UNC Chapel Hill 2.0

Two years ago, I took a group of students to visit the campus of UNC-Chapel Hill. Shoot, it was so dang fun that I decided to do it again.

UNC is the flagship school of our state. Sure, there's Duke, N.C. State, and Wake Forest, but they all really live in the shadows of the University of North Carolina Tar Heels. After all, it is the Tar Heel State (for reasons only history nerds would care about). A lot of my students are die hard UNC fans, which makes this trip so fun.

Kids playing games at "The Pit".

This year had a couple of upgrades. We got a sneak peak at the inside of Kenan Memorial Stadium where the Tar Heels play football, we got to go inside a museum dedicated solely to UNC Basketball (how many schools have one of those, right?), and we had a professor from the Congo come and teach my kids how to speak basic Lingala. We also got to hear from my buddy Pat O'Shea, who used to be a teacher at HMS before taking a job at UNC's dermatology clinic.

The activities, tours, and lectures were great, but if you asked my kids, many of them would say that the day's highlight came when we ate lunch at the Ram's Head dining hall on campus. All you can eat pizza, cheeseburgers, french fries, ice cream and cookies - now they ALL want to go to college!

Seriously though, the best part of the day came when we were finally back at HMS, and everyone was getting off the buses and returning to class. One boy sought me out. His name is Marcus, and he hasn't exactly been a star student this year. He's a little behind developmentally, which has made him frustrated with school in general. As a way to deal with being behind, he's become a class clown and a major distraction to teaching. But Marcus came up to me today in all soberness and just said, "Thank you, Mr. Olsen. I'm glad you let me come today."

"Me too, Marcus," I responded.

Then he gave me the special African-American-hip-homie handshake, a true sign of camaraderie and trust in the black community, and walked away back to class. He's the only student that came back to say thanks, and it made my day.

Sitting outside the Dean Smith Center, the Holy of Holies of college basketball. The kids were given these shirts as a parting gift, but some didn't want to wear them. Can you pick out the Duke fans? Can you say "sore losers"?

The full photo album can be viewed at my new Facebook page, http://www.facebook.com/Eminolsen

The Art of Losing It

I am an emotional wreck. Surprisingly, it’s not because of my job – that breakdown came yesterday, but I really don’t feel a need to elaborate or beat that dead horse any further. No, today I’m an emotional wreck for an entirely different reason.

It started this morning when I went opened my computer. I went to see what was happening on Facebook, and the first thing I saw was a picture posted by my sister Holly. The picture was of my two darling nieces, Olivia and Ruby, snuggled tightly into the backseat of their car with toys, electronics, games, and headphones up to their necks. The caption at the bottom of the picture said, “And so it begins!” I knew this day was coming, but I didn’t realize it would come so quickly. My sister Holly, along with her husband Adam and three beautiful children, are moving to Connecticut today.

It’s been a tough transitional time for my sister and her family. Adam’s been practically living in Connecticut for the last two months anyway because of work (which is why they’re moving in the first place), leaving Holly alone with three needy girls. Olivia, the oldest, has a very sensitive soul, and has had a few breakdowns of her own leading up to this moment. Ruby and Sonoma are a little too young to care (Ruby is 4, Sonoma almost 2), but a cross-country move is a big deal for just about anyone.

Holly and I are very close, and have talked on many occasions about the move. While she’s thrilled to be leaving Utah (and moving to a state where your vote actually counts), she’s expressed a lot of anxiety for her girls, especially Olivia. She’s been under a lot of stress packing and holding down the fort without her husband. It’s been a lot for her to handle, and much could be said about her strength and resiliency.

So when I saw that picture with that caption, looking into the eyes of my smiling yet nervous nieces, I couldn’t help myself. I balled. I cried like a child. I cried like my nieces should have been crying. Yet somehow they were able to compose themselves and smile, leaving the 26-year old man to look like the child.

After this outburst of emotion, I quickly got myself together and called Holly, who was by that point on the road somewhere, probably still in Utah or maybe Wyoming. As her phone rang and rang all the way to her voicemail, I could feel the emotions within my bosom welling up again like a rising tide. When it came time for me to leave a message, I was back at it, crying uncontrollably, throwing an occasional word into the receiver and then choking on it. One minute and thirty-five seconds of inane babble.

You’d think by that point I’d be over it with an empty tear clip, but twenty minutes later while chowing down on my morning bowl of shredded wheat, Holly called me back, and my inability to suppress my emotions shined brighter than ever. Holly was clearly worried about me, and kept asking, “Jack, what’s wrong?” followed by "I couldn't understand your message. Is everything okay?"

By this point I was laugh-crying, repeating aloud how ridiculous this was. Finally I breathed deeply and apologized to Holly for my estrogen-infused breakdown, and told her that I loved her and her husband and girls so much, and that I was thrilled for them to be joining Celeste and I on the East Coast. That's all.

Perhaps I should have just sent her a text message.