Jeffrey Griffin

2+2 = Orange

By all accounts, I was a low-maintenance child. Go ahead, ask my mama. I amused myself for hours in the gym or sitting at her desk or playing in Uncle Larry’s room. Lots of invisible friends and an imagination that would not stop.

I recreated scenes from movies and plays, performing each role as if I were before an audience of kings and queens. I imagined a thousand ball games with each dribble and every touchdown. Good times.

Of course, as children can and will, I pondered many things…

How do cows from the mountains walk normally when they are in the barn at the fair? (Because everybody knows mountain cows have two long legs and two short legs.)

Why does God live at the funeral home? (Because Aunt Sally went to live with God and we went to see her at the funeral home. Therefore, God must live at the funeral home.)

And, when they made up words, if somebody had decided that “orange” was a better number than “four,” then today, 2+2 might not equal “four” but, instead, “orange.”

Just sayin’. My mother never dealt with the orange question. I should ask again.

I thought about a lot of things. I still think about a lot of things.

My children ask an incredible amount of questions. There are moments when I feel like Sophia and Miles are more closely related to Albert Einstein than their mother or their father. Sometimes, my patience grows thin.

They ponder many things, those two. And I try to remember the enormous patience found in my mother and my Uncle Larry and the many souls that crossed my path.

By all accounts, they are low-maintenance children. Go ahead, ask their mama.

I’m preparing for the orange question. Good times.

Away

Spring and summer have rolled into one gigantic boulder (think “Raiders Of the Lost Ark”) smashing almost every family adventure planned in the dark and cold of winter.

I’m disappointed.

The Ark Encounter in Kentucky. The Louisville Slugger factory. Waverly Hills Sanatorium. Churchill Downs.

Washington. U.S. Capital. The White House and the Pentagon. Mount Vernon. The Smithsonian. National Cathedral.

Chicago. Navy Pier. Millennium Park. Art Institute Of Chicago.

Williamsburg. Jamestown. Monticello.

Back home… The NASCAR Museum. The Downton Abbey exhibition at Biltmore. The day trips and local adventures.

All gone. With good reason, but… gone.

The pool is nice, but how many days can you spend in the water? I’m tired of cooking. I’m over virtual everything. We slept through THE MUPPETS at the drive-in movie.

Waiting and more waiting. College athletics. School as a teacher. School as a parent. We haven’t been to church in months.

My wife is a flight attendant. The airline industry is about as unstable as anything can be.

Our family handles everything better than I do. I worry. I’m frustrated. I’m irritated. They carry on.

There is also much for which we are thankful. Our house is a home. We’re able to go to work. The dinner table is not empty.

The goodness of life and the evanescent uncertainty of trials and tribulations are not lost in the heat and humidity of summer.

We spent last week at the beach. Yes, the beaches are open.

We go to the beach. Neon lights nowhere in sight. The beach. At least fifty yards between us and the next family. The beach. Sea shells. The beach. No life guards. The beach. Dolphins frolicking not too far from the shore. The beach. Sand castles.

A beach where everybody behaves. As best anybody can tell, it is life as normal, except we wore face masks at the grocery store. No big deal.

My heart and mind needed the time away from not being able to get away.

I believe the beach is a magical place. I have no desire to live at the beach. I don’t want the constant responsibility of home maintenance between waves of sun, sand and surf. I like my stuff and I shudder at the notion of our treasures sitting at the bottom of the ocean should a hurricane wash everything away. I cherish the visit, but I’m always ready to come home.

Our children believe in magic. They believe in fairies. They willingly commit to the notions that others label as impossible and unreasonable and outlandish.

They believe in the power of the unseen. God. Wind. Santa Claus.

We find four-leaf clovers. We watch shooting stars. Sophia and Miles believe.

Most years, we find more than our share of sea shells. At low tide, Sophia was exploring a sand bar and discovered a beautiful conch shell. Normally, all the shells we gather belong to the family. I told Sophia, “You found it. It’s yours. I think you should keep it in your room.” She was delighted.

