Ignoring Your Mentor

Randy Adams was the guidance counselor at West Limestone High School in the mid 90’s. He was more than just my guidance counselor, though; he was my first real mentor. Back in those days, we could take an elective class to serve as a teacher’s aide, so I worked as his aide for a good two years. Mr. Adams was and still is a gifted educator who truly inspired me, and had my best interests at heart.

This is a story about how I rejected his help when it mattered most, and angered him beyond words.

from L to R, my good friend Holly (she appears in this story later), Mr. Adams, and me, after our graduation from the leadership group I mentioned in the boxes story. I think this was April 1999, the month this story takes place.

Mr. Adams helped me figure out what colleges to consider attending. Ultimately, I set my heart on attending Birmingham Southern. It seemed like the perfect place for someone trying to escape the box-packer, factory worker destiny predicted by the ASVAB. It’s about as anti-factory and liberal artsy as it gets in Alabama.

Nevermind the fact that my family didn’t have a ton of money - definitely not the kind of money that would pay tuition at a small, private, Methodist school in Birmingham - so all I needed was BSC’s biggest scholarship offer and I’d be on my way. Surely the valedictorian at West Limestone High School, where the football field was separated from the cow field next door by a chicken wire fence, which boasted a senior class of 62 students, would qualify for that amount of money. I sat back and waited on that full ride to come in, around mid-April when decisions like that were handed out. 

I remember getting the letter in the mail from Birmingham Southern that informed me of my scholarship offer. They were pleased to offer me exactly $1500 annually and they couldn’t wait to see me in August!

Reality sunk in quickly. That would maybe pay for a class, annually, and the rest of the astronomical tuition would be on me. 

That sounded like a whole lot of debt. 

It sounded like a whole lot of stress. 

My family was willing to do whatever they needed to do to help me, but seeing as how my dad got worked up over buying things like new shoes every year, it just didn’t feel right to ask them for that sort of help - and I didn’t feel good about starting my life out with huge school loans. 

I went to school the next day, and sadly, dramatically informed Mr. Adams that my dream had died, and I didn’t know what to do. What were my chances of getting more scholarship money later, I asked. “Not likely,” ever the realist, Mr. Adams, responded. 

I sat with all this for about a week. I was just distraught, and felt like an idiot. How short-sighted and stupid of me to think I would get money for a small private school. Looking back, I realize it was also stupid to think I could afford all the other things that would surely go along with a small private school. I never would have fit in there. I guess I subconsciously knew that, in addition to a good education, I really needed to find a place that would accept me - who at that time was a nerdy, friendly, optimistic girl who hadn’t been out of the pasture very often.

One day, I got home from school, was making a snack, and I stopped in my tracks. I was paralyzed for a second. A voice in my head, the one that I would eventually learn was the voice of my truth, said, with conviction, “go to UNA.” 

The University of North Alabama was my backup choice. I never even toured their campus, which is ironic because I ended up giving campus tours there for 3 years. However, in that moment, it all clicked for me. With my score of 34 on the ACT, UNA would pay for 4 years of tuition, housing, and even books. All I’d have to do is feed myself and keep a 3.0 gpa. No loans needed. I could (and did) get a job to earn food money (I was a telemarketer for the admissions office and to this day hate talking on the phone, because I was on the phone from 3:30-7:30 pm, 3 days a week, for 3 straight years).

UNA was, and still is, an excellent school. It was mid-sized, roughly 5,500 students at the time, and in Florence, about 45 minutes away. I could live on campus and gain some independence, without being drastically far away from home. There would be plenty of people there from my tax bracket.

I went back to my room, pulled my UNA folder out of my filing cabinet (didn’t everyone have a filing cabinet for their college decisions?), called their admissions office, and the rest is history. 

When I called, Ashley, the admissions counselor I’d later work with as a work study student, said, “we’ve been really hoping you would call us, since you were one of the few people who qualified for this scholarship. Can’t wait to see you this summer for orientation.”

Whether or not she meant it, it was all the validation I needed. 

It turns out one of the other people who qualified for the scholarship would be my roommate in the dorms and still to this day one of my very best friends, Karen. We met on the first day of freshman year, in UNA 101, bonded over our scholarships, and the rest was history. This means we have been laughing together a really long time. Also, we are old.

The very next day, after I made my final decision and felt really good about it, Mr. Adams pulled me out of Mrs. Hardt’s American Government class, first thing in the morning. This was common at WLHS. People got pulled from class all the time for various unimportant things. I one time got pulled from class to go get Christo’s Dari-Delite cheeseburgers for a group of people.

Standing there in the corner of Mrs. Hardt’s little doorway, we had the following conversation.

Mr. Adams: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Mr. Adams: I pulled some strings. You’ve got a free ride to Birmingham Southern. They’re going to pay your tuition for 4 years. Congratulations. (Pauses and smiles, very proud of himself for making his mentee’s dream come true. Also, even when he is excited, he’s deadpan, so that statement was delivered as written, with no exclamation marks.)

Me: Well, that’s too bad, because I decided I’m going to UNA. I called them yesterday and accepted their scholarship.

Mr. Adams: (still smiling; he’s one of those people who smiles more and stays deadpan when he’s mad) I’m sorry, what.

Me: Yeah, sorry, I’m definitely going to UNA. They are paying tuition and housing and books. I’m not going to Birmingham Southern.

Mr. Adams: (not smiling anymore) Where you’re going is to my office as soon as school is over today; we will talk about this later.

I slunk back into Mrs. Hardt’s class, and pretty soon, everyone had heard about what happened.

Including Mr. Bailey. 

Mr. Bailey was the biology and anatomy teacher. Mr. Bailey went to UNA. He had a similar lightbulb moment over his career choice while at UNA. He was out playing flag football with some friends after dinner, and a voice in his head simply said “teach.” That was it. It stopped him in his tracks and everything suddenly made sense. He was glad he listened that day.

Mr. Bailey grabbed me by the arm as I was walking a sad little march to Mr. Adams’ office after school, redirected me the other way down the hall, and said “we’re meeting in my office instead.”

Mr. Adams was already there, fuming. He was so mad he wasn’t actually smiling at that point.

My friend Holly had joined in to support me. A heated conversation followed. I was mostly quiet. I didn’t know what to say. I just knew I had made the right decision and couldn’t explain it further.

Mr. Bailey at one point said, “Randy, just let her go.”

And with that, Mr. Adams stormed out of the room. Holly and I loaded up in my truck, I took her home, and that was it. 

I don’t remember much about the last few weeks of my senior year. But I do know that Mr. Adams is one of the kindest and most forgiving humans I have ever met. He seemed to forgive me, though I’m not sure since we have never talked about this since it happened.

Still today, when I think about this story, I feel horrible about Mr. Adams putting himself on the line for me, and then rejecting him so irresponsibly. So, Mr. Adams, if you’re reading this, please accept my apology. As a grown adult, I am horrified that I rejected your kindness so rudely and hope you can forgive me. 

But, I also felt in my bones like I was doing the right thing. As much as I hated to disappoint anyone - especially Mr. Adams, who I loved and respected - I felt like I had no choice but to listen to the Voice of Truth. Ultimately, I’m glad I listened. I’m sure things would’ve been fine at Birmingham Southern, had I gone. But as it turns out, the people at UNA were what made my college experience beyond phenomenal. It was the perfect place for me, and I knew it would be from the minute I stepped on campus for orientation.

The moral of this story is, when the voice in your head speaks to you, listen. This would not be the last time I needed to recognize, and listen, to that voice, even though I might not have fully understood why it was telling me what it did.