On the Way to Maturity

{Prompt: Did you ever get in trouble in school?}

The NC School of Science and Mathematics is and was a residential high school for exceptional students who applied to attend from across the state of North Carolina.

In 1980, the first Student Handbook laid out the Code of Conduct (the rules) and the Student Judicial System (the consequences) for the new high school. In his message to the students, in the Handbook, Director Charles Eilber compared the Handbook to a foundation for a building — serving as a support for the structure, while not necessarily dictating the final appearance.

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.

This is the story of one of my “lessons of experience”, and how I contributed to the “use and development” of the NCSSM Student Handbook —helping the new school to grow and take shape.

Cover of the 1980-81 NCSSM Student Handbook

The Code of Conduct

Pages 26 through 30 (five pages) of the 1980-81 NCSSM Student Handbook covered the code of conduct. It served as a warning against mischievous criminal activity, covering every bad thing that an adolescent might dream of doing. It prohibited the use of alcohol and drugs, truancy, vagrancy, possession of weapons, use of fireworks, vandalism, gambling, indecency, or disturbing the peace.

It covered all of the usual forms of criminal misbehavior, but it didn’t begin to consider the forms of provocative behavior that we “gifted and talented” students could imagine. Pranking and PDA (Public Displays of Affection) ran rampant in the early days. And amateur experiments in chemistry and physics were common — testing the limits of the defined rules.

The Handbook also defined the parameters of our world. It covered where we were allowed to be, and when we were allowed to be there. There were sections on curfew, dorm visitation, and quiet hours. There were various required permissions, including permission to ride in cars… to leave campus… to visit home… or to stay overnight (off campus elsewhere). There was a short section addressing “off-limits” areas, including areas under construction, and areas where minors were never permitted.

These restrictions were immediately and repeatedly tested.

Some students attended a frat party at Duke University, early in the fall of the school’s first year. We were sometimes found in the room of a student of the opposite sex, and not always during the hours of visitation.

Classifying the dilapidated tunnels, the morgue, the OR, the pavilions and the breezeways of the former hospital, as “off limits”, was an exercise in futility. What teenager, in the golden age of D&D gaming, wouldn’t dare to explore such an incredible maze of haunted spaces?

Student Judicial System

So the Code of Conduct was tested… frequently tested… from the moment we arrived. And that’s when the Judicial System came into effect. According to the Handbook, “This system consists of three phases which indicate the disciplinary status of the student.” These were “Phase 1,” “Phase 2,” and “Phase 3.”

The jargon itself… the “Phase” system… was a source of amusement. The terminology was unfortunate, because many of us (science nerds) were fans of Star Trek (the original series) which was reaching a big audience through syndication before our school opened. Being “phased” by the administration seemed like a surreal experience, as if we were part of a Star Trek plot where the phasers were set to “Warning,” “Stun,” or “Kill.”.

Most violations fell under the definition of a Phase 1 offense, which basically amounted to a written warning. It included things like a violation of curfew hours or visitation policy, or a failure to sign in or sign out.

Phase 2 generally resulted from repeated offenses, and resulted in a call to the student’s parents, and a written letter in the student’s file. It was considered a probationary status, which could put the student’s continued enrollment in peril. Still, it was not uncommon.

Phase 3, on the other hand, was no joking matter. A phase 3 violation was considered a serious offense. A phase 3 allegation could result in strict probation, suspension, or even dismissal from school. And it would result in a disciplinary hearing in front of faculty and staff, and in a school of only 150 students, living elbow to elbow, a disciplinary hearing would become common knowledge.

My Juvenile Behavior

In my junior year — my first year at NCSSM — I tallied a number of Phase I violations. I was late for curfew. I pranked other people on the hall. I failed to show up for my community service assignments. But for the most part, my transgressions were minor. I had no ambitions of causing havoc or mayhem.

During the summer, between my junior and senior years (at home), I was an assistant Sunday school teacher at church, and a substitute newspaper delivery carrier. I helped my family and neighbors with yard and household chores. I played basketball with the children of refugees from Vietnam. I was a pretty good citizen, if my mother is to be believed. She wrote a letter in my defense—including all of these positive actions, after she had been notified of the trouble I’m about to describe.

