Life is Messy

{Prompt: Write a story about your time in college at NC State}

My life as an undergraduate student was a bit of a mess.

For one thing, I started off by majoring in Engineering at Vanderbilt University. I felt, after half a semester, that I wasn’t in the right field or the right university, and so I transferred to N. C. State University, back in my home town, and I changed my major to Pre-medical (Zoology).

Side Hustles

For another thing, I was working a variety of part-time jobs (both in college and medical school).

I worked at Burger King during the summer right after high school, and I didn’t know much about customer service. Once, I had the audacity to ask some seated customers to lift up their feet so I could sweep under their table. The manager gave me an earful, but he didn’t fire me. He needed workers to assemble the burgers — flame-grilled burgers.

Later, I worked at Arby’s, during the summer of 1983. We used to make ourselves miniature “Jamocha” shakes and miniature “Super” roast beef sandwiches for lunch (sandwiches with Arby’s barbecue sauce), but we never paid for them. Everyone did it.

Everything was great until management hired a firm to conduct polygraph (lie-detector) exams on everyone, supposedly because of a missing bank deposit. I didn’t really worry, because I knew nothing about any misappropriation of funds, but I discovered that it didn’t matter — it was really a ploy to screen out any and all employee misbehavior.

It was the most personally intrusive experience that I had ever had. Basically it was an interrogation, including questions along the lines of, “Have you ever done anything wrong?” and “What else should we know?” I felt like a criminal. Even worse, I felt like a sinner — the scourge of society.

I’ll never take a polygraph again if I can help it. No… Let me rephrase that… I’ll never take a polygraph again. Period.

An image capturing the gist of my polygraph experience.

Despite my questionable ethics, I got a job working for Raleigh Parks & Recreation at Pullen Park pool, and then at Optimist Park pool, and later at Biltmore Park as the pool manager. (I write about this in another story.)

And before I went to medical school, I spent about 8 months working at Harris Teeter grocery store in the deli department.

Living Quarters

My odd jobs weren’t the only things in flux. My living quarters kept changing as well. I started in a single room at a dorm at Vanderbilt, but when I transferred to State, I ended up sharing a room… with the worst roommate in the world. This fellow was on the wrestling team at NC State, and he had virtually zero interest in his classwork. I honestly don’t know if he even took any classes. He never seemed to do any homework, and he was a total ‘wanker’ (to borrow a bit of British slang). He was dating two girls at the same time, and asking me to cover for him. After one semester with him, I decided it was better to live at home and commute.

That was also the wrong decision. The next semester — the Fall of 1983 — I had an Advanced Lifesaving class first thing in the morning. Early in the morning. I found myself driving to class and rushing to get changed and jump into the pool, sometimes with only a meager breakfast… or no breakfast at all.

We once had a test that required us to tread water for a set period of time, with our hands in the air. I think I nearly drowned myself, because I was running on fumes.

As the weather got colder, and the days got shorter, it got harder and harder to make that trek up Oberlin Road first thing in the morning.

Treading water test - the worst!

So the following semester, I applied for a room in the International dorm — Alexander Hall. Like Turlington, it was right in the middle of campus — no more commuting from miles away, parking in a “fringe” parking lot, running to classrooms all over campus, and sleeping between classes on the sofas in the student union.

And it seemed unlikely that I would be rooming with a buffoon or a scoundrel. As it turns out, my first roommate, from China, could barely speak English. He ended up hanging out mostly with his friends. And I hung out with my friends all around the dorm.

Alexander Hall (credit: Dreamstime.com)

International Relations

In 1984 (Spring and Fall), I made some good friends at Alexander Hall, and my undergraduate experience started to run a little more smoothly. I met folks from India (Shantanu, Paru, and Srini) and France (Michel and René).

Srini and I became close friends, because he was so outgoing and energetic, but also savvy and supportive. (Our lives became intertwined as we both stayed in Raleigh after graduating from NC State. He lived in my house for a while when I was overseas, and I lived in his house for a while with his family when I returned. More on that later.)

I first learned to play volleyball at NC State, and we put together a pretty good indoor volleyball team for Alexander Dorm in intramurals. We had good players from abroad including Michel, Rene, and Srini. And then there was me, a novice. All I had to do was try to pass the ball halfway straight, and do a little blocking. Our team easily won the league, while my volleyball skills improved.

I met a girl from England, named Nooshin Ansari. She and her father came originally from Iran, and she was a member of the Baha’i Faith, as I discovered. While living in England, she enrolled at Plymouth Polytechnic, and attended NC State on a student exchange. She was attracted to me, and I was attracted to her. Within a few weeks we were going steady.

Nooshin Ansari

While I was dating Nooshin, Srini was dating Jane Matthews, a girl from Stokesdale, North Carolina, who was majoring in textiles. She was a wonderful person, and just as Southern as I was. The four of us would go out together, to restaurants like Two Brothers or Two Guys (right next door) on Hillsborough Street. (Both of their walls were covered with N.C. State athletic memorabilia.) We probably went bowling once or twice at the bowling alley, on the same block.

We would go see the second run movies for free with other students at Stewart Theater on campus, or go watch the new releases, out in the city, at Mission Valley or at Southpoint Mall. This was in 1984, before Blockbuster had even opened — before Redbox and Netflix had their day in the sun. Going out for a movie was the thing to do. You paid $3.50 apiece (in cash, at the window), got some soda and some snacks, and went looking for a group of comfy seats in the dimly lit auditorium.

A scene from Purple Rain - released in 1984

Or we would hang out in the basement of Alexander, where international dinners sometimes took place. Usually there was a little slideshow or a presentation by a member of that country, and then some delicious ethnic food was served.

Speaking of dinner—we probably went to the Madrigal dinner together, at one of the banquet halls in the student union. It was put on by students in the drama department.