I could tell Miles was disappointed. “I thought all the shells we find belong to the family…”

“Well, normally that’s right. But, Sophia found it by herself and I think it’s only fair if she keeps it in her room.”

Lord, how I hoped Miles would find a conch shell. I got up early and walked the beach. Lots of beautifulness, but no conch shells.

The last day. Sophia was riding waves. Vikki and I were playing in the sand. Miles was practicing his cornhole toss.

I could feel the footsteps behind us.

“Daddy! Did you put this under my chair?”

I didn’t flinch. “What, Miles? I didn’t put anything under your chair.”

He splashed between us and demanded to know. “Well, I was playing cornhole and I went to sit down. This was sitting under my chair. It wasn’t there before. Did you do it?”

A conch shell. Smaller than what Sophia found, but a conch shell.

“Miles! I knew you would find one. You can’t give up. You have to believe.”

He splashed out to Sophia to share the discovery with his sister.

Vikki looked at me. “Alright, how did you get that under his chair without him knowing?”

“I didn’t.”

It’s true. I had nothing to do with that conch shell. The beach is a magical place. Believe.

The moment was more than anything we could have found in Kentucky or Washington or Chicago or Virginia.

The goodness of life is ever-present. Especially in the unseen. Believe.

Sets and Props

My mother never failed to shed a tear whenever people talked about Kent State.

I didn’t understand, of course, but I knew enough to know something bad had happened. Years later, I read about the four students murdered while protesting against US involvement in the conflict in Southeast Asia.

I’ve seen the images from the Birmingham Campaign, when police dogs and fire hoses were used against non-violent protestors, including children.

I watched as the residents of Los Angeles went bat-crazy in the aftermath of the “not guilty” verdicts in the Rodney King trial.

Each act, a watershed moment in American history. Tragic. Regrettable. Unforgettable.

Sometimes, people lose their ever-loving minds. Blame should not, and cannot, be universally assigned to “the other side.”

The Ohio National Guard was wrong. City leaders in Birmingham were wrong. The looters and arsonists in Los Angeles were wrong.

What happened Monday night on Pennsylvania Avenue was wrong.

Non-violent protestors assembled in Lafayette Square. There was no destruction of property. There was no curfew violation.

“I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government.” – Thomas Jefferson, 1787

President Donald J. Trump spoke in the Rose Garden.

“I am your President of law and order and an ally of all peaceful protesters. These are not acts of peaceful protest. These are acts of domestic terror. As we speak, I am dispatching thousands and thousands of heavily armed soldiers, military personnel and law enforcement officers to stop the rioting, looting, vandalism, assaults and the wanton destruction of property.” – Donald J. Trump

He subsequently ordered federal law enforcement officers to open fire upon the protestors assembled in Lafayette Square.

Tear gas. Flash grenades. Rubber bullets.

The Commander-in-chief walked in the aftermath from Pennsylvania Avenue to St. John’s church.

The leader of the free world took his place on the steps and held a Bible in his right hand.

A reporter asked, “Is that your Bible?”

President Trump replied, “It’s a Bible.”

I understand. It was a photo-op.

Bishop Mariann E. Budde of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington watched the scene unfold on television. “He did not pray. We need a president who can unify and heal. He has done the opposite of that, and we are left to pick up the pieces.”

Church steps are not a Hollywood set. The Bible is not a prop.

I know why my mother cried. Me, too.

Not My Child

This is not anything I wanted to write. Ever.

I like Facebook. It’s fun, but my life doesn’t revolve around anybody’s social media updates. A lot of things scroll by on my timeline. Cute. Funny. Sweet. Wholesome. Occasionally, and mildly, inappropriate. A great many things, I dismiss.

Last week. I got a friend request from Raegen Sieck.

Here’s the deal about Facebook friends… I seldom decline. If we have lots of mutual friends, I accept. If not, I look at the profile. Advertisements for high-tech sunglasses and seductive photographs of scantily-clad women are bell ringers. Nope. No thanks. Decline. Decline. Decline.

