30 Years Late – Part 1 of 4

The plan. Funny how seldom plans work. Don’t plan. Prepare.

Anyway, the plan was for Jeffrey Griffin to go to college. There was no conversation. I knew we didn’t have the money to pay for college. A scholarship was the way. The only way.

I applied for the North Carolina Teaching Fellows. It was a new idea at the time. Win it and receive $5,000 per year (which was plenty enough to pay for most any college except Duke, Davidson or Wake Forest) and become a teacher. Technically, it was a loan.

Financial aid is never ever simple.

Teach five years in the public school system after graduation and the loan was considered paid in full. After that… go. Do what you want. Live your life.

Easy enough. I applied. A series of interviews. You were either chosen to “move on” to the next round of interviews or you weren’t. If you weren’t, you were done. No Teaching Fellows for you.

I moved on. I moved on again. And again. The last interview was scheduled to take place at Elon. My cousin, and my mother’s role model, is Janie Dale. Janie Dale is better known as Dr. Brown. Dr. Janie Dale Brown taught at Elon for 38 years. She helped create the women’s athletics program. She is a legend. And a wonderful human being.

My mama drove me to Elon. I checked in and discovered my final Teaching Fellows interview would be held in the office of Dr. Jane Brown.

Are you kidding? “That’s my cousin!” It was a sign from God. If anybody was destined to win the Teaching Fellows, it was me.

The interview was spectacular. I loved the committee. The committee loved me. We laughed and talked and swapped stories. It was a good day.

There was one catch about the Teaching Fellows, the award could only be used at a state institution like Carolina, State or Appalachian.

I applied to one school. The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

I waited and I waited and I waited. Nothing. I wasn’t especially concerned. There was no way I wasn’t going to Chapel Hill with a Teaching Fellows.

It was the plan.

I had a Navy blue blazer, khaki pants and Bass Weejuns. No socks, of course.

My mother knew a lot of people. One day in the early spring of 1988, she received a phone call at North Forsyth.

“Maggie, this conversation never happened.”

It was a friend, who happened to be on the committee responsible for awarding the Teaching Fellows.

“Today is the deadline. We’ve haven’t received anything from any of the schools. I can’t wait any longer. His interview was unbelievable. He was the first one on our list, but he isn’t getting a Teaching Fellows. We can’t give it to somebody without confirmation of acceptance. I’m sorry.”

My mother relayed the message on the way home. I was not going to North Carolina.

It was a quiet ride. Mama didn’t say anything else. I didn’t speak. The disappointment sucked the life out of the house on Yardley Terrace.

My mother had encouraged me to apply to Appalachian, just in case. I didn’t, of course, and now, it was too late.

So much for the plan.