She must have thought I was a pretty good kid, even though I would sometimes misbehave, or shirk my responsibilities. In a typewritten letter, addressed to the dean of student personnel, she said, “…Naturally there were many other good and bad decisions Steve made…, and he has usually paid for or learned from each episode on the way to maturity.”

And she said, “…I am interested in Steve’s living with a basically happy and comfortable outlook upon the opportunities he has, wherever he is….”

My mother’s letter - my personal copy.

She sent me a carbon copy. Me… a juvenile! I just think that’s incredible. She is defending my juvenile behavior, and at the same time she is looping me in on the letter, like I’m a full fledged working adult.

Or maybe the little “cc” at the end is a little dig at the bureaucracy. She is sneaky snarky that way. I think she might have been satirizing the formality of the administration. Either way, it’s priceless.

So here’s the reason she had to get involved….

The Unfortunate Incident with the Vending Machine

Shortly after my senior year began, I found myself exploring the bowels of my dormitory building late at night.

The first and second floors of “Hill House” were filled with rooms for the male students, including myself. I lived on the first floor. But it wasn’t just a dormitory building. The basement of Hill House held classrooms and a mailroom.

And somewhere in the basement there was a tunnel that led underground to the oldest buildings on campus. But that tunnel had been completely hidden, somehow, in a feat of wizardry or engineering. I certainly can’t credit its disappearance to the administration, whose efforts were usually so insubstantial.

Perhaps we were looking for that tunnel in vain, but somehow, sometime after midnight, four of us found ourselves in a vending area in the basement. We were in an “off limits” area after curfew - a phase II offense at worst. There we all were — me, my roommate, Robert Lee, my soccer teammate, John Armitage (all seniors), and an innocent junior, Hooman Sabeti. Hooman had the unfortunate luck to be under our very bad influence that evening.

So we happened to come upon a vending machine, late at night, which was in very poor condition. Parts of the plastic barrier at the bottom of the machine were broken. Some of the metal spirals, that would turn and propel the snacks forward were disengaged. Some of the snack packages were still to be found in an orderly row, but most of the snack selections had been purchased long ago. Clearly the machine was in disrepair, non-functional, and out of commission.

It was the perfect opportunity for practice.

We wanted to see what kind of dexterity was required to dispossess this machine of its wares. Mind you, this was more like a form of quality inspection than like something malicious or destructive. We wanted to see if the vending machine’s engineered protections could be circumvented by the right set of contortions — using our scrawny arms and our nimble fingers. It was purely scientific.

Robert went first.

He was crouched down — one knee on the ground. You had to get your shoulder low, close to the low level of the teetering L-shaped plastic tray that was normally pushed in to retrieve the purchased item.

He managed to get his arm through, with the tray partially opened (and partially closed). And with some contortions of arm and torso, he managed to turn his elbow and upper arm from a horizontal to a vertical position, within reach of a vending item. This was actually pretty entertaining to watch.

As he strained to complete the maneuver — as we observed his practice run with a mixture of admiration and jocularity — we heard a deep voice behind us say, with no hint of amusement, “What’s going on here?”

In the Hands of the Authorities

A Phase III hearing was completely unexpected. I fully expected to skate by with a Phase I reprimand, the customary penalty for a curfew violation. Instead we were accused of vandalism — an egregious offense — and, in my opinion, a huge miscarriage of justice.

I chalk it up to ill humor. Our Resident Advisor, Tom Boddie reported the incident, lodging the complaint. The head of student services, Michael Collins scheduled the hearing, ensuring our punishment.

Mr. Boddie couldn’t see the slapstick, comical humor of Robert’s practice attempt. He only saw a futile, stymied attempt at loitering and theft.

Mr. Collins didn’t see a merry band of prospective engineers deconstructing the machine-client interface. Rather, he perceived a misguided, ill-conceived attempt to cause damage and destruction.

As a result of their lack of imagination… their lack of humor… their lack of judiciousness… the Phase III hearing was set in motion.

But that wasn’t the worst part. As I was seated in the office with Mr. Collins, being interviewed and admonished, he advised me that he would have to call my mother, and that I would have to tell her what had happened, and that I would have to do it in the room while he was listening.

That might be when I developed a hatred for authority.

He asked me for her phone number. He called, and he said, “Mrs. Gallup, I’m here with your son. He has something that he has to tell you.” And he handed me the phone.

