The Long Journey to Chapel Hill

God works in mysterious ways.  A tired cliche?  Yes.  But what follows is a story too riddled with coincidences to be one itself.

I first applied to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill's law school back in 2009.  I applied there and a dozen other schools, and got almost a dozen rejections.  As a result of my dimming prospects, I applied to Teach For America as a backup plan in case nothing worked out.  Coincidentally, it wasn't until after I had accepted the offer to join TFA that one of my top schools - the University of Utah - finally got around to offering me a seat in their program.  By that time I was committed.  Law school would have to wait for two years.  I was going to be a teacher in North Carolina.

One of the first things Celeste and I did when we arrived in our new state was visit the UNC campus.  In those first few months living and teaching in the Tar Heel State, I became more convicted about attending UNC.  It was a top 30 law school.  It was in beautiful Chapel Hill.  I would be an in-state resident, which meant that I’d get one of the most prominent and cost-effective law degrees in the 
nation.  It felt meant to be.

Then comes the matter of actually being accepted.  I mean, sure, I felt like it was meant to be, but I had to convince the admissions committee of the same.  My resume already looked good and was about to look better with TFA under my belt.  I had spoken at length - and in person - with the Director of Admissions at UNC, and she had helped me to craft a newer, sharper application.  Jackson Olsen 2.0.  The only thing, she said, was my LSAT score.  It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great, either.  Bring that score up even by a point, she said, and I would become an irresistible candidate.  As if that wasn't enough, Celeste and I went to the Raleigh Temple shortly afterwards, and it was there where I heard (or felt) the voice of the Lord speaking to me.  No voice of thunder.  No ray of light from the heavens.  Just a simple phrase that imprinted itself onto my soul harassed me like a mosquito: retake the LSAT.

When God speaks, you listen.  So, shortly after this experience, I began preparing in earnest to take the LSAT one more time.  For those of you who don’t know, the LSAT is a miserable test, and preparing for it is about as enjoyable as passing a kidney stone. It's full of logician's games and archaic text and advanced analytical reasoning that will bore you as much as it will confound you.  I hated that test, but who was I to argue with God?  For several months, I sacrificed my Saturdays (which are an extremely valuable commodity for first year teachers) and spent them at the local library with my nose in LSAT prep books.  I even took a Kaplan LSAT Prep Course that virutally guaranteed an improved score of 8-10 points.  8-10 points? I thought.  Heck, alls I need is ONE.  I smiled from ear to ear.  All I needed was one measly point.  Nine or ten points and I'd be ready to apply to Harvard or Notre Dame.

Well, I got that point I was hoping for.  Trouble is, I got it in the wrong direction.  As in, my score dropped - not gained - a point.  It wasn't a dramatic drop obviously, but it was just enough to rattle my cage and make me look like a complete jackass.  Lousy Kaplan.  I had never been so crushed.  I had done everything right.  I had heeded the Lord's counsel.  I had put in the hours.  I had gone the extra mile in every conceivable way.  I had fallen asleep at my desk too many nights to count, slaving for a test that did nothing more than slap me in the face.

Wounded but undeterred, I began again the long and arduous process of applying to law school. Of course, UNC and the University of Utah were again at the top of my list, but they could only find room for me on their waitlists.  The U of U waitlisting was extremely disheartening, seeing as two years earlier, they had accepted me outright.  Now, after joining one of the most elite social justice programs in the country (TFA), I suddenly didn't make the cut.  Lousy LSAT.

Months passed and nothing changed, so I did what every smart person does: I found a backup plan.  Well, actually, it kind of found me.  The Northeast Leadership Academy at N.C. State University was a specialized leadership cohort designed to prepare teachers to become school leaders.  When I was first exposed to the program, I thought it intriguing, and thought it a good Plan B.  Funny, I thought the same thing about Teach For America when I first heard about it.  And sure enough, by the end of April 2011, I wasn’t going to law school again.  And sure enough, a week later, the University of Utah called to invite me to join their class of 2014.  As for UNC, I never moved off their waitlist.