Vikki Griffin is more selective. She researches every friend request before making a decision. Thus, she has fewer than 300 and I am well over 4,000.

Emily Ruebel, and several more from the Vienna Elementary family, were mutual friends on Raegen Sieck’s Facebook profile. Fine. Great. Wonderful. Accept.

It was time for supper. There are no electronics at the Griffin dinner table. I didn’t give another thought to my newest online friends.

Later that night, I started reading. Raegen Sieck’s posts were surreal.

The Sieck’s oldest child is Lucy, a kindergartner at Vienna. Hold on, Lucy is now a first-grader at Vienna.

Lucy has been diagnosed with an inoperable and incurable brain tumor.

What. The. Hell. Really?

Come on, God. Now, I’m just pissed. A little kid?

The community held a parade. I didn’t tell Sophia and Miles because I’m weak. I can’t wrap my head around trying to explain the situation to our completely healthy son and daughter.

People are buying Lucy Love t-shirts. I’m not. They’re not available in my size.

The Sieck family is off to somewhere for a clinical trial that might save Lucy’s life.

In the midst of everything happening in the world, I have not been able to find a way to tell Sophia and Miles.

I’m overcome with thoughts of a child I have never met while I argue with Sophia about the importance folding laundry.

Miles got a new pair of shoes. The very next day, he came home with muddy shoes. Covered. I couldn’t say much because I was so happy our boy was outside playing instead of dealing with a brain tumor.

For the last week, almost every thought has been prefaced with a singular notion, “not my child.”

I cannot imagine. Just like every other parent in the history of ever, “not my child. Please. Anything but this. I’ll trade places.”

God, I’m sorry for getting angry. I know you’re busy. Murder. Riots. The virus. Storms of every kind.

If you would take a moment and heal Lucy Sieck, that would be great. You like miracles. Now would be an excellent time to remind the world. Just saying.

She’s not my child, but she is somebody’s child.

“Jesus replied, ‘Why do you say, if you can? Anything is possible for someone who has faith!’” – Mark 9:23

George Floyd

Never in my life did I say to my mother, “I’m gonna go play with my black friends.” Or white friends. Or red friends. Or yellow friends. They were my friends. That’s all. Friends.

We were visiting my grandmother in Thomasville. Belk. Downtown T-Ville. I was a child. Something was happening outside. A crowd was beginning to gather.

My mother took me by the hand and we ventured out to the sidewalk. The KKK was marching and handing out flyers. White robes and flags and everything. I sensed it was not the same kind of moment I experienced while waiting for Santa Claus to pass during the Thomasville Christmas parade.

My mother was angry. She stepped off the sidewalk and claimed a position in the middle of East Main Street. I heard my grandmother.

“Margaret, don’t.”

The people in the white robes walked on either side of my mama. She called for me.

“Jeffrey, come here.”

I went. An exceptionally large man in a robe and hood stopped smack dab in front of us. He glared at my mother.

“Lady, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of the way.”

I squeezed my mama’s hand a little bit tighter. Margaret Griffin was six feet, one and a half inches tall. She took a deep breath and grew to at least ten feet tall. She looked down at the exceptionally large man.

“Nope. I want my son to get a close look at what stupid looks like.”

They stood toe-to-toe and face-to-face for what seemed like an hour. I vaguely recall hearing my grandmother on the sidewalk.

“Margaret, please come back.”

We didn’t move for a good, long while. The man finally walked around us. We went home.

I heard something about George somebody and police brutality. In all honesty, I was hoping it would turn out to be the story of a drugged-out bad guy fighting with police and one of the boys in blue had no choice but to use deadly force. Those things happen. It’s sad for everybody, but, at least, understandable.”

I read lots of news stories. I watched the mayor’s statement. I saw the rising wave of discontent on social media. I found the video and I watched it by myself.

I don’t ignore the role of race and the impact of racism in our living room nor my classroom. I talk about it all the time.