The Judicial System in Action

The Hearing was held a few days later. John Armitage asked a faculty member to be our representative — probably Dr. Miller, our English professor.

Dr. Miller had a sense of humor and a sense of perspective. And he had the benefit of being objective. He was able to show that the vending machine had been long abandoned. The vending machine snacks had all expired long ago. Expiration dates were more than six months prior to our late-night excursion.

I’m sure all of our stories were the same… because they were all true. We had engaged in some foolishness. We had been caught red-handed. We had done nothing with malicious intent. We were just exploring and experimenting.

So we were put on probation. We weren’t kicked out of school.

We were detained and humiliated instead.

But we tried to take a modicum of pride in our spectacular transgression and the aftermath. We faced off with the administration, and we won… sort of.

The Most Prized Piece of Documentation (after my Diploma)

Of all of the ephemera of my time at NCSSM, my Phase III letter is my most prized possession — on a par with my graduation diploma. This is what it says, in full (You be the judge):

September 29, 1981

Steven Brian Gallup

2807 Wayland Drive

Raleigh, North Carolina 27608

Dear Steve:

This letter is to officially document action taken in response to the Phase III hearing conducted with you Tuesday, September 22, 1981. The hearing was conducted because of a report by a Hill House Resident Advisor that you participated with three other students in tampering with a vending machine, as well as having unauthorized access to student mailboxes. This incident was reported to have happen [sic] Sunday, September 20, 1981 at 2:00 AM.

As a result of the hearing, confirmation of your participation was made. The Hearing Committee was made aware that the incident was more spontaneous than premeditated. However, that does not detract from the fact that your actions were thoughtless and that you assumed you had the right to do what was reported. You must reflect on your behavior. It is not consistent with the goals of the School nor what is set forth in the Student Handbook.

The Hearing Committee decided to reduce the incident to a Phase II response. Accordingly, you are to make restitution of $10.00 for your fair share of the repairs to the vending machine. Please make check payable to NCSSM Residence Life Fund and submit it to Kathy Benzaquin, Head of Residential Life. In addition, you are placed on Phase II probation until the start of the second semester. Probation will be lifted, assuming no repetition of this or similar incidents, on January 27, 1982.

You have the right to appeal this decision in writing to the School’s director, Charles Eilber. The deadline for an appeal is October 8, 1981.

Finally, I wish to point out that the Hearing Committee reviewed your disciplinary situation within a context of what is fair and right for you. Much time was given by individuals here to work through your problem with you and give you every possible consideration. We expect a positive, helpful response from you and nothing less.

Please contact me if you have any concerns about this matter.

Sincerely,

Michael E. Collins, Dean

Student Personnel Services

cc: Mrs. Margaret Gallup

My Copy of the Phase III Hearing Document

Taking a Big Risk

You would think that I had learned my lesson—that I would do what was right—“and nothing less.”

But it wasn’t much later, that I made plans to sneak over to Wyche House, the girl’s dorm, at night. Three of us were going. I was going to provide my friends with support. One of us wanted to spend time with his girlfriend, but didn’t want to go alone. I wished I had a girlfriend, and thought, “Maybe if I do this audacious thing, the girls will be impressed.” I was young and foolish… very foolish.

So we snuck over to the girls’ dorm. They aided us in this breach of “The Code” by opening the door to the basement, and let us in. They had arranged to let their RA know that they were going to have a pajama party in the basement — a cover for our trespass.

Our plan was executed to perfection. In concept it was a success. But I have never spent a more miserable night, worrying about the repercussions, should I be caught whilst still on probation. I was never happier to sneak back to my proper place at sunrise, and slip back into my dorm room bed. The relief was palpable.

In my mind this breach of protocol… this trespass… this violation was much worse — more lowly… more intentional… more foolhardy, than the laughable matter for which I had been previously reprimanded. And yet, no hand of justice came down to punish me. This time, except for my troubled sleep, no trouble came to pass.

Epilogue

I don’t know if I learned from my delinquency.

Perhaps I learned to distrust authority.

Or that justice is blind.

Or that a mother’s love is unconditional.

I never, since that time, have attempted to retrieve a packet of crackers or chips from a vending machine without a proper purchase. And so I never have completed the misdeed I had been so ingloriously tried for, in 1981.