Two pitches, two strikes.  UNC didn’t look to be in my cards.

My two years at N.C. State have been fantastic, and while there it became undeniably self-evident that I was meant to become a school leader, not a lawyer.  I don’t regret the path I chose for even a minute.  In becoming a school leader, I discovered my “calling”, or at least a good portion of it.  And it was during my time at N.C. State that I also came to the conclusion that now that I was on the school leadership path and intended to stay there for the remainder of my career, that I should get my doctorate.  I'm already tired of being an AP, and even though I yearn to be a principal, I’m sure my ambition and natural instinct to lead will soon take me out of the school building altogether and put me into the Central Office or on a college campus.

I applied to the University of North Carolina in March 2013, and by the beginning of April, I was informed that I had been accepted into their educational leadership doctoral program.  I cranked that 3^rd pitch out of the park, and I couldn’t be happier to become a true Tar Heel after playing the part of a wannabe for so long.

It took me months to forgive God for my second LSAT debacle.  I was so mad at Him for sending me such a strong signal, then have the whole thing blow up in my face like it did.  Only it didn't - I just thought it did, because I was still trying to be a lawyer, and dropping a point didn't fit into my lawyerly future.  I've thought about it time and time again, and I realized that if it hadn't have been for that one point, I never would have joined NELA.  I never would have become a principal.  I never would have stayed in education, which is clearly what I was meant to do.  Had my score gone up - even just a point - I'd have gone to Carolina Law.  Had I not taken it again and just stuck with my original score, I'd be at the U of U, who wanted me until they saw my score drop and second-guessed themselves.  I didn't know it then, but that single point deduction may have been one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

Hark the Sound.

At Home in Henderson

The last of the boxes have been unpacked, the last of the art has been hung, and the washer and dryer are rumbling softly in the distance.  It's official - we are now residents of Henderson, North Carolina.

I remember my first impression of Henderson.  It wasn't in any form positive.  Celeste and I were passing through on a Greyhound bus from Washington, D.C. to Durham (we had no idea at the time that we would end up teaching there), and Henderson happened to be one of the stops.  It looked brittle and depressed.  Its hand-painted signs spoke to its primitive form of capitalism.  Once booming with industry, it had seen its jobs and prosperity leave the county in the late 1980s.  In turn, it had developed into a thriving community of crime, where dozens of rival gangs competed for drugs, money, and city blocks filled with abandoned homes, boarded up warehouses, and tin-roof trailers.

The Henderson bus terminal was little more than an empty parking lot next to an abandoned strip mall.  Only the Greyhound station and a barbershop remained in what used to be a small center of commerce.  Graffiti covered the paint-chipped walls.  As our bus screeched to a stop, a thug right out of a rap video walked past and stared down our bus like it had said something profane about his mother.  He wore the pain of the streets like a mask over his face.  I don't remember the expression I wore, but I do remember pulling Celeste close to me until we rejoined the Interstate.

Of course, Henderson really isn't as bad as my first impression led me to believe.  Sure, it's got its rough patches, but so does every town.  A subtle, under-the-radar evolution has been taking place in our hearts and minds about this place.  It started about 2-3 months ago when Celeste and I began seriously considering what lay ahead for us post-NELA (I graduate in 5 weeks!!!).  We talked about doctoral programs, job opportunities, and maybe even moving to Durham to be closer to friends.  But it was during these long conversations and reflections that we started to consider all of Henderson's assets rather than its liabilities.  We considered our good friends there.  We considered the benefits of living and working in the same town.  We considered the restaurants we loved there that seemed to have that down-to-earth, homegrown atmosphere where your food is served with a smile and a Southern drawl (not as common in the cosmopolitan Wake Forest), and tastes like someone's granny was actually in the kitchen working magic with a taste-tested recipe that dates back to the Lincoln presidency.  We considered the dramatic life improvements that would come with cutting an hour out of our daily commute.  Before you knew it, Celeste and I were actually talking about moving to Henderson.  What's stranger yet is that we were doing it with smiles on our faces.

