Dreams. They bewilder and inspire, perplex and invigorate. They come at night and are gone by morning, foggy, fuzzy memories that miraculously mix the mundane and absurd, leaving us to hopelessly ponder their meaning.

Yet some dreams do not dissipate at dawn’s light. They are made of different stuff. They linger and intensify during waking hours. They become impossible to ignore, all consuming. And for some of us, they shape the direction of our lives.

Here, we profile six alumni who followed their dreams and never looked back – and, in the process of tracking their steps along the way, we map out the act of chasing a dream. Because, yes, dreams start with an idea – but, to make dreams come true, you must make the commitment, you must pay your dues. Only then can you expect to catch that elusive break. Only then can you start to wake up a little, start adjusting to the dream, start making it your reality. And then one day, you might finally look in the mirror and declare, “I am living the dream!”

Each of these stories illustrates a particular step in chasing the dream. Perhaps one of them will inspire you to wake up and pursue your passion.

Ericka Williams ’10
The Idea

Fiona Puyo ’09
The Commitment

Pete Kaasa ’08
The Dues

Cary Ann Hearst ’01
The Break

David Lee Nelson ’00
The Adjustment

Amanda Rose ’02
The Dream

Here, food teaches lessons in culture, smiles illuminate a new perspective, songs offer a sense of humanity and streets provide a better understanding of the world. This is a magical place. This is Trujillo, Spain.

Photo essay by Leslie McKellar

The first of the morning light spreads across the pastures and footpaths of the countryside before seeping through, over and around the narrow corridors of the city’s Roman walls. The sky unfolds a deep, dry blue that broadcasts boldly across the Plaza Mayor and slopes slyly into the open-air piazzas. Francisco Pizarro’s shadow casts an outline of the city’s history, its proud heritage of conquistadores, with the shadows from the castle walls further defining that history with lessons in architecture, culture, the arts. And, when the sun is pulled across the sky, leaving it a reflective purple, the people light up the plaza with song, dance, tradition and smiles – until they finally, sleepily, leave the night to the glowing vigilance of La Virgen de la Victoria, the city’s patron saint.

This is a place where things are illuminated.

This is Trujillo: a living, thriving city of 10,000 that rivals the history, beauty, traditions and culture of our own prized city. Not that there’s any competition, really. When it comes to location, College of Charleston students will always come out ahead – especially if they take advantage of the College’s exclusive study-abroad program in Trujillo, Spain.

The Trujillo study-abroad program was founded in 1996 after James and Esther Ferguson donated one of their Trujillo homes to the College of Charleston Foundation. With College faculty staying in the Ferguson home, students staying with local host families and classes taught in La Coria – a 17th-century restored convent owned by the Fundación Xavier de Salas – this brilliant setting has continued to host the Department of Hispanic Studies’ study-abroad program every summer and every spring semester since that inaugural visit. Last year, a fall semester program was introduced for the first time for students from disciplines other than Hispanic studies.

Regardless of the program of study, however, Trujillo is always enlightening. And not just because of its rich history, its Roman baths or its Muslim architecture. Trujillo glows because of its people. It beams with their pride and generosity. And – when students wake, cook, eat, talk, laugh and share with their host families and friends – that’s what sheds light on everything else: the cultural nuances, the common sensibilities, the caring connections. Once that understanding is sparked, that’s when students really start to shine.

This is what Trujillo is all about. This is the power of place.

– Alicia Lutz ’98

And it’s everything she hoped it would be.

“It’s so fulfilling that I can ignore the challenges of traveling. You just find a way to work it out, no matter how hard it is,” says Rose, an actress and singer who traveled with the national tours of Dr. Doolittle and Oklahoma! before she landed a role in Wicked, first on Broadway and then on national tour. “Being on the road is tough – it is. But I never get tired of performing. I never get tired of hearing that audience cheer. That’s how you know you’re doing something important – because it’s important to the audience. That’s what I do it for. That never gets old.”

But it never gets easy, either. Travel woes and having no real place to call home aside: Even after three years working on Wicked, Rose still isn’t so practiced that she won’t forget her lines.