Although I flirted with a major in Engineering, I quickly lost my excitement for the field at Vanderbilt University, where the engineering program seemed focused on computerized advancements, and human ingenuity seemed to be of little concern. I changed to a pre-medical major instead.

I tried to stay out of trouble, though I didn’t always succeed. (A few of my misdeeds are listed below, usually correlating with a bit of inebriation.*) And I tried to surround myself with people with a good sense of humor (though they are sometimes hard to find) — people with kindness, understanding, and affection.

*Addendum - A completely voluntary listing of the other times I got into trouble, which may or may not be complete.

I rarely got into trouble again, but my transition to upstanding citizen did take a little time.

-Once, I put my hand on a female freshman’s knee, at Vanderbilt, when I had had three Strawberry Margaritas- the first alcoholic drinks I’d ever had in my life. She put my hand back on my own leg where it belonged.

Once, I sideswiped a parked car when I was returning home from a party. Although I initially freaked out and fled the scene, fearing the life of a fugitive, I ended up returning and telling the police that I was responsible. They charged me with the moving violation, and got my insurance information for the car’s owner. There was no detention or hearing.

-Once I tried to ride double on a bicycle with my friend George riding on the handlebars. When I lost control, we both fell down, and I still have a little scar from the abrasion on the inside of my elbow.

-I made some questionable decisions with a Jeep on a trail between Arizona and New Mexico, and with a pet named Snickers, while throwing a tennis ball for her at a rest stop (resulting in two broken forepaws), but I consider those to be mistakes—not trouble.

Whatever you call it, I’ve “learned from each episode on the way to maturity.”

Nuts

{Prompt: Write about your trip from Murphy to Manteo during special projects week at NCSSM.}

The sun was setting behind us on Highway 64 as we struggled to climb up to the gap in the mountains. It was called Glade Gap, but in March of 1982, it was just an unnamed obstacle on our bicycle route from Murphy to Manteo.

We knew it would be hard… but not this hard. And we were prepared for it to be cold… but not this cold.

With no end to the climb in sight, and far from the distance we had expected to cover, we huddled by the side of the road to discuss our options.

We could keep going to the top of the climb, still in front of us, and descend in the dark, our way down meagerly lit by headlamps. Or we could look for a place to pitch a tent and camp until morning.

We were tired and cold from riding, so we decided to look for a place to set up camp. The side of the road was a non-starter. We mounted up to ride a bit farther, looking for a church or school or… well… anything. Ironically we found a campground, not yet open for the summer. It was abandoned.

So we pulled our bikes into the campground, away from the highway, somewhere near Bruce Ridge, 30 miles east of Murphy, North Carolina. I pulled a nylon tent from the aluminum cage baskets on the rear of my bicycle, and began to pitch it in a grassy field.

As the temperature fell, we built a fire and baked some beans. We ate in silence, still sore from riding, as the temperature of the night mountain air started to plunge. Pretty soon we were shifting in our seats, alternately warming our toes, knees, and hands in the front… alternately turning around to warm our backs and our buns.

John Armitage, baking beans by the fire.

Pretty soon we pulled out our sleeping bags and crawled inside fully dressed, hoping to capture a little bit of body heat between the layers of apparel, and the insulated stuffing of the sleeping bags.

I curled up in a scrawny little ball, hugging my knees as I shivered, my head lying on a makeshift pillow made from a spare pair of rolled-up pants. I had my head outside the top of the sleeping bag for fresh air, but as the mercury fell, I ducked even my head inside the bag for warmth and self-preservation.

It was a restless, bone-chillingly cold, uncomfortable night’s sleep.

It was dark and silent the first four times that I woke, but on the fifth awakening, a glimmer of light danced across the frosty tent. I could see the vapor of my breath in the air, when I exhaled. It must have been early — 7 in the morning.

It was freezing cold… inside and out.

We slowly crawled out of our cocoons, like zombies, into the light of day. Fern patterned frost glistened on every blade of grass, crunching beneath our feet as we assembled to prepare for the day.

I reached for my water bottle to take a sip, but the water was frozen solid. I looked at it in disbelief.

So we built a new fire, trying to warm our bones, our fingers, and our toes. We stood there letting the folly of our plan sink in — the folly of biking from Murphy to Manteo — from one end of the state to the other.