Many young black men have sat in my classroom. They are my students. I speak to them as adults, but I worry about them like they are my children. The teaching and the preaching never stop.

“You matter. Your opinions have value. You have a voice in the conversation. There are some wonderful teachers. There are some terrible teachers. You know it and I know it. We’ve all been in both kinds of classes. Some doctors are brilliant. Some doctors are cold and stupid. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. Lots of police officers risk their lives everyday. To help people like you. There are also some policeman who hate you because you don’t look like them. I wish I could tell you I’m making this up, but you know I’m not. This is our world. My life experience is not your life experience. A 50 year-old white man cannot possibly understand the comings and goings of a 17 year-old black teenager. That’s a two-way street, for those of you paying attention.

But, know this. You are one of my children. We can disagree. We can argue. Sometimes I’ll be right and sometimes you’ll be right. Above everything else, you are loved. And if that’s the only thing you learn this year, it’s been a good year. I want you to do more and I expect you to do more. You are loved. Are there any questions?”

It’s normally pretty quiet the rest of the day.

So, I watched the final moments of George Floyd. The man was in custody, the resistance long over. I don’t know what else to call it, except murder. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake.

Call it what it is. Don’t defend the indefensible. Don’t ordain evil. Call for justice. Demand action.

Setting fire to police stations and looting department stores solves nothing. Those are the actions of criminals.

Plant your feet in the middle of East Main Street and get a good look at what stupid looks like. Actually, we’re way past stupid. Get a good look at what mean looks like. Or evil. Whatever word lights the flame in your heart.

Be heard. Make a difference.

Miles is playing with friends on the back porch this morning. Four boys. Two white. One black. One Hispanic. They’re all on their knees. Racing and crashing Matchbox cars.

Friends. That’s all.

4th Grade Math

Our daughter is Sophia. Like a lot people, we’ve been doing the home school thing since March. We’ve found a rhythm. We work.

We don’t take learning for granted. We work at it every day. Mornings. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Summers. We don’t take vacations from learning and exploring. It’s a family commitment. Whatever one of us learns, we all learn. We teach each other.

Sophia is responsible for her work. That does not mean she is left to navigate the world of E-Learning by herself. She does the work. We go over it together. We discuss the problems. We explain the errors. If we don’t know, we search until we find the best solution. There are no excuses.

Today is the last day of assignments for students.

I’ve been exceptionally frustrated and dismayed with the volume of work assigned in these final days of school.

Perhaps it is a hereditary thread from the Poole side of our family. My mother routinely insisted there was no need to work 30 math problems of predictable similarity if you could solve, and understand, the first ten. She was not a big fan of the Department of Redundancy Department. It was not uncommon for me to take a note to school explaining why my math homework was unfinished.

“Jeffrey understands long-division and we had other things to do last night. I told him to skip the last 20 problems. Thanks, M. Griffin.”

My teacher would fold the note and place it on the desk. I was never penalized for incomplete homework.

Imagine my dismay when Sophia was asked to solve more than 50 math problems of predictable similarity each day last Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

There were 20-30 math problems each day. Solve each problem in the math notebook. Solve each problem again online. Show your work and solve one problem, again, in a video to be uploaded to the virtual classroom.

Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department.

I wasn’t happy, but she did it. All of it. We went over every problem. Twice. How ridiculous.

On to this week. Tuesday. Six word problems. Paper and online, but no video. Fine. Let’s get it done.

Imagine my surprise when a grade of 67 was posted for the assignment. My surprise was greater than you might imagine given that only about 30% of her math assignments have been graded during this E-Learning adventure. Sophia has done the work, but she has not received the credit.

I accessed the assignment. Two of the six problems were marked incorrect. I checked the math. The answers were absolutely, positively, 100% correct.

Needless to say, I was frustrated. Vikki reached out to the teacher via email and asked why the responses were marked incorrect.