The rest, as they say, is history.  With the help of wonderful friends and ward members on both ends, we were able to move into our new house on Saturday, and have spent the last five days turning it into home.  There's plenty of space for family and friends alike, so call ahead and reserve your North Carolina vacation today!

We're calling it: Casita Blanca

We think Merlin might be bipolar.  One second he's a nervous wreck, the next he's insisting on a photo shoot.

Previous owners were big UNC fans, which is not a problem for us.  Go Heels!

House and porch from the side.

Looking through the carport to the big, fenced-in backyard.

Side door.

Under the carport looking toward the street.

Backyard...volleyball, anyone?

Living Room

Dining room with swinging door to kitchen.

Half of the family room.  Merlin says hello.

Same half of the family room, just looking the other direction.

Office

Master bedroom

Guest bathroom.  Again, we had no objections to the previous owner's affection for UNC.

Guest bedroom (Charleston themed)

Mud/Laundry room

Family room with an adorable pup playing with his toy.

Look at the concentration!

Goodbyes, Hellos, and The Wildest Week of the Year

I always kind of figured I’d finish out the year at ZV Elementary School.  I had been there since August and was having a great year as an Assistant Principal Intern.  My colleagues were congenial, my boss was inspiring, and the kids were freaking adorable.  But this week everything changed.  Sparked by an Assistant Principal's abrupt departure at a local high school, I was invited to interview for the open position on Monday.  By that afternoon, I had the job offer.  I spent the next few days in a fever, trying to simultaneously wrap everything up at ZV while preparing for my new job as an official Assistant Principal at NV High School.  It was a crazy week, but no two days were crazier – or more different – than my last day at one school and my first day at the other.

Goodbye, Soaring Eagles

I arrived to school early on Thursday so I wouldn’t miss a single kid getting off the buses or being dropped off by their parents.  They didn’t know it yet, but it was my last day at ZV, home of the Soaring Eagles, and arguably the best and highest performing school in the county.  As the kids poured off the bus, I gave them each a high five or a fist bump.  After my first day back in August, I had never forgotten the power of my hand.  To the kids, there was something magical and empowering about bumping fists with Mr. Olsen.

From there I went into our media center where our principal does the morning announcements via video feed.  At the end of her routine, she passed the time over to me, and I announced my departure and new assignment.  As I bid farewell to the students, the camera captured my internal struggle to mitigate my emotions.

I spent as much of the day as I could out and about among the students.  I played with them at recess, poked my head into their classrooms for a wave, and had lunch with them in the cafeteria.  In return I received lots of hugs, fist bumps, and questions from kids with puzzled countenances: “Why are you leaving us?”  “Do you have to go?”

Later that afternoon while I was finishing up some paperwork, Kaylie, one of my favorite students and the most adorable little kindergartner in the building, brought me a card that she and her classmates had made for me.  They had drawn pictures of me, pictures of them, hearts, and some of them seemed to just put down a smattering of all the shapes, letters and numbers that they knew.  It was a precious gift, and it wasn’t the only one I received that day.  I later got similar cards from the second graders, then from the third.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted.  I had so many loose ends to tie up and so many kids to say goodbye to.  I simply couldn’t do it all.  After I had sent the kids off on the buses, Ms. Garrison, my mentor and principal, asked me to come into the media center.  When I arrived, the ZV faculty and staff were waiting for me with a round of applause and a table covered in cupcakes in our school colors.  I instantly turned red and experienced that rush of awkward emotionalism where you don’t really know what to say or how to act.

“No matter where you go, you’ll always be a Soaring Eagle and a member of the ZV Family,” Ms. Garrison eulogized.  She then thanked me for my service.  I, in turn, thanked her and everyone there.

“I have learned so much from all of you,” I said.  “My goal is now to take that knowledge and apply it to other needier schools in the district.”