Life was pretty good. And then I had to go and spoil it by going off on an international student exchange.

Going Abroad

Let me explain. NC State had an office for students applying to go overseas on an international student exchange. I’m pretty sure I found this office and filled out an application for the International Student Exchange Program (ISEP) within months of my arrival on campus in 1983. I had barely arrived on North Carolina soil before I was looking for a way to leave again.

Although my application was in order and met all the criteria, my request for an exchange was denied. Folks from the office kindly met with me, sympathetic to my interest in a study abroad, but as they explained, I had only been at NC State for a semester. I should try again later.

An International Student ID Card

So a year later, I applied again. I was applying to go study in Australia, where the school year is from February to November, so my application was due in October (1984), more or less. I was probably lured to Australia by my childhood infatuation with Olivia Newton-John. Or maybe I was just looking for an English-speaking country with marsupials on the other side of the world. I really had no good reason to go on a student exchange program. I just wanted adventure.

This time my application was approved. And, as it turned out, Australia had a trimester schedule of classes, so I would not be able to easily go for one semester. I would have to go for a whole year. “Fantastic,” I thought.

One more catch — the classes would only be able to count as electives. I had to do all of the required (Biology and Zoology) courses for my degree on campus at NC State — a capricious and self-serving rule, in my mind. Could I do it and still graduate on time? As it turns out, I could.

Fortunately, I had been packing my semesters with 15 to 18 credit hours of courses. I was already ahead of schedule. I could afford to take a year of “elective” classes in Australia.

I found this all out in November of 1984— that I had been accepted to attend Flinders University in Adelaide, South Australia, and I would be going for the full school year, from February to November of 1985. I would have to fly to the other side of the world in just about two months.

Departure

I was thinking about all these things, when I went out to dinner with my girlfriend, Nooshin, and my friends, Srini and Jane. We were all talking about other things — nothing in particular — before a lull in the conversation. So then I piped up and told them that I had just heard back from the office for international student exchange.

Nooshin gave me a quizzical look and said, “I didn’t know you had applied for a student exchange.”

Have you ever thought, “Surely, I mentioned that.” or “Didn’t I say that out loud?” or “I thought everyone knew.” Those thoughts went through my head, as I searched for the right words to say.

“Didn’t I tell you?” I said.

“No,” she said, with eyebrows raised.

[But wait, it gets worse.]

I apologized profusely for my egocentric idiocy.

Then she asked, “So when do you go?” She’s wondering if I will still be around in the Spring semester — her last semester in the States.

“I have to leave in January.”

Another look of bafflement.

“So where are you going?” she said. She’s wondering if I am going to England, her home country.

“It’s in South Australia… Adelaide, South Australia… For nine months.”

Now, she herself is speechless.

This really happened. I’m not making it up.

Needless to say, Nooshin and I had a candid discussion after that, about my plans (or lack thereof), and about my communication skills. We worked it out to a degree, but I kind of left her in a state of uncertainty. I must have promised to see her again and promised to write.

But at the time, in January of 1985, I left her, my friends, and my family behind, and I went off to spend a year in Australia. It wasn’t the first time — I did the same thing in 1980, when I went to the NC School of Science and Math in Durham. And it wasn’t the last time — I did it again when I took a year off from Duke Med to go to the UNC School of Public Health in Chapel Hill.

But it was certainly the most impertinent parting, for the offhanded way that I treated Nooshin — someone who probably expected much more from me — someone who deserved better.

Down Under

Flinders University and Australia in 1985 were everything that I imagined, and more. I made friends, not only from Australia but also from Malaysia and Western Samoa—two other countries that sent students to Australian universities.

I won’t go into the details here (I write about it elsewhere), but I learned to appreciate Australian “Footy” and cricket, I enjoyed Foster’s Ale and Pie Floaters, I played “varsity” basketball, I walked on the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Queensland, and I drank more than I should have (but less than most Aussies).

Before I returned, I promised myself that I would go back, not only to Australia, but to Malaysia, and Western Samoa, as well.

Flinders University - Adelaide, South Australia

Challenger

When I did return to NC State, in 1986, everything had changed. I returned to Alexander Hall, but Nooshin had returned to England, Srini and Jane were no longer dating, and there was an entirely new group of students living in my old dorm.

On January 28, I was just walking around the hall, passing time. Somewhere on the first floor a door was open and a TV was on. Someone I knew was watching the preparations for the launch of the Space Shuttle, Challenger, so I popped in to see if the launch would actually happen. It had been delayed twice already.

NASA was going to send Krista McAuliffe into space — the first teacher in space. She’d been in the news for weeks. So I thought I’d take a moment to watch a little bit of history in the making.

We heard a bit of commentary about the unseasonably cold weather. Some discussion of the previously scrubbed launches — the day before… and the day before that. Color commentary. Nothing special.

And then the launch began. It was spectacular. Massive jets of rocket fuel propelling the shuttle skyward. Bird’s-eye views of the rocket launch, with support arms from the towers, falling away.

Pretty soon the shuttle was nothing but a speck at the end of a long plume of propellant in the clear blue sky.

But then, the disaster occurred — an explosion with scattering plumes of smoke and projectiles spiraling across the atmosphere — erratic trails of debris.

Explosion of Space Shuttle Challenger on January 28, 1986

For a few seconds, unaware of the spectacle on the screen, the announcer continued reading from his script, announcing the altitude of the shuttle that was no longer there—anticipating the next booster release.

And then the commentary paused… for several seconds.

Then a new kind of commentary commenced.

“Wait a moment. I think there’s been an explosion… Is that possible?”

And a moment later,“I don’t see how anyone could have survived such a blast.”

No one knew if they were living or dead.

