I do not blame anyone other than myself. And I do not speak for anyone but myself.
My education began in Asheboro, NC where I attended kindergarten. I remember nothing of the experience. We moved to Lumberton, NC, where I started school at the aforementioned JPM Elementary, a building whose architecture spoke of many decades of processed children. My sole goal in elementary school was to earn the coveted white Sam Browne belt of a crossing guard (a goal spawned by a framed Norman Rockwell-styled classroom picture of a child crossing guard hit by a car – titled “No Greater Love” as I recall.
We moved to Greensboro, NC at the end of 1959, mid-semester of my sixth grade year. From that point on, my academic ‘career’ nose-dived, for a variety of reasons. I attended Kiser Jr. and Greensboro (Grimsley) Sr. high schools, graduating in 1966. Those years produced in me a strong sense of what general path I wanted to pursue in life.
Alas, I was not strong enough to do what I knew was best. Instead, I did what my mother wanted me to do, for what she thought were very good reasons. From that point on, my education consisted of a series of mistakes, all entirely of my own making, made for what I also thought were good reasons, though not really what I wanted to be doing, more what I thought was expected of me by others.
My college education began at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, because I thought highly of their school of journalism (without actually knowing anything about it). My time there was two of the most miserable years of my youth. At UNC I was awash in a sea of people to whom I could not relate, try as I might. And I did try, assuming my misery was all me (which in one sense it was).
After an interlude with Uncle Sam, I enrolled at Guilford College in continuing education. Same result, different school. After a job change, I enrolled in Johns Hopkins Evening College. Same result, different school – again. [Note: I did earn two degrees at Hopkins; and, while I say “different school”, sharp-eyed readers will note a commonality.]
The moral of this story? Well, if there is one, I suppose it goes along these lines:
- the best education you can get is the one you give yourself
- never ignore the still small voice; it knows you better than anyone
- learn to produce something tangible, preferably something useful
I knew those lessons in elementary school, and consistently failed to act on them, to my regret. Do not be me. It is (almost) never too late. Act now.