30 Years Late – Part 2 of 4

Carolina was on my mind, but the fact of the matter was, I was not headed to Chapel Hill.

Alright. I auditioned for the School of Drama at the School Of the Arts. It was, quite likely, the worst audition in history. The history of everything. Awful. I was never worse than I was in that moment. For whatever reason, it didn’t work. Some days are like that.

Next. I got a letter from Mars Hill College. Mars who? Another letter. A phone call.

I get it… I’m being recruited! Neat. This is what it feels like to be a star football player. They wanted me. They visited North Forsyth. We visited the campus. A professor and a student attended our production of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.

I was accepted into the Musical Theatre program. I was awarded a Grayson Scholarship. It didn’t cover everything, but it took care of a lot.

It was the day before I was scheduled to leave for the mountain community on the far side of Asheville.

The phone rang.

“Hello, may I speak to Jeffrey Griffin?”

“You got me. Who is this?”

“Mr. Griffin! This is the Office of Admissions at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. We’ve had a terrible time trying to reach you. You’re due to arrive on campus next week and we have not received any of your registration paperwork. We need your deposit and we need to get you set for freshman orientation.”

“This is who?”

“UNC. North Carolina. Mr. Griffin, if you’re planning on being a part of the freshman class, we have to take care of several things. Today.”

“I’m not coming to Carolina. I’m going to Mars Hill. I wasn’t accepted at Carolina.”

“Mr. Griffin, I’m holding a copy of your acceptance letter. Are you coming or not?”

“No. I leave for Mars Hill in the morning.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time and good luck.”

I don’t know what happened to the fat envelope from Chapel Hill that never made its way to Winston-Salem. I felt slightly redeemed about the Teaching Fellows debacle, but I was going to the mountains and be a Lion.

Mars Hill was a tee-total-absolute-unequivocal disaster.

We’ve all heard stories about the bright, young man that heads to college and goes crazy, right? Well, that was me.

I failed my first class. Ever. Ear-training. It was a music class. If you don’t know, you’ll never understand.

I drank a lot. I bounced checks. I skipped classes. I helped mastermind ANIMAL HOUSE caliber pranks. Phil Stroud and I spent quality time with two police officers on the side of Highway 23 in Weaverville.

I sang in the choir with Dr. Joel Reed and I was surprised to find the Bass Section did not revolve around me.

I failed handbells. Who fails handbells? I did. Slept right through the exam.

And, of course, there was the Theatre Department. The professor that had recruited me so faithfully made it painfully clear that I had two options once I was safely on campus and my mother was back in Winston-Salem.

I could either be his “boy” and enjoy good grades, solos and preferential treatment in every way OR… I could keep my pants zipped and watch from the sideline.

No roles. No shows. No nothing.

It was intimidation like nothing I’d ever known. Or felt. Or seen.

I didn’t play the game. I watched everybody else. I drank more. And I failed.

I called home everyday. Academic probation. The Grayson Scholarship was gone.

That doesn’t mean everybody at Mars Hill was bad. There were lots of good people. I wish I had been one of them.

My mother sent me to Europe with the choir at the end of the semester. I have no idea where that money came from.

We sang. I came home. Life stopped.