We hoped… of course, we hoped… they survived, in the capsule — that they would be rescued at sea. But as the day unfolded, it became clear that they all had perished. Six American astronauts and one civilian payload specialist — a teacher turned astronaut, named Christa McAuliffe.

Our faith in NASA, and our memories of their stunning achievements in the race for the moon, were erased that day — replaced by horror and sadness.

Summer Holiday

While I completed my degree at NC State in 1986, I took advantage once more of my relationship with the student exchange office, by applying for a work exchange in England in the summer. It would be part work, part holiday.

I had kept in touch with Nooshin, mostly by sending letters by airmail, and she smoothed out the road for me, making it easy for me to find a job at an amusement park, with lodging near her home in Harrogate, North Yorkshire.

So off I went, first to see her in Plymouth, where she was attending Plymouth Polytechnic University and then to North Yorkshire. I joined her at her “flat” near campus, where we hugged—trying to reconnect.

On a shelf, I noticed a video in her small collection, called Summer Holiday, with someone named Cliff Richard.

“Who’s Cliff Richard?”, I said.

“You don’t know who Cliff Richard is? Really?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve never seen this movie?” I shook my head. “Oh, wow,” she said. “It’s the best movie in the world. You have to watch it.”

So we spent the evening watching Summer Holiday, with Cliff Richard crooning his way through Europe in a double decker bus. It was adorable. It was idealistic.

Sometimes English people will surprise you with a light-hearted musical.

A promotional poster for Summer Holiday

But Nooshin could sense my ambivalence. She could tell that although I admired her, I didn’t really love her.

She said the worst thing you can say to someone you haven’t seen for a while. She said, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

And she was right. I wasn’t much better than that first horrible roommate I had at NC State that I had judged to be so self-serving. I wanted it both ways. I wanted to have a girlfriend, and I wanted to do my own thing with no regard to others.

Bottom line — I wasn’t ready to give Nooshin what she wanted in a relationship. I wanted to go on exploring the world, meeting other people, and dating other girls.

So we parted ways, but not before I spent the summer staying in a flat that her father owned in Ripon, North Yorkshire. He let me stay there rent free even though I was breaking up with his daughter. It was awkward.

And I worked at the job that she had arranged for me at Lightwater Valley Amusement Park.

I saw her once or twice before I returned home, but we were no longer a couple. She stayed in England, and I returned to the US, “across the pond.”

And that was it. There was no internet or Facebook — no social media — to keep us in touch. It was international phone calls, letters, or nothing.

In the end, I did nothing to keep in touch. It was the end of our friendship and our fleeting romance. It would have been a bad ending for a musical.

Waiting In Limbo

After my return to the U.S., I was out of school for a year, waiting in limbo, before I was finally accepted to attend Duke Medical School in the fall of 1987.

During that year, I went to work full-time at Harris Teeter, a grocery store at Glenwood Village (about 3 blocks from my home). Srini was working there as a cashier and assistant manager. He helped me get a job in the Deli department.

After eight months, I applied for a job as a lifeguard with Raleigh Parks and Recreation. Instead, I was offered the position of manager at Biltmore Pool, where I spent the summer before medical school began.

It was three more years before I met my wife-to-be, Dianne Shihadi, at UNC School of Public Health. I met her when I took a year off from the grind of medical rotations — taking a little sabbatical from Duke, going off to Chapel Hill instead.

Schooling and Life

From the time I entered college in 1982, to the time I entered medical school in 1987, my life was a convoluted mess. I kept changing jobs. I kept changing universities. I kept moving around.

I couldn’t decide what I wanted, where I wanted to be, or who I wanted to be with.

I was impetuous. I was selfish. I was pretty immature.

I like to imagine that it was a time of learning and self-improvement, in and out of the classroom.

My time in college, preparing to live and work in society, wasn’t always a pleasant or straightforward affair.

Sometimes it was pleasant and fun. Sometimes it was unpleasant and confusing.

Sometimes life is smooth and goes according to plan.

Sometimes life is messy.

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Appendix I - Progression of Career Plans, College & Residency, Lodging, and Part Time Jobs from 1982 to 1995.

Majors: Engineering, Pre-Med (Zoology), Medicine, Public Health, Internal Medicine Internship, Family Practice Residency

Schools: Vanderbilt, NC State University (NCSU), Flinders University, NCSU, Involuntary Gap Year, Duke Medical School, UNC School of Public Health, Duke/UNC (completion of master’s paper), Montefiore Internship, USC–RMH Residency.

Living Quarters: Kissam Hall, Turlington Hall, Home, Alexander Hall, Uni Hall, Alexander Hall, Ripon flat, Home, Room in Srini’s House, Room in house on Dogwood Lane, room in house near Morreene Road, Room in house on McCauley Street, Room in Durham house and shared room at Ramsgate Apartments, Woodcroft duplex, One floor of Shadyside house, Columbia house.

Jobs: News & Observer (N&O), Burger King, Vanderbilt Security, Arby’s, Pullen Pool, Optimist Pool, N&O, Lightwater Valley Amusement Park, Harris Teeter Deli, Biltmore Pool Manager, Vine Vet kennel worker, N&O redelivery, Medical Intern, Medical Resident.

