Category: 2020-May

Home. I did not return to Mars Hill. I started doing many things I should not have been doing. Poor choices on top of poor choices multiplied by bad ideas.

I promised my mother, and everybody else, I was just “taking a year off” and would return to school. I had no interest in going to class anywhere. I was done.

I spent the next three years doing all kinds of things nobody should do. There was, and is, every reason to be ashamed.

I went to Forsyth Tech and registered for a few classes. More “F’s.” Withdrawls with no credit. I managed a few “C’s.” Pitiful.

Somebody suggested I audition at the School Of the Arts.

“I did. It was terrible. I didn’t get in.”

“You should try again. In music.”

So, I did. I got in. I was surprised. Really.

My voice teacher was Bill Beck. A few well-meaning people were less than impressed.

“You should get somebody else. He was good, but he’s old. He is way past his prime.”

I asked my mother what she thought. “Jeffrey, Bill is older. We used to sing together. He also knows a lot more than you do. I think you should go and keep your mouth shut.”

Off I went. UNCSA is a different kind of place. The School Of the Arts is one of the finest performing arts conservatories in the world.

I didn’t live on campus. I was older than most of my classmates. I felt a little bit out of place, but it worked.

I found Chris Ralph. He was my best friend during my time with the Fighting Pickles.

The girls were unbelievable. My gracious. Talented. Beautiful. There was every reason to be on campus as often and as long as possible.

Performances were everywhere. I loved it. I loved Bill Beck. We got along like two peas in a pod.

There were others, of course. My second-year piano teacher was Bang-Won Hon. (I have no idea about the spelling and Google was of no help.) She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak whatever she spoke. It didn’t go well.

Doug Buys. He was mean. He threw me out of class when I challenged him for bullying a classmate. I went to the Dean. The Dean told me to take off for the weekend and to come back Monday morning.

I fell in love with our Italian teacher. She was ridiculously hot. Ridiculous. Chris Ralph and I sang O SOLE MIO to her for our final exam.

It was a different kind of school.

Martha Ruskai tried to teach us how to do makeup and hair. That was a fun class. Martha was incredibly patient. I still struggle when I try to line my eyes. For the record, it’s not as easy as it looks.

And Gyula Pandi. All voice majors were required to take a year of dance. I LOVED dance class. Pandi was one of the finest teachers I have ever known. He came to all of our performances. He challenged us. He loved us. Pandi was the best.

It would be completely self-serving and not entirely accurate to say I was THE chosen one. I was not. But… I was one of the favorites.

The School Of the Arts campus is full of super-talented performers. The teachers are world-class performers. It’s not an ordinary school.

Bill Beck retired after my second year. I cried and cried. My time with Bill was magical.

The work continued. The rehearsals were non-stop. I wasn’t surprised, but I was tired. I was spending about 18 hours a day on campus.

My junior year. Halloween. I don’t recall much about the day. I drove to school and headed for class. The next thing I remember is waking up in the Emergency Room.

I was told “they” found me unconscious in the parking lot. I spent the next two weeks in the hospital.

Chris Ralph came to visit. Bill Beck checked on me. That was it.

I always thought college should be about more than classes. Isn’t it about, or shouldn’t it be about, becoming a good person? Doing the right thing. Getting ready to contribute to the world.

I was enormously disappointed.

Lying in a hospital bed while trying to rebound from extreme exhaustion and an unending migraine, my relationship with, and my role at, UNCSA became clear. As long as I was getting good reviews and selling tickets, I was worthwhile. If I was just a person occupying a seat… not so much.

I did not return to school. I couldn’t. My feelings were hurt. I stayed at home. I was weak. My grandmother was sick. We took care of each other as best we could.

School was an afterthought. Again.

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.

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.

In the midst of the current quarantine-shelter-in-place way of the world, I don’t always watch the news. I’m weary of the same old, same old. It’s tiresome. That doesn’t mean I hate the media. Hardly the case. But, the daily stories leave me sad and often disappointed with humanity.

I’m unfamiliar with the headlines of the day. I catch up when I can. Notifications float across my phone. I glance at snippets of stories as they scroll along my Facebook feed. Twitter does its thing.

Generally, I’m aware of the goings on in the world, but I’m more concerned with the happenings in our home. A news desk “To Do” list is not the recipient of any serious consideration.

Ahmaud Arbery. I saw something. I heard something. I read a sentence or two. Alright. This must be important or, at least, vaguely interesting. Lots of posts. Lots of notifications.

I had no idea about anything connected to, or with, “Maud.”

Black. White. Guns. Oh, Lord. Here we go. Again.

I rolled out of the bed early this morning with one purpose: track down the rigamarole about Arbery.

I’ve read countless articles. I watched the video.

There may be more to the narrative. Without judgment, I compiled a list of the facts.

I’ve been thinking.

I thought about this. I thought about that. I’ve considered everything.

The facts are what the facts are. Ahmaud Arbery is dead. Why the delays? Why the deflections? Why the defense of the indefensible?

Read for yourself. Watch for yourself. And when, like me, you consider the facts… call it what it is. Stand for justice. Condemn the wrong. Be heard.

“But let justice and fairness flow like a river that never runs dry.” – Amos 5:24