“You know, you’re out there all day, it becomes mechanical, you start to think about what you’re going to have for lunch or whatever. And then: blankness,” sighs Rose, who gets called back to Wicked to fill in for actresses on leave every so often, though her current gig is outside of Philadelphia, playing the title role in a regional production of Gypsy.

“This is a dream role for me. I’ve loved Gypsy, of course, forever. It’s really been an amazing opportunity to have such a dominant role, and it’s exciting because my character takes a big turn and really develops,” says Rose, who stars alongside Emmy nominee Robert Newman (Guiding Light, Curtains) and four-time Tony nominee Tovah Feldshuh (Law and Order, Golda’s Balcony). “Tovah is great – she’s an old-school theater actor, so it’s a completely different process. It’s been really great to watch and learn from her.”

It’s all a learning process for Rose, who appreciates every role she’s ever had for whatever it has to offer, and she reciprocates by giving each part everything she has.

“I feel like every show I do is the best show I’ve ever done. They’ve all been amazing in their own ways,” she says. “Besides, if you do one awesome show and then compare everything to it – if you set the bar so high – you’ll be miserable. You move on so quickly in this business, you just can’t look back.”

But if you do look back, you’ll see that Rose’s roles have steadily increased in prominence and prestige. Remember, this Broadway actress started out right where all the dreamers start out in New York City: in line to audition.

“Auditioning becomes your job. It’s not scary. It’s not exciting. It’s just what you do,” says Rose, who remembers sitting all day long only to be turned down over and over and over again. “You get over it. You go on with the rest of your life. You’ve got to get to another audition, so you can’t let it bother you. You come in, sing your songs, and they either love it or they hate it. Sure, it’s disappointing sometimes. There’s no human out there who can’t get their hopes up if they really want the part. But you can’t let it bring you down. You just do what you have to do.”

And that means taking whatever work you can find to support yourself: retail, bartending, catering, office work, singing Christmas carols as a Rockette. Whatever.

“The best side job I had was ushering Broadway shows, though,” says Rose. “It was during show times, and no one auditions during show times, so it worked with my schedule. Plus, I got to see the insides of different theaters.”

Including the St. James Theatre. The first time she ushered there, she recognized a metal bar in the balcony and remembered putting her feet on it as a kid – leaning over it and nearly tumbling out of the balcony with excitement. It had been her first trip to New York, her first Broadway musical, and it had changed the course of her life.

“All of a sudden, I could remember that feeling all over again,” says Rose. “That feeling of knowing what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t care what it was going to take, I had to do that one day.”

And she made it happen. That day is here.

“At first, it was always about getting a Broadway show. And then I got it. So, now what?” shrugs Rose. “I love Wicked, and I want to do another Broadway show, but that’s not the important thing to me. I just want to perform. I’m just happy doing what I’m doing.”

She is, after all, living the dream.

– Alicia Lutz ’98
Photos by Leslie McKellar

Cary Ann Hearst ’01

She jumped up, “did the get-paid boogie” and headed out to play a gig with her husband, Michael Trent.

Like nothing even happened.

“We know better than to assume that any one thing will be the thing that propels us into some kind of superstardom – our career will be a series of breaks,” shrugs Hearst, a Nashville native whose big voice, folksy lyrics, rootsy guitar strumming and energetic boot stomping have been rocking the Charleston music scene for years and are now gathering fans nationwide. “There have been many ‘big breaks’ along the way. It’s an accumulation of all the good things that have happened, combined with how hard we are willing to work and how long we are willing to work at it. The breaks sure make the work easier to do, though!”

For example, True Blood’s July 2010 episode featuring her “Hells Bells” gave Hearst some great exposure as a solo artist – including an interview on NPR’s Weekend Edition – which has translated into both a boost in sales of her most recent solo release, Lions and Lambs, and some extra momentum for Shovels and Rope, the duo she and Trent comprise.

“It was a great thing, and while it’s not the cornerstone of our entire career, it certainly has proved to be a nice block in the foundation,” says Hearst, who majored in history. “In this business, even the tiniest successes are surprising and thrilling.”