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Appendix II - Residence, College Courses, & Side Jobs in Chronological order - 1982-1995. (Jobs in italics)

Summer 1982
Work at Burger King

Fall 1982 - Kissam Hall at Vanderbilt
General Chemistry
Calculus AB
Engineering Principles (convinced me to leave Engineering)
Basic Graphics/Advanced Graphics
Logic (advanced my ability to construct a legitimate argument)
Work as Security Guard

Spring 1983 - Turlington at NCSU
English Composition & Rhetoric (required for every student at NCSU)
Intro to Psychology (required all students to volunteer for Psychology experiments)
Principles of Chemistry
Calculus BC
Physics (for Engineers. I withdrew before my GPA took a hit)
PE - Lifetime Fitness (required of every student. I tried too hard on the fitness test at the start, and failed to improve at the end)

Summer 1983 - Home
Work at Arby’s

Fall 1983 - Home, commuting to NCSU
English - Composition & Reading
Social Psychology (Human Behavior)
Organic Chemistry I
Invertebrate Zoology (feared by many for its difficulty, but I ended up with the best grade in the class)
Advanced Lifesaving (very practical, but physically exhausting)
PE - Archery, Soccer (best requirements to graduate from NCSU are the PE electives)
Working for N&O

Spring 1984 - Alexander Hall at NCSU
English - Creative Writing (a humbling experience in a class full of literati)
English - Studies in Fiction
Organic Chemistry II
Vertebrate Zoology
General Physics (for non-engineers. Best physics class ever.)
PE - Volleyball, Badminton (more great PE electives)
Working for N&O

Summer 1984 - Home
Work for Raleigh Parks & Recreation at Pullen Park.

Fall 1984 - Alexander Hall at NCSU
(This semester was filled with classes for my pre-med major.)
Biochemistry
Genetics (really fun class with a lab centered around fruit flies)
Microbiology
Histology
Vertebrate Physiology
Work for RP&R at Optimist Pool

1985 - University Hall at Flinders University in Adelaide
History of American Politics
Australian Multiculturalism
Other humanities elective that I’ve since forgotten
Virology
Immunology
Not working, for once!

Spring 1986 - Alexander Hall at NCSU
Ecology (so much fun that I wish I had known earlier)
Medical Microbiology,
Comparative Anatomy
Embryology
PE - 2 more electives
Working for Mr. Pate - N&O

Summer 1986 - Ripon, North Yorkshire
Work Exchange at Lightwater Valley Amusement Park

Fall 1986 - Home/ Srini’s house in Raleigh
Working full time at Harris Teeter in Deli department

Summer 1987 - Dogwood Lane in Raleigh
Working as Pool Manager at Biltmore Pool

Fall 1987-Spring 1988 - Near Morreene Road in Durham
Basic Sciences Year:
Anatomy
Pathology
Biochemistry
Pharmacology
Physiology
Microbiology
Diagnostic clinical exam, Histology

Summer 1988-Spring 1989 - Somewhere in west Durham
Duke Clinical Rotations:
Internal Medicine
Surgery
Pediatrics
Ob-Gyn
Psychology (and Child Psychology)

Fall 1989-Spring 1990 - McCauley Street in Chapel Hill
UNC Public Health Classes
Work for Vine Vet as Kennel Assistant/ N&O redelivery

Summer 1990 - Tempe, Arizona
Internship with ASU Department of Psychology
First master’s paper - “Primary Prevention of Psychopathology in Children with the Loss of a Parent” - Rejected.

Fall 1990 - Durham/Ramsgate in Carrboro
Duke Basic Sciences:
Epidemiology
History of Medicine
Another that I can’t recall

Spring 1991 - Fall 1991 - Ramsgate → Woodcroft in Durham
Duke Advanced Clinical Rotations:
Family Practice Clinic
Occupational Medicine
Geriatrics
Dermatology
Emergency Medicine
Other Internal Medicine and Pediatrics

Spring 1992 - Woodcroft in Durham
Second Master’s Paper - “Secondary Analysis in the Emergency Department Data” - Accepted

1992-1993 - Shadyside, Pgh, PA
Transitional Year Program

1993-1995 - Columbia, SC
USC-RMH Family Practice Residency.

That Magic Moment

There are wonderful moments in life when God seems to smile upon you, sharing all of the joy to be found between heaven and earth — magical moments.

When your fiancée, dressed in white lace and wearing a veil, walks radiantly through a congregation of friends and family, in a church richly adorned by murals and translucent colored glass, as the Bridal Chorus plays.

Dianne, with her father - June 23, 1991

And when you hold your newborn twins, swaddled in blankets, wrapped up with love. You touch their palms, and their little fingers wrap around yours, and the tiny lips on their golden faces pucker.

Those moments are the best of all. They are indisputably the best moments of my life.

Mom and Dad with newborn twins - November 1994

Other Landmark Moments

And there have been other wonderful moments as well:

Standing on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, slowly turning to see the entire panorama… during a cross-country trip… while returning home.

Looking across Derwent Water towards Keswick from the ridge of a mountain in the Lake District, with sheep paddocks and hedgerows decorating the landscape like a patchwork.

Leaving the Fort Pitt tunnel and crossing the bridge above the Monongahela River as the lights and skyscrapers of downtown Pittsburgh loom closer and closer.

Pittsburgh & the Monongahela (credit: Emmanuel Panagiotakis)

Hiking a trail in the Cradle of Forestry when the scarlet leaves of the oak trees are at the peak of autumn color.

Backing over the edge of a cliff in the Devil’s Playground of Arches National Park, suspended by a rope and a harness, as the rest of your family watch and wait for their turn.

Standing on the tidal basin of the Potomac, at the foot of the Jefferson Monument as the cherry blossom petals fall.

Potomac Tidal Basin in Spring (credit: Dwight Nadig)

Looking down on the Lauterbrunnen Valley from the edge of the glacial valley near Mürren.

Looking out on the flotilla of balloons rising above the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia in Goreme, Turkey.

Looking up at the frescoes of Marc Chagall on the ceiling of the Palais Garnier in Paris.

The Opera House—Palais Garnier

I’ve been blessed with wonderful moments and wonderful opportunities: Being selected for the School of Science and Math. Being selected for Duke Medical School. Being selected for an international student exchange in Adelaide, South Australia.