Apparently… the curriculum teaches a student to “throw away” the remainder in a long-division problem. This is wrong. All the numbers matter. As I explained to Sophia, the cashier at the grocery store doesn’t get to “throw away” the coin change and only deal with the paper bills.

This is precisely why so many children, and eventually, adults, disregard details. Sloppiness is inevitable.

Inconvenient? Don’t bother.

Unpleasant? Skip it.

Incomplete? Doesn’t matter.

The exact wording in the response we received was, “If this was a question on the End-of-Grade test, her response would have been marked incorrect.”

I have news for the world. I don’t give a damn about the End-of-Grade test.

Learn something every day. Work hard. You are responsible for you. Don’t settle for mediocrity. Don’t give up. These are not testable qualities.

The universe can boast of a less-than-glorious history of failing to bother with the inconvenient and skipping the unpleasant and disregarding the incomplete.

Are we content with where we are and how we behave and what we do?

I am not. This family is not. If all we had left in the world was the remainder of a long-division problem, we would build from there. Unless, of course, all we had ever been taught to do was to cast it aside.

The rest of the email response was a lengthy explanation about how grades are calculated and directions on how to divide 100 by 6 to understand the final grade.

It was tainted with more than a touch of sarcasm.

The test is wrong and, perhaps, the corporate teaching leaves something to be desired.

We would rather Sophia learn how to accurately complete a long-division problem than to score well on a bureaucratically-ordained assessment that will have no impact on her successes and failures in the world.

We can live with that.

Memorial Day

Today, our nation observes Memorial Day. It’s not Veteran’s Day. Memorial Day. There’s a distinction.

I want Sophia and Miles to recognize that today is more than “the official start of summer.” I’ve heard that phrase enough times in the last 24 hours to make me throw up. Enough.

Pools are opening. Fine. Great. Wonderful. We’re going to the pool this afternoon.

Massive sales at all the car dealerships. Shocking news. Shocking.

Furniture stores are offering no interest for 60 months. Nothing commemorates death in combat like a new love seat.

The world is ready for a party. I’m not sure that’s the most appropriate way to proceed. I’m in a somber mood.

Veteran’s Day should be a gigantic pep rally. Parades. Fireworks. Concerts. It’s a celebration for the living.

This Memorial Day, and every Memorial Day, shouldn’t we pause to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?

“The greatest way to show love for friends is to die for them.” – John 15:13

I was up early today. Vikki was not far behind. Sophia and Miles, always ready for the next adventure, got up without any moaning or groaning.

We headed for the Carolina Field Of Honor in Kernersville.

We paused before each monument honoring the five branches of service. The children read the inscriptions at the base of the flag poles out loud. We rubbed our hands over the shred of steel pulled from the rubble of the September 11^th terrorist attacks.

We got their attention.

“This is not about your grandfather Dave. This is not about your grandfather Richard. This is not about your Uncle David. Your grandfathers were in the Coast Guard and the Army. Your uncle served in the Air Force. This is not about them.

This day is about the men and women who died so you can be free to live your life. Do you understand?”

The ride home was relatively quiet.

Miles headed outside with his Spiderman glove, cowboy hat and cap gun. He stopped at the door and looked back.

“Daddy, do you think I’d be a good soldier?”

“Yes. I hope you don’t have too, but, yes.”

30 Years Late – Part 4 of 4

The headache subsided. Finally. I tried to get on with life.

I got a job at the hospital in Lexington. It was not anything complicated. They let me read love poems on the intercom on Valentine’s Day.

John Cashion was the President of the hospital. He eventually landed in a bit of trouble with the powers-that-be, but he was always kind to me. I ventured into his office one day during lunch and he invited me to return for more conversation. He was always encouraging.

“Jeffrey, go back to school. You could go for business or leadership or health care administration. You would do well.”

Nice words, but I was done with school.

Mike Fenley hired me to work at WSJS radio. He, too, was invariably kind. And patient. He never pushed me to finish school, but I always felt a sense of obligation to do so. I didn’t want to disappoint anymore people.