One by one, members of the staff came by to wish me good luck.  One by one, the cupcakes were devoured.  One by one, the cars in the parking lot disappeared from sight until it was just me and the custodians left.

Welcome to NV High School, Home of the Vikings

I knew that my life as an AP at a low-performing high school would be dramatically different from my life as an AP Intern at a high-performing elementary school.  That prudent forethought is probably what saved me.  Had I not properly prepared myself mentally for what lay in store, yesterday may have done me in.

I arrived early in the morning, at about 6:45.  I entered my office.  As I flipped the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs awoke and buzzed over my head, I discovered a small, barren desk before me without a computer or printer.  There wasn’t even a chair behind it to sit in.  A custodian - an affable guy everyone called Hollywood - said he’d see if he could find me a chair, and I thanked him for it.

I put my bag on the desk to spruce the place up a bit.

I eventually met my new boss, Dr. Jerry Butterfield, at my morning duty station, an area known as “The Crossroads”.

“This is where it all happens,” said Dr. Butterfield.  “If there is a fight, you’ll see it from here.”

The two of us talked through some logistics and protocols for fights, cursing, disrespect, hats, and headphones.  Dr. Butterfield is a giant of a man.  He stands about 6’5” and probably weighs in around 275 lbs.  He was once the most highly recruited football player out of Vance County, and after playing college football at UNC, he had a short career in the NFL with the Arizona Cardinals.  I looked up to him as he fired off about kids and laying down the law.

The first students started to enter the building around 7:30.  Early on, a group of black girls were walking towards us, and I heard them whispering and saw them looking at me.  Two of the girls were smiling, but one had a distinct scowl on her face.  Just as the passed us and moved further down the hall, the skeptical one said loudly and with attitude, “I don’t know that man.  He cute, but I don’t know him.”

During the rest of my morning duty with Dr. Butterfield, we kept getting interrupted by a steady stream of students – my former students – who wanted to come by and say hello.  I was surprised at how many of the kids I actually knew, and was very pleased to be seeing some of them again.  I got a few hugs from the girls, a few handshakes and tepid smiles from the guys, and in a few cases I was stuck in that awkward situation of trying to remember a name from years ago.  I ended up just saying something general like, “Hey you,” or “Oh my goodness, look who it is,” then just moving the conversation forward.

I suspended my first student before 9:00 a.m.  If I was under any illusions about the way life was going to be at high school, they quickly evaporated.  After that I got a call from Butterfield on my radio to meet him at the Crossroads, where he was about to deal with a student that had just cussed him out.  I got there in time to see another suspension take place.  Then we got a call from a teacher who said that two of his students had simply walked out of class.  The day had hardly begun, and already I had processed more suspensions in an hour at NV than I had in seven months at ZV.

The day continued in that same vein.  I met a lot of new students, connected with a lot of formers, and put out one fire after another.  My radio never stopped calling me to another crisis.  Lunchtime at the cafeteria was a circus.  Couples were kissing and and touching in ways that I will not detail.  Boys sagged their pants and wore their hats in front of teachers and administrators without a hint of remorse.  Everyone seemed to have their cell phones out and ear buds in.  Dr. Butterfield, who was standing right there with me, told me in no uncertain terms that this behavior was not tolerated at NV.  But as I looked around at what the students were doing, and then at what the staff – even Dr. Butterfield – was doing, and it made me think that if this kind of behavior wasn’t tolerated, we’re doing a pretty bang-up job not tolerating it.  Trying to follow the orders of my superiors, I told several students to take off their hoods or put away their phones throughout the day, only to see the same students doing the same things an hour later.