Of all these transcendent moments in time (and others), there is one that surpasses almost all the rest—all but my wedding and the birth of my children.

Can you guess what it is—what could be so magical?

It’s the moment on April 4th, 1983, when Lorenzo Charles grabbed the wayward shot from Derrick Whittenburg, just short of the rim, and dunked it in. With seconds on the clock, he sealed a 54–52 victory for NC State, winning the NCAA Men’s Basketball National Championship.

Yep… I rank it third on the list of all-time great moments in my life so far:

-Marrying the woman I love.

-Holding my baby twins.

-Celebrating the unlikely victory of my alma mater.

Solidly third.

The Cinderella Season

Considered by many to be one of the biggest upsets in college basketball history, there is a documentary called 30 for 30: Survive and Advance that is all about the ’82–’83 season. There was also a VHS tape released decades ago, called The Glass Slipper Still Fits, that tells the story. It’s still in a closet in our house somewhere. You can learn more about the details of the magical season at your leisure or watch the highlights. I’m just going to describe what I remember.

Let’s start at the beginning.

I grew up in Raleigh, and I followed the NC State Wolfpack, rooting for them for at least eight years before I attended college.

The Wolfpack had won the men’s national basketball championship before, in 1974, with David Thompson, Monte Towe, and Tommy Burleson, ending a decade of dominance in the tournament by UCLA. I was almost ten years old when they won the first time, and just about everyone in Raleigh was thrilled about the team. (Some UNC fans couldn’t get on board.)

The 1974 Wolfpack team—Norm Sloan in plaid.

But the days of wine and roses were over by the time I went to college. The previous coach, Norm Sloan, left town for greener pastures in 1980 (the same year I left town for NCSSM), but before he left, he recruited some promising players from DeMatha High School in D.C.—Sidney Lowe and Dereck Whittenburg.

In 1982, guards Whittenburg and Lowe were seniors, and there were some other pretty good players — forward Thurl Bailey, center Cozelle McQueen, and guard Ernie Myers, who played sticky defense.

Guard Terry Gannon, the sixth man, was a good three-point shooter, taking shots from behind the arc. It was the first year that the three-point shot was introduced (as an experimental rule) in the ACC. There was hope that the new season would go well for the Pack.

And there was a promising rookie, named Lorenzo Charles, who was muscular and talented. He was a wildcard.

There was also a young but unproven coach from Iona named Jimmy Valvano, who was a brash Italian from Queens with some new ideas, and a unique affinity for the media. Folks didn’t really expect him to amount to much.

Valvano, at a press conference on his first day

This was the situation when I transferred in the fall of 1982, from Vanderbilt University to NC State. I moved into Turlington Dorm on central campus in January of 1983, and began to take my classes in PE, English, Psychology, Calculus, and Physics.

No one expected too much of the basketball program, but we still liked to go from time to time and join in the excitement at Reynolds Coliseum. It was only a block away — on the other side of the Talley Student Union.

We dressed up in the school colors. We created wolf shapes with our hands. We would cheer “Red!” from one side of the stadium and “White!” from the other side, until it turned into “Fred” and “Fwhite”.

And when the marching band played the intro to the fight song, we sang:

We’re the Red and White from State,

And we know we are the best.

A hand behind our back,

We can take on all the rest.

Come over the hill, Caroline.

[Or, more often, “Go to hell, Carolina!”]

Devils and Deacs stand in line.

The Red and White from N.C. State.

Go State!

Members of the Wolfpack fanbase

With our raucous fan support, the ‘82-‘83 season got off to a pretty good start: N.C. State started off 7-2, before meeting the University of Virginia on January 12, 1983. That’s when disaster struck.

Derrick Whittenburg got hurt during the game, breaking a bone in his foot, putting him out of commission for the next 14 games in a row. Still… the team played well enough to go 9–5 during his absence. When ‘Whit’ came back, the team initially struggled, losing two more games, to Virginia and Maryland.

I was at the final regular season game of the season against Wake Forest. We won! And it was a slaughter. The Wolfpack played so well that they ended the game with a 41-point lead, winning 130 to 89. We believed we still had a chance to make the NCAA tournament.

The ACC Tournament

At the end of the season, the team had a record of 17 wins and 10 losses. No one had ever been sent to the NCAA tourney with double digit losses before. But we were fourth in the conference, and had a chance to advance if we won the ACC tournament. It was still possible.

But it was a real long shot because UNC was returning from their own NCAA national championship season (in 1982) with Sam Perkins and Michael Jordan.

And, even worse, Virginia had the national player of the year, Ralph Sampson, and was ranked fourth in the nation.

But first we had to play Wake Forest again. The second time around, only six days after the rout in the season finale, the Demon Deacons were well prepared. I don’t know the details, but the Wolfpack barely won the game, winning by a single point, in a nail-biter, after coming from behind.

Then they beat UNC in the ACC semifinals, in a game that went to overtime.

Then they played Virginia, the source of their earlier misfortune (and two regular season losses). And they won again, barely – by three points.

But they won, nonetheless. They were the ACC tournament champs, and they earned themselves an automatic bid to the NCAA tourney.

Somewhere around this time, the media dubbed them The Cardiac Pack. Watching them play from behind most of the game, only to win and advance, could give you a heart attack. Lots of red and white apparel, bumper stickers, and NC State merchandise were being sold at the student store and on the streets of Raleigh. Tuffy, the wolf, was everywhere.

“Tuffy” - the NC State mascot

Cinderella at the Ball - The NCAA Tournament.

Five days after the ACC tournament win, the team flew out west, to Oregon, for a game against Pepperdine. I watched this game from home on TV as it ran late into the night. State struggled mightily, barely tying the game to force an overtime. After another five minutes of game time, they were still tied, and a second overtime ensued. It was after midnight before the game was decided.

