One of the few certainties of a return home is that—sooner or later—I’ll pass Charlotte Catholic High School. Situated on a main thoroughfare and on the way to my house from just about anywhere in the city, CCHS looms over town with an ominous presence I’d sooner associate with an industrial factory. It is a sprawling mass of former office buildings now converted into a holy institution devoted to higher education—or so declares the school’s website. These days, I rarely think about how much I’ve changed since then, but sometimes when I drive by I’ll see current seniors enjoying lunch outdoors and wonder if they’ll be as shocked as I was when I finally got out.
It’s difficult to reflect upon the ongoing struggles between students and administrations without a dose of cynicism, which is not to say that all of the high school experience was a negative one; on the contrary, I find much of it unforgettable. I made lasting relationships, learned from wise and knowledgeable teachers and gained the experience to carry me through the darkest of hours. In that retrospect, high school remains a valuable period, but one I wouldn’t be eager to relive any time soon.
My high school experience was different from the average one. I never had to worry about what to wear because it always came down to four different colors of polo shirts and that mind-wracking choice between khaki or blue slacks. That never annoyed me—if anything, it made life a little simpler—but the complications came in other ways.
Led by the Dean of Students, Randy Belk, the administration created a biblically-inspired atmosphere where they were in heaven, and we were in hell. Girls could wear skirts no shorter than half a foot past the knee. Guys’ hair could not show behind the ears. Teachers couldn’t discuss things like contraception and drug education or promote anything that existed outside of Catholic teachings. I had several brilliant teachers, captivating men and women who knew how to instruct and listen equally but unfortunately couldn’t share all their wisdom.
When Mr. Belk caught one of my classmates selling weed to another student, the administration believed they had unmasked an underground subculture of drugs. But every high school has a drug culture; treating the students as lepers or the only teenagers involved in drugs only isolated us further. They enforced a random drug-test policy in order to silence discussion with fear. Because they thought we were completely protected by the religious affiliation of our school, they were also under the impression that we didn’t face the same issues as any other adolescents maturing in these high-speed times. Instead of educating, they punished relentlessly.
When I arrived at UNCW, the number of choices suddenly available to me felt like a just reward for enduring so long without many. I spent the summer before college neatly packing away 18 years worth of life and ideas, and here in Wilmington I was finally allowed to apply it to my daily decision-making. If my voice held any sway in the Catholic schools network, I would beg to allow the students more freedom and more exposure to the real world.
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