.  

Eventually it also became a home.  There were places for purposeful solo activity — for quiet contemplation, if you looked for it.  Sometimes, after class and before starting my homework (or avoiding it), I would go to the lawn beside the breezeway adjoining the 1908 Building, and practice dribbling and kicking the soccer ball, hoping not to knock any stucco from the walls, or worse, break a window.  

Or I would go to the darkroom… remove the film from the camera in complete darkness and wind it on a spool for development, later choosing a frame from the negatives to enlarge onto photographic paper – exposing the paper, developing the paper, and stopping the development — then hanging up the various photos to dry.

Or I would go to work service, cleaning dishes on the conveyor belt — rinsing off the residue, loading them into plastic trays, and pushing them through the industrial washing machine, like a miniature carwash.

Or I might check the mail, hoping for a moment of whimsy… a letter from home… some news of the world… an instruction to follow… or a plan for tomorrow. 

I dreamed of the future, inspired by iconic buildings of the past.