The Pack squeaked by with a win in double overtime.

In the next game, NC State was given little chance of winning. They faced the ‘running rebels’ of UNLV, a team with a reputation for blowout victories. Many pundits noted, rightly, that NC State depended quite a bit on outside shooting. The NCAA had not yet adopted the three-point shot that was a feature in the ACC. So outside shooting was of significantly less benefit in the NCAA tourney.

Even so, State managed to win the game against UNLV, 71–70.

At this point, I wanted to see the games with my fellow fanatics. So I planned to see the Sweet Sixteen game on a big screen that was set up on “The Brickyard”, just outside the ground floor of the D. H. Hill library, right on campus.

This just happened to be the one game in the tournament that was a decisive double-digit win. The crowd of jubilant students were treated to a game that finally looked like it wasn’t just a fluke.

The national media was starting to pay attention. But in the end, we had to face Virginia again, in the Western Conference finals, in a game in Ogden, Utah. We had to get past Ralph Sampson and the Cavaliers again, in a revenge game.

In the end, it didn’t matter. We beat University of Virginia 63 to 62, to win the West bracket.

And we beat the University of Georgia 67 to 60 in the Final Four.

We were facing the University of Houston in the national championship game.

The Finals - David and Goliath

Houston was nicknamed Phi Slamma Jamma, for their dominant full court game and their high-flying dunking abilities. They had Hakeem Olajuwon and Clyde Drexler, two future NBA Hall of Famers. No one gave the Cardiac Pack a chance. It was pretty much over if you believed the national media. They were honestly wondering how to hype the game since it seemed so obvious that Houston was going to wipe the floor with NC State.

I watched this game at home, two miles from campus, with my brother. I was too worried about the outcome to watch it anywhere else.

In the first half, we came out aggressively, keeping Olajuwon away from the basket — protecting the rim. At the other end, Olajuwon was swatting away everything in his reach. Two or three baskets were awarded on goaltending calls alone. Still, Houston ran out to a sizable lead, and by the second half things looked pretty grim.

But somewhere in the second half, the game took a turn for the better. Houston stopped running the full-court break for reasons that the announcers couldn’t fathom. (It turns out that the elevation was causing exhaustion for some of the players on their team.) NC State crept back into contention through a combination of long-distance shooting and intentional fouls.

As Houston missed free throws and State hit their shots, the game became deadlocked at 52-all. NC State took possession and held it for a last second shot. They passed the ball around the perimeter.

Benny Anders nearly stole the ball from Whittenburg.

But Whit maintained possession.

He turned toward the basket, gathering the ball for a shot.

He was too far away.

Still, he had to let it fly.

Going in the right direction.

A pretty good arc.

But coming up short.

And that’s when it happened.

Lorenzo Charles’ Alley-oop Dunk at the buzzer

The best moment of my life (up to that point).

Still the third best moment of my life ever, over forty years later.

Epilogue

Mike and I drove up to Hillsborough Street after the buzzer, joined in the mob of jubilant fans, watching bonfires burn in the middle of the asphalt.

I went to the pep rally, set up on “The Brickyard” when the team returned from Albuquerque.

I saw Thurl Bailey once, on Western Boulevard when we pulled up to a stop light at the same time. He was in a convertible with some friends. I was all by myself. I was so stunned, I probably had a comical expression on my face. They gave an appreciative smile and a laugh, and they drove away.

The team struggled after the three seniors, Whittenburg, Lowe, and Bailey, graduated. The magic was gone.

I went to games to watch Spud Webb and Lorenzo Charles try to recapture the magic.

I watched as the fiasco of the recruitment and the antics of Chris Washburn played out while I was still an undergrad.

I watched from the wings as Chris Corchiani and Rodney Monroe tried to rekindle the magic while I was a student at Duke and at UNC. They made it to the Sweet Sixteen in 1989.

The following year the program served probation and sanctions for NCAA violations involving the sale of complimentary tickets and sneakers. I heard that some media hound (other words come to mind that I just can’t use) wrote a book that led to Jimmy Valvano’s departure in 1990: (Personal Fouls: The Broken Promises and Shattered Dreams of Big Money Basketball at Jim Valvano’s North Carolina State)

Jim Valvano left and became a media sensation on ESPN, with Dick Vitale, but he tragically died in 1993, at age 47, from prostate cancer.

Before he died, he gave one of the most inspirational speeches I have ever heard (maybe I’m biased), concluding with the phrase, “Don’t give up, Don’t ever give up.” After his death, it became the tagline for his foundation, the Jimmy V Foundation, ultimately raising hundreds of millions for cancer research.

Jimmy Valvano’s inspirational words

Since then I have followed NC State in spirit only, waiting for the magic to return.

Acknowledgements

I wouldn’t be writing these stories without the love and support of my beautiful wife, who I met about six years after the Cinderella season — ironically, at UNC–Chapel Hill.

Dianne Shihadi Gallup, in her bridal gown.

…and my two beautiful daughters, Jasmine and Samantha, who encouraged me to recall, and write about, the years of wine and roses. They were born about eleven years later – too late to understand the ecstasy of a national men’s basketball college championship victory.

Steve Gallup with Samantha and Jasmine.

Finding the Right Path

{Prompt: What were your least favorite school subjects?}

Have you ever gone for a walk in the woods, and taken the wrong path? You think you’ve taken the right turn, but about a half mile later, you realize the waypoints and the landmarks are off, and you’re headed the wrong way.

What do you do then?

Do you keep on heading up the path in a state of denial?

Do you cut through the woods looking for a shortcut to the final destination?

Do you head back to the place where you took your wrong turn and start again?

This is a story about going up the wrong path, recognizing the warning signs, and eventually finding the right path.