Channeling my inner-Joe Clarke

The day was a marathon.  It wasn’t until 3:45 that I realized that I hadn’t sat down or eaten all day.  My lunch tasted especially delicious.  Then I realized I hadn’t used the bathroom all day, either, so I made my way to the faculty lounge, which also has the faculty bathrooms in it.  When I got to the door it was locked, and I still hadn’t been given a key.  So, to avoid an accident on my first day, I went into the boy’s bathroom down the hall.  I entered the poorly-lit bathroom that felt more like a prison cell and inhaled the gag-inducing combination of urine and smoke.  I looked at the dirty walls and inspected the creative profanity etched or markered upon them.  I held my breath and did my business as quickly as I could.  As I rushed over to wash my hands, I noticed that there were soggy cigarette butts in two of the three sinks.

I returned to my office (which now had a chair, thanks to Hollywood) and took off my shoes to rub my aching feet.  I turned on some music and went to work documenting my day’s activities and organizing my office.  No one ever came to see me.  I poked my head into the hallway a few times, but all was quiet except for the speakers on my computer.  Everyone had left in a rush, as is the custom on Friday afternoons.  I worked until dark then walked to my car – the only one left in the lot – and drove south to pick up Celeste.

Winter Travels

We are very blessed to live in a day and age when the world is quite accessible. It used to be that if you wanted to ride on an airplane you would have to contact the airline by telephone to book a flight and then pay for it at the airport. Many people would even hire travel agents to electronically book flights, hotel rooms and vacations. With technology and the internet, we have all become our own travel agents. We can check into a flight on our own computers and even print out our own boarding passes with just a few clicks.

Two tickets to 1972, please!

 

Over the last month Jackson and I have taken advantage of the ease of travel. I especially am grateful that I was able to go home (for the second time in one month!) to welcome home my brother from his mission!

 Welcoming party at the airport

 For the last two years Ben has been serving a mission in Chile - serving the people and the Savior and spreading the news of the gospel. It has been wonderful to see pictures of his jourmey and hear from him every once in a while while he was gone, but as his only other sibling to serve a mission, it was a truly special experience to be there when he returned.

Ben bought this sweet llama jacket for dad in his first area and lugged it around for him for 18 months.

Shortly after its unveiling Ariel took it into custody.

Ben with Cooper - his first time meeting his neice and nephew!

Daisy Mae and I hanging out during family time at the bowling alley.

He came home with the same bashful smile and sincerity, but he also brought home a sweet Chilean accent, a stronger testimony of the Savior, and a suitcase full of Chilean treats. It was remarkable to be with him as he transitioned from being a Elder Britt to being Ben. It is evident that he has left a piece of his heart in Chile and was forever changed by his experiences there.



He's back! Get in line, ladies!!

 



Shortly after my return to NC, Jackson flew to a conference in Texas. The conference was about leadership and community empowerment, and what made this trip special is that he was able to take a former student of his with him on the journey. When he met Jackson two years ago, one of the first things he said was that he wanted to be a pilot. It was his first time on an airplane.

Jackson and Marino on their way to Texas. Yes, that boy is in high school.

 

On the return journey the captain of the plane agreed to have him in the cockpit!

This past week Jackson was able to fly to Connecticut to help his sister, Holly, and her family move. For the past 9 months, the Smiths had been living in Mark Twain's carriage house. While the historical home provided them with tons of space, a huge yard and bragging rights, it also supplied them with tics (which led to lymes disease for one of their kids...), lice (which actually led to some adorable haircuts), and upon their return from Christmas break, a blanket of soot on all of their earthly belongings.

A memorial to the victoms of the Sandy Hook Elementary tragedy.

They lived very close to Newtown.. The girls had a church friend who was killed in the shooting.

Jackson was sent up to loan out his guns (metaphorically speaking, of course) and get them settled into a cute new, slightly less stressful, house right on the coast.

Little Sonoma was displaced by Jackson in her bed. This was a comfy alternative.

After the soot insident, the Smiths lived temporarily in Mark Twains actual house!

Jackson and Adam unloading at the recycling center

 



For now, we are both settled safely in North Carolina. While these travels have been memorable, I am content to have us both in the same house for a while!

An Olsen family Sunday afternoon nap