Robert and John - cold and tired.

As we stood, numb and bitterly cold, we waited to see if the sun would bring any relief.

It slowly ascended and daylight returned, but there was no perceptible warming. The air was still frigidly cold, warmth slipping away from us with the slightest movement.

I put my bottle near the fire, hoping to melt some of the ice, but the plastic bottle started to warp and melt instead. It was the sort of calamity one could only imagine on a polar expedition. There was no quenching my thirst in this Arctic zone.

So we had a bite to eat and decided to move on. At least there was a chance we would warm up by climbing the road, exerting ourselves on our bikes.

And we did warm up a bit. But we reached the mountain pass in less than half an hour. It was still freezing cold when we began going down the other side. It was the coldest descent I’ve ever made in my life — hand-numbingly cold — following the coldest night of my life, camping near the alpine tree line.

We had no idea what we were doing.

John— checking the map to see where to turn next.

Special Projects Week

We were supposed to be doing a “special project” for the NC School of Science and Math. The school had a week set aside for the academically gifted, to work on an extracurricular project of special interest — something like an engineering project or a lab endeavor.

John Armitage, our ringleader, had pitched the idea of cycling from Murphy to Manteo, using the NC DOT bicycle maps that had a route crossing the state that was about 700 miles long. I have no idea what scientific merit this had, because I never saw the project proposal. I didn’t see the writeup either. John put out a call for participants and I simply jumped at the chance.

You see, I wasn’t interested in studying the properties of photovoltaic cells or building a microcomputer. I didn’t want to do soil testing or relativity research. I didn’t even want to look at molecules using a spectrophotometer.

And I didn’t want to sign up for the microcourses, like I had the year before — taking a crash course in symbolic logic and in non-Euclidean geometry.

Cycling across the state sounded like much more fun.

Sidebar: It’s sad that I didn’t do something more academic with my special projects week. There were so many cool things that I could have done — so many resources at our fingertips. But the reality was, unless you had a very focused scientific interest, there was no one at school specifically assigned to help you narrow your focus. You kind of had to brainstorm and find a project that excited you, all by yourself, or with a teacher’s assistance. I just wasn’t there yet. I didn’t like asking for help.

So John had a proposal for special projects week — to bike across the state, and fashion a report from the experience. My roommate, Robert Lee, signed up, and a freshman named Simon Verghese also signed up. Parental permission was required, so each of us got our parents to sign on the bottom line, allowing our participation.

There must have been some discussion with the parents regarding the way this trek would take place — how we were going to get from point A to point B. I don’t remember how my mom was convinced to allow it. I guess I told her that John had a plan — he had maps of a bike route from the NC DOT. Our state department of transportation was complicit, and our guardians granted approval.

We simply had to bike about 80 miles a day (on average) for 9 days to make it happen. What could go wrong?

John, Simon, and Robert at a break-stop.

The Mountains

With virtually no training, we headed for Murphy—only 20 miles from the Tennessee border—about as far west as you can go in the state of North Carolina.

Somehow the four of us squeezed into the car with John’s Dad, who dropped us off with our bikes and our gear in a grocery store parking lot somewhere in Murphy.

We consulted our maps and headed east. It was pretty simple. We followed a couple of back roads out of town and then headed up Highway 64, up to the mountain pass.

Riding, with a bike loaded with gear, was a little different than riding across campus. And riding up the mountainside was harder than a ride on flat city streets. At one point the road was so steep, I had to get off my bicycle and push it up the side of the highway. Some old-timer in a pickup slowed down to see what I was doing. He said, “Aren’t you supposed to be pedaling that thing?” I gave him a pitiful smile, and he said, “Good luck!” as he drove away.

We didn’t do 80 miles that day… not even 60. We ended up at the top of that freezing mountain pass at mile 30, baked our beans, and shivered through a restless night.

After an equally chilling descent, we took the back roads of the Appalachians and made our way towards Waynesville and Morganton.

Somewhere along the way we got split up, but we regrouped from time to time. At one point Robert lost control and fell going down a mountain road. Fortunately, his injuries were minor. I didn’t see it, but he scraped his knee, and he was in a foul mood. We tried to stay a bit closer together, so no one was struggling, or hurrying, to keep up.

Robert headed down a road, wearing goggles.