Setting Off

In 1982, I was completing my high school diploma at the NC School of Science and Mathematics.

I thought I was pretty smart.

I thought I could go to college just about anywhere.

I thought I should become an engineer.

I perceived engineering to be a career of problem solving and inventiveness. I thought that, one day I might find myself assigned to create a better widget; and through a process of design and revision, I would ultimately arrive at a masterful solution, designing the best widget known to mankind.

I thought the career of an engineer might be the career of a creator — creating ever more elegant inventions, reaping more and more satisfaction and happiness for both myself and mankind.

I was ready to accept the role of the ‘chosen one’.

I had pretty grandiose dreams when I was eighteen.

So I applied to attend Vanderbilt University, in Nashville, Tennessee, in the School of Engineering. I got accepted by “Vandy” and headed west on Interstate 40.

About 12 hours and 540 miles later, I arrived at Kissam Hall, in a picturesque quad of six dormitory buildings on the northeast corner of campus, a campus shaded by venerable white oaks, sugar maples, and southern magnolias.

Every evening at 6 pm, the carillon in the tower of Kirkland Hall would play Try to Remember (a song from The Fantasticks).

It seemed as if the whole world would pause just a moment in nostalgia and reverence to listen to the chiming bells as they rang across the void at supper time. At least for a minute or two, my academic concerns would dissipate as I listened to the tune floating over the quad and into my window.

Kirkland Hall on Vanderbilt University campus

Life at Vanderbilt

I came to know the campus well, in a very short time because I joined the campus security force as a student with a work-study job. Most of the time, I was called upon to escort a student from one part of campus to another, dressed in a light blue police shirt and tie, in uniform, with a walkie talkie in hand. At other times, I was tasked with checking the external doors to Vanderbilt University Hospital, circumnavigating the sprawling complex of buildings to be sure that all the doors were closed tight and locked.

I also dabbled in some extracurricular activities. With a friend, we went to try out for the junior varsity soccer team. But we quickly withdrew when we saw that the level of talent was far beyond our abilities. The tryouts also seemed like a perverse opportunity to torture the walk-on candidates, orchestrated by the sadistic coaching assistants, who were in charge of the process.

In an effort to stay within my capabilities, I went for a few rides with the cycling club — learning to ride in an organized paceline for the very first time. The backroads of Tennessee were pleasant, and I still had a little bit of fitness from my bicycle ride across the state of North Carolina, six months before—from Murphy to Manteo.

But the cycling club cyclists were in very fine shape. I found myself yo-yoing off the back or, sometimes, getting dropped. Also, a typical ride took too much time away from my other commitments, so my days of riding through the countryside were numbered.

Ultimately, I joined a club for aspiring graphic designers, and, with a friend, we brainstormed different logos, rendering a prodigious number of designs. Unfortunately, our “genius” was mostly unrecognized by the other members of this “guild”. Or perhaps we were ahead of our time – doomed to be unappreciated during our short tenure.

That graphics club and the class that I took in technical drafting were my fondest memories of my academic experience at Vanderbilt University. I found that drawing and design were relatively easy for me. The logo designs for the club were a pleasant diversion, and the schematic drawings for the drafting class were pleasant assignments.

But not all was well in the university. Though the wooded commons, crisscrossed by pathways under the shade trees, had charm… and the school had a rich tradition of sports and club activities… there was a heavy presence of Greek Life on campus, and a not-so-subtle hierarchy of class that rubbed me the wrong way.

There were many freshmen on Kissam quad that took fraternity membership seriously, and were eager to “rush” for a spot in the house that they preferred. They seemed to perceive my disinterest in Greek life as an anomaly — even a character flaw. But be that as it may, I never applied to join a frat. I might have been young and foolish, but that was a decision that I never regretted.

Major Questions

However, I was starting to regret my chosen degree. It started with a course called Engineering Principles, an introduction to Engineering — a class taught by a team of engineering faculty, designed to introduce the fundamentals of the profession — providing a foundation for the courses to follow.

One of the assignments was to identify an engineering problem in need of a solution, and to draft a proposal.

I admit, I was not a tinkerer in childhood. I had not been deconstructing appliances or building robots. Even though I went to a school of Science and Math, I was not filled with engineering thoughts or aspirations.

But, still, I thought I had a pretty good proposal, suggesting some sort of a “silencer” for the shutter of an SLR camera. (At the time, widespread sales of silent digital cameras were still 20 years in the future.) Every camera I had ever used made an audible click-clack sound as the internal mirror flipped up and the mechanical shutter opened and closed. It happened when the button was depressed to take a picture.

Schematic diagram of an SLR camera

My instructor was very succinct when he rejected my proposal. He believed that technology already existed to dampen the sound of a camera shutter. No revision of the proposal or further investigation was necessary.

Even worse… shortly after the outright rejection of my proposal… the students in the class, including me, were given only minutes to recover and to decide on which (approved) project team to join for the remainder of the course. It was akin to choosing kickball teams on a school playground. I felt unprepared and unwilling to choose among the five or six acceptable project proposals.

Before I knew it, teams had formed for all of the projects but one. I was left to haplessly join a team of aspiring engineers in the one remaining project — a project to design a suitable electronic scanning system using the barcodes on library books.

I was deflated by my own project’s rejection, and humiliated by my inglorious draft into the least desirable alternative. My heart was not in the project, and I did very little to contribute to its completion. Fortunately, the head of the project was perfectly satisfied to do it himself. Ultimately, my grade in the class reflected my difficulty in adjusting to the class requirements. I got a C.

I don’t know why this class was so demoralizing for my ambitions. But it was.

Perhaps it was poorly taught — the instructors having little invested in the success or failure of the students. Or perhaps I was in over my head. Although I had always done well in math and technology, these engineering students were hyper-focused on the career of engineering.