Vikki and I got married. She went to travel school and earned her certification. My wife is licensed by the Federal Aviation Administration. She has a career. Vikki is a grownup. She finished.

Vikki was flying every week. Sophia and Miles were not on the scene. I was bored. I took a few classes at High Point University. American History Parts I and II as well as a course with a professor that did not speak English. “Jesus and the Gospels.” It was entertaining, but I didn’t learn much I didn’t already know.

It seemed like everybody I knew had long been done with the collegiate experience. They had jobs and families and houses and life insurance policies.

I had an Ebay account and a choir robe at church.

I read the scores to ball games and introduced players.

Vikki and I talked. We decided I should take some online classes at Forsyth Tech. That was charming. And disappointing.

Gathering transcripts. Taking placement tests with kids 25 years younger than me. Discussing my life plan with an admissions counselor that was incapable, or unwilling, to make eye contact.

I had to register face-to-face for my first session of online classes. I asked if there was any possibility of receiving course credit for professional experience.

“What course did you have in mind?”

“Well… Public Speaking 101 comes to mind.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t do that. Besides, that teacher is very good. He can teach you how to prepare to speak in front of large groups.”

“Okey dokey. I was wondering, that’s all.”

“You don’t understand… he has spoken in front of more than a thousand people. You will learn a lot.”

I felt Vikki’s hand on my arm.

I smiled and tried to end the conversation. “I understand. Thank you.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand. Public speaking is difficult, but there is no reason to be nervous. He’ll teach you how to do it.”

“You’ve made that clear. Are we going to register for the class or would you prefer to read my resume?”

Vikki paid the tuition and I wandered outside. I wanted to quit before the first class began. I called Emmett. We’re friends. Emmett threatened me. So, I logged in and went to class.

I’ve watched hundreds of kids leave my classroom and come home a few years later with a degree in hand. I’m happy for them. Really. It also stings. They have done what I never did.

I confess. It’s indescribably disappointing to inquire about an opportunity teaching music or drama and hear, “You’re not qualified. You have no experience. You have no degree. Absolutely not.” It’s especially hurtful when the person on the other side of the desk, or the other end of the telephone, simply isn’t aware. They’re checking the boxes on a form. They don’t care.

I cry easily.

“Jeffrey, don’t take it personally.”

Really? How should I take it? What’s more important, the piece of paper or the talent and the commitment?

It’s not particularly easy to kowtow and fetch for a boss that is young enough to be my child and earning five times the yearly salary on my W-2.

I find a lot of jobs for which I can’t apply. It happens time and time again. The website scans my resume and that’s all there is to that. No degree, no apply.

It’s hard. The responsibility is mine. I fully and completely, without any excuses, accept the consequences of my actions.

The Teaching Fellows. I failed my mama. And North Forsyth. And Dr. Brown.

Mars Hill. I failed Phil Stroud. And Bobbi Jean Harrill.

School Of the Arts. I failed Bill Beck. And Chris Ralph. And Leslie Cobb.

More than anything… I never ever wanted to embarrass Vikki or Sophia or Miles.

Or disappoint John and Mike and Emmett.

Or offer excuses to people who make the world a better place, like Susi and Beau and Donald and Oliver and Jamie.

Everybody else did it and I couldn’t even tag along for the ride. I did not, or could not, finish what I began. What a terrible example for our children. All the friends and all the teachers and all the believers in the world can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.

I’ve learned at least that much. It’s not too late to try to do the right thing.

Get up early. Stay up late. Do what needs to be done. It’s taken a couple years.

Miles, Sophia, Vikki and I got in the car Monday evening and drove to Forsyth Tech for the drive-through graduation.

It was neat and rainy and everybody was shrouded in masks. The people were nice. We didn’t get out of the car.

It was bittersweet. I’m not done, but it’s a start.

Jeffrey Griffin. Associate in Arts. With Honors.

Funny, I don’t feel particularly honorable. I feel late. 30 years late.

30 Years Late – Part 3 of 4

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.

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.