We spent a night in a hotel in one of the towns. John had his dad’s credit card, and approval to spend it, if necessary, in case of emergency. It wasn’t an emergency. But we needed a good night’s rest, heat, and a hot shower.

We fell behind schedule, making slow progress on the mountain terrain. At some point, we all agreed we had to take a more direct route.

So we passed by Asheville, and we headed down from Black Mountain, to the foot of the mountains at Old Fort, taking the outside (slow truck lane) of Interstate 40. We were passing 18 wheelers all the way down.

From there we took secondary roads again until we reached Lexington. By that time, we were at least a day behind schedule. We decided to abandon the DOT cycling route and take Highway 64, which went straight to Manteo, about 300 miles away.

Simon Verghese - wearing a helmet and striking a pose.

The Piedmont

So we got on highway 64 and we headed for Manteo. We rode on the shoulder, which varied from as wide as two feet to as narrow as four inches. We ignored the cars and trucks and Mack trucks passing on our left and we headed due east.

Every now and then we stopped to fuel up. Untoasted brown sugar cinnamon Pop-tarts were my fuel of choice.

We were out of the mountains and making good time. We thought we had it made.

And then we crossed the roller coaster hills of Uwharrie National Forest. Backroads were twisty and tortuous in the mountains, but here the road took a straight line, down one hill and straight up the next. One after another… after another. Although the real mountains of the Uwharries, including Mount Morrow, were a ways off to the south, the unrelenting hills we climbed were just as difficult. I’ll never forget them.

One of a million hills in the Uwharrie Mountains.

We approached Durham feeling much fitter… more confident in our skills. And the weather was much nicer… more aligned with out initial clothing choices. We spun past the courthouse in Pittsboro with ease, and sped up 751 towards our school.

We agreed to bike into campus like the four musketeers — all for one, and one for all. We were practically flying as we entered the roundabout in front of the 1908 building. We were exhilarated and proud. We weren’t doing no stinkin’ scientific paper. We were biking the state of North Carolina.

We slept well that night, back in our dorm rooms.

Robert— probably stopped for a “wardrobe adjustment”.

The Coastal Plain

With another night of sleep in a bed, we were feeling good. From Durham we headed east, keeping to the north of Raleigh, staying well away from city traffic.

At some point we went back onto the DOT bicycle route. We were back on schedule. We were doing over 100 miles a day. We were feeling good as we passed Rocky Mount. It seemed like smooth sailing.

But then we learned about cross-winds… first hand. Out on the coastal plain, there were acres of open tobacco fields. We met steady crosswinds, slowing us down to a crawl.

At one point, while we were covered in sweat, we passed a field being plowed for the spring, soil particles floating in the air, and coming down to stick to our skin. At the end of the day, we were brown — covered with dirt.

We headed past Swan Quarter and on towards the Albemarle Sound. We took directions to the house of a fellow student, living in Manteo, Eric Roush. We got one last photo near the end of our ride.

My bike and I somewhere near Manteo.

We recounted our adventures and then loaded up the car to return to school. Mr. Pate (a friend of the family) packed us all into his car, and drove us back to campus.

Epilogue

And that was it.

We went back to class and finished the final semester of 1982.

I didn’t write a lick of analysis or assessment for the final report. John must have done it all.

But we accomplished our goals. We had the most epic and memorable special project in the entire student body. We won the unofficial bragging rights for best project, and we had the muscles, the stories, and the suntans to prove it.

We just had to deal with steep mountain climbs, treacherous descents, the buffeting of passing semis, an infinite number of rolling hills, and unexpectedly dusty and constant crosswinds.

And we had to freeze our nuts off at the top of a mountain pass.

But we did it.

*****

Appendix - Subsequent epic bike rides:

DC to Shenandoah to Raleigh between 1983 and 1985.

New Bern Ride for MS (plus a 130 mile ride to the ride (three times)).

Double Down to the Beach—200 miles - Burlington to New Bern.

Bridge to Bridge - Lenoir to Grandfather Mountain at age 50.

Assault on Mt Mitchell - Greenville, SC to Mt. Mitchell at age 60.

Haleakalā - nearly 10,000 feet of elevation.

Assault on the Carolinas, Blue Ridge Brutal, Beech Mountain Metric, Little Switzerland rides, etc.

Winter Rides circa 2015.

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