Before I changed my major completely (which happened at NC State), I took a Physics for Engineers course that was insanely difficult. It required a superior grasp of calculus to solve the physics problems.

When I realized I was floundering, I dropped the course — just in the nick of time, only hours before the end of the drop/add period. I later took a Physics (for everyone) introductory course, where Calculus was not required, and I enjoyed every minute of it, even the section on “Optics.” From that point on, I knew I had made the right decision — to leave the major of Engineering behind.

Changing Course

My experience at Vanderbilt was a mixture of the good and the bad. I enjoyed the evening ringing of the bells. I enjoyed drawing technical and graphic designs. I even enjoyed my job in campus security.

But I did not enjoy the class distinctions of the rich and entitled. I did not enjoy my failures in the introductory engineering class. And I did not enjoy leaving my close friends from high school and moving a day’s drive away by car.

Ultimately, the decision to transfer back to Raleigh — to NC State University — was made perfectly clear. When I saw the balance of my tuition fees (for Vanderbilt), near the end of the first semester, I knew that we didn’t have the means to pay, even with scholarships. I made my plans to leave Vanderbilt for good — leaving after only one semester.

I had to tell one of my very good friends — one that had gone through the farce of soccer tryouts with me, and who had enthusiastically brainstormed logo designs with me — that I was heading back home. I felt a little bit smaller to be leaving him in that rat-infested “Harvard of the South” without a comrade, but I felt that I was leaving for the best of reasons—the preservation of my family.

The results of that decision were proof of its sensibility. When I came to NC State University, I changed my major to Zoology (Pre-Med), and I began taking courses in Chemistry and Biology — courses in which I excelled. I never felt like I was somehow less in quality or character than the students I met. My tuition was affordable, and it wasn’t long before my scholarships paid for all of the costs of my college education.

Best of all, as I transferred to NC State University, the basketball team was in the midst of a resurgence. The “Cardiac Pack” went on a stunning run from the end of the regular season to the finals of the NCAA Men’s Basketball National Championship.

And they won it all! I was there to enjoy the chaos and pandemonium of Hillsborough Street, and the basketball team’s welcome home reception on the brickyard in April of 1983.

Jim Valvano and Derrick Whittenburg after winning it all.

I went on to enjoy courses in Vertebrate and Invertebrate Zoology, Comparative Anatomy and Biochemistry, Genetics, with a lab full of fruit flies, and Ecology, with field trips to natural areas far and wide.

I went on a Study Abroad program, where I took virology at the dawn of the AIDS epidemic, immunology, and some difficult liberal arts electives that required research papers and oral testing. But I only had to pass these courses, so they did not affect my GPA. (I received a pass/fail grade since they were from an overseas university.)

I went on to Medical School (after a brief hiatus), taking ever more difficult courses (Pharmacology, Physiology, Pathology, et al.) with smarter and smarter classmates. And I took rotations in medical subspecialties.

But I felt that I was in a field that was leading me into a wide open frontier. There were many paths that I could follow, and there was much in the medical world yet to be discovered.

It was a field requiring both knowledge and art, learned in great part through apprenticeship — rotations in medical school and in residency.

And then I went on to a career in Family Medicine.

It was a path that undoubtedly started with my unceremonious failure in that first engineering class at Vanderbilt University.

Pathfinding Basics

As you can see, I took a wrong turn when I left the School of Science and Math.

I went to a school in another state that was beyond my fiscal ability to pay.

I majored in a field where I had a limited interest compared to the other students who were fully committed.

And I wandered far from home, finding myself in a dorm amongst pseudo-intellectuals, who were more interested in fraternity life than the acquisition of knowledge or skill.

I congratulate myself for making at least one good decision. I decided to head back to the starting point and begin again.

I headed back to my hometown and the Triangle, to a school that I could afford.

I changed my major to Zoology (NC State’s version of the Pre-Med degree), and I took on a curriculum that was more to my satisfaction.

I started by commuting from home, but I ultimately landed at Alexander Dorm, the housing option for international students. Most of them were happy to talk with and interact with a native North Carolinian. There was no pretentiousness.

Sometimes you find yourself on the wrong path. Perhaps you are too ambitious. Perhaps you find yourself running out of resources. Perhaps you are looking for adventure, but find that the trail is too dangerous. Maybe you are heading for the wrong destination. Maybe you are lost.

Sometimes you have to reconsider, recalibrate, and return to your starting point.

And try again.

Appendix -My favorite classes (and a few of my least favorite):

I love school immensely. I would happily be a school teacher, if it paid even half of its true worth. There are very few classes that I didn’t enjoy.

In elementary school I especially enjoyed doing multiplication and learning to write cursive. I generally did not enjoy Social Studies, which, to me, seemed to have relatively little practical importance.

In Junior High, I enjoyed Biology and Geometry and Algebra. I also enjoyed the vocational electives including Woodworking, and even Home Economics. I did not particularly like learning History; which is ironic considering my love of history, and historical fiction today.

In high school I enjoyed Botany, AP English, Typing, Western Civilization, Comparative Religions, and Astrophysics. I took, but did not really enjoy, Latin and Spanish, and I found the conjugations, the grammar, and the vocabulary of the foreign languages to be tedious and difficult to master.

Speaking a foreign language in front of a class of your peers was a hard pill to swallow. I never got to the third year, when spoken language was nourished and encouraged. I always felt like the languages were being taught backwards. They should be spoken first and foremost—only written, read, parsed, and conjugated after achieving some verbal fluency.

My opinions of my classes in college are described in gruesome detail in the story above. I think maybe, now that I’m retired, it’s time to go back and find a new path, one that has been unexplored. Time to blaze a new trail.

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.