Not that Hearst’s successes have been tiny: In the past year, Shovels and Rope toured with Butch Walker, who also produced Lions and Lambs and whose The Spade she sang on, and with Hayes Carll – whom Hearst duets with in “Another Like You” on his new album, KMAG YOYO (& Other American Stories).

“It was my first track-hire. I was paid to sing on a label-backed record!” gushes Hearst, who – a few months after recording the duet – cold-called Carll’s label to express her interest in touring with him. Sure enough, Shovels and Rope got the gig. “These people have busted their asses to get to where they are, and were very generous to give us the opportunity to use their shows as a platform for ourselves. I would say that we are aspiring to reach the level where Hayes and Butch are, but that kind of thing is a matter of time and determination. It’s not like it happens overnight, over a year; it’s a lifetime of work.”

And Hearst is certainly putting in the effort. She and Trent spent 200 days of 2011 on the road (they travel in The Covered Wagon, a tricked-out 2005 GMC Savana that has a queen-size bed and “looks like a rhino rolling down the road”) and are currently on The Unchained Tour, a “traveling circus of a show” begun by George Dawes Green. After that, they’ll be touring extensively with Johnny Corndawg.

Sound exhausting? Hearst finds it invigorating.

“I really love the freedom and abandon that comes with a career in music. We are wild animals out there!” she says. “I love that it’s my job to entertain people and make them feel good. I love to think that we are part of the soundtrack to people’s lives.”

As for her own life, she seems to have hit just the right note.

“I am doing exactly what I set out to do from a young age. It comes with its own problems, as does any job or lifestyle, but it seems to be part of what I am destined to do. I can say that my dreams are coming true,” says Hearst, noting that those dreams have evolved over the years. “In my early 20s, I thought more about being some kind of rock star. Now, it’s not that I don’t want to be a rock star, it’s just my idea of what it means to be a rock star is different. Being a rock star isn’t having the great record deal anymore; it’s owning the record company – and, more importantly, the publishing. I want to be the boss, not a star.”

And yet – given Hearst’s talent, spunk and drive – she could very well make it to stardom any minute.

“Although we are resolved that we are making it, every day, just by continuing to work and play – because that’s the dream – I certainly have not ‘arrived,’” she says. “We have high expectations, for our life and for our career. So, while we are very much satisfied with what we have been able to achieve, we want to keep on making it every day.”

In many ways, then, it’s less about the dream than it is about the chase itself … and catching whatever breaks you can along the way.

– Alicia Lutz ’98
Photos by Leslie McKellar

Nelson used to write at home, at his computer. Inevitably, he’d become distracted. Now the stand-up comedian makes sure to get out of the house, and only brings along pen and paper. He is a man on a mission: to make funny. A disciplined approach, he’s noticed, brings results.

He’s changed other habits, too, most notably quitting drugs and alcohol. The intoxicants were a lot of fun, Nelson says, until one day they weren’t. With a clear head, he began to analyze the impact of his hedonism on his career, and how it had dulled his ambition, sidetracked his plans and sapped his energy. Booze and pot, in other words, had become distractions. Nelson finally decided that if he was going to make it in the entertainment world, he’d need every advantage available.

“It’s a very competitive, challenging field,” says Nelson. “I felt like the way I was living, partying, was an extra hurdle, impediment, in my way.”

What’s more, rather than just jettison bad habits and memories off into the past, the theatre major has used some of the struggles in his life to comedic advantage, incorporating them into his stand-up routines. For example, Nelson’s award-winning one-man show, Status Update, which he’s performed across the country and recently in Scotland, details his teetotalling and divorce. Nelson is so candid about his life, in fact, that a reviewer in Texas described Status Update as “at times uncomfortable and occasionally heartbreaking, but frequently funny.”

Despite the sometimes dark and melancholy themes, Nelson’s performances are designed to produce laughter – something that always validates his years of hard work when he hears it.

“It’s an extremely gratifying feeling to connect with an audience,” says Nelson, who compares a successful show to riding the crest of a mighty wave on a surfboard and enjoying the momentum while staying in charge of what’s to come. (For fear of ruining the comparison, he asks that you ignore the fact he’s actually never been on a surfboard.) “You’re totally with the crowd, but you’re also in front of them. You’re excited for them because you’re about to hit them with something and you can do no wrong. You’re all relating to this thing you created. It’s a very powerful feeling.”

But like many artists, the thrill of success doesn’t last for long. He’s fallen victim to continually raising his career expectations and becoming frustrated when things don’t go as planned. Misery would set in until Nelson reminded himself that if it were easy to be a stand-up comic, everyone would be doing it. These days, he takes time to acknowledge his accomplishments and savor his successes. He draws inspiration, too, from Nido Qubein’s maxim that winners compare their achievements with their goals, while losers compare their achievements with those of other people.

“I’m pretty much doing the things I set out to do when I left Charleston,” says Nelson.

That’s not to say he wouldn’t mind going on tour and attracting hundreds of people to each show. Or that he wouldn’t jump at an invitation to perform on a late-night comedy show. It’s just that he’s made peace with the fact that such opportunities might not come tomorrow – and that slow and steady often wins the race.

“I just want to keep doing what I’m doing,” says Nelson, who this May will premier a new show at Charleston’s Piccolo Spoleto festival, where he’s been performing since 2006. “I really have no timeline for this.”

– Jason Ryan
Photos by Leslie McKellar

Such was the scene at last year’s November to Remember: Kaos for the Coach, a professional wrestling charity benefit at Goose Creek High School. For Kaasa, a 27-year-old Charleston native who’s trained the last two years to become a professional wrestler, it was just a stepping-stone. One day, he hopes, wrestling fans will mention his stage name, Kaasanova, in the same breath as Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock.

It is a dream that has been long in the making. As a child, Kaasa was a gymnast, developing tumbling skills. In high school, he competed in submission wrestling, otherwise known as Brazilian jujitsu. While at the College, he flirted with the idea of competing in mixed martial arts (i.e., ultimate fighting).

“I don’t like to hurt people,” Kaasa says about his decision against a career in that truly brutal sport. “And I don’t think getting punched in the face is the best job.”

What he thinks is perhaps the best job: professional wrestling.

After graduating with a degree in exercise science, Kaasa embarked on this hopeful career path by attending the WWA4 Wrestling School in Atlanta. There he learned some of the finer points of the sport and became fluent in professional wrestling lingo. Usually a quiet and mild-mannered soul, Kaasa becomes enlivened when talking about the babyface and the heel, or the good guy and bad guy wrestlers. He explains with enthusiasm the parts of a typical wrestling match, when one wrestler shines until the cutoff, in which the losing opponent makes a move to change the bout’s momentum. Falls are known as bumps in Kaasa’s world, and he says he’s very careful not to give his opponent a stiff shot, in which a thrown punch, for example, mistakenly lands and causes pain.

It’s obvious from Kaasa’s aerial maneuvers that athleticism is critical to his routine. But, he says, his performance is as much about theater as it is sport. Before matches, he explains, competitors loosely choreograph the upcoming entertainment. Match organizers determine winners and losers beforehand, and newbie wrestlers like Kaasa are often asked to show deference to veterans.

That’s not the only way up-and-coming wrestlers pay their dues. Sometimes, in events like the Goose Creek match, wrestlers like Kaasa have to help set up the ring. All these sacrifices and chores are done humbly, in the hope that, one day, the hard work will pay off. Kaasa likens the trials of an aspiring professional wrestler to those of a musician looking to land a record deal: “You can play anywhere and everywhere and never go anywhere.”

Still, you have to commit. You have to keep performing and performing, hoping one day you’ll get noticed. And so Kaasa trains hard for his chance at a professional wrestling career. At home in Charleston, he works part time as a massage therapist while maintaining a grueling workout routine, jogging along Folly Beach five days a week and running up and down flights of hotel stairs. Perhaps more challenging than this physical conditioning is the bravado he must feign. Kaasa rehearses his Kaasanova character constantly, trying out lines while driving his car, recording trash-talking pre-match interviews (or promos) with peers and practicing strutting into the ring like a playboy, a rose in his mouth and a silk robe wrapped loosely around his body.

When Kaasa is Kaasanova, beware. No one, it seems, is safe from his arrogance, not even Mom. Kaasa has been known to grumble at his mother when fixing breakfast, affecting a menacing tone and asking, “How dare you come into my kitchen so early in the morning, getting in my way?”

Mom doesn’t hesitate to give some lip right back, at which point Kaasa picks her up and shakes her – in a loving way, of course. “She’s the coolest mom by far,” he says. “Sometimes, she’ll cut a promo right back on me.”

Kaasa is no less loving of his other family members, and he credits wrestling for giving them all a common bond. He recalls how his father took him to his first wrestling match and how he eventually wants to open a wrestling ring in Charleston with his younger brother, Jesse. Kaasa’s older brother, Michael, who has Down syndrome, is a fanatical wrestling fan, too, and serves as an inspiration to Kaasa.

Once, Kaasa says, he woke with tears in his eyes after a particularly vivid dream involving his brothers. He was standing in the ring with Jesse, championship belts around their waists, and Michael stood between them. In a moment of jubilation, each younger brother grabbed one of Michael’s hands and raised it high.

Sweet as the image is, though, Kaasa does not want to dream forever about the championship belt. Someday soon, he hopes, his dream will become reality.

– Jason Ryan
Photos by Diana Deaver

The next day, the French native met with her boss. He asked a straightforward question: What do you want for a career? Puyo’s answer surprised him. Heck, it even surprised herself.

“I want to play golf,” she said.

So began an unconventional start to a professional golfing career, leaving behind the world of finance for glory on the links. Considering Puyo had played for the Cougars, it wasn’t a total pipe dream to think she could make the LPGA Tour. But she also knew she had to change some habits to improve her performance. By her own account, she had been a “decent” golfer at the College, but not outstanding, and was the second-ranked player on the team.

She discussed her dream with her boyfriend, Eike Seja, whom she had met at the College when he was an exchange student. He told her that if she wanted to get better, she needed to set specific goals and work to accomplish them, much like one has to do when starting a business. This disciplined approach motivated Puyo, who soon developed a training regimen, practice schedule and list of tournaments in which she would compete. She decided she would practice six days of the week and train for three, jogging and performing balance exercises. By focusing her attention and energy, she happily discovered, she could accomplish more goals in less time.

“It was a shock, in a way, to get results so fast,” she admits. “One of the things that scared me was the idea that you have to go hit balls from eight to eight. But it’s not necessary.”

This wasn’t the first time Puyo felt renewed enthusiasm for the sport. As a teenager in Venezuela, she initially had been thrilled when her father introduced her to golf and bought her a set of clubs, but the sport soon lost its appeal when she realized no one her age seemed to play. Soon enough, the mango and passionfruit trees that lined the golf courses became more interesting than the ball and tee. When Puyo’s family moved back to France, however, she started playing again, eventually earning a scholarship to play at the College.

Years later, when she told her parents that she wanted to give up a career in the business world for another shot at golf, they were supportive.

“Do you believe you can do it?” they’d asked.

Fiona said she did.

“Well, go for it,” they said.

A year after that conversation, and with 12 months of training and practice under her belt, Puyo captured the French championship.

Encouraged by that result, she set her sights on the LPGA Qualifying Tournament in Daytona Beach, Fla., in late November, hoping to make the tour as an amateur. Unfortunately, she came up just short. Nevertheless, her strong performance in 2011 earned her a spot on the Symetra Tour, the LPGA’s development circuit for young players. An even stronger showing on this tour would guarantee Puyo a spot in the big league.

“My goal for 2012 is and has to be to receive LPGA Tour status,” says Puyo. “By playing as many tournaments as reasonable, I will be able to gain further experience, which I believe will be essential for me to be successful on the tour.”

So onward she charges, aware she could be behind a desk right now, in front of a computer screen, analyzing spreadsheets. Instead, she’s driving, chipping and putting her way to the top, unwilling to forever wonder what might have been.

“In the back of my mind, I really wanted to see how far I could get with golf. I had the feeling that I could do better,” says Puyo. “I have the game. Now it’s going to be how much I want it.”

– Jason Ryan
Photos by Mike Ledford

Chasing your dreams isn’t easy. There will be bumps in the road. It can be hard to stay on track. It takes confidence, independence, commitment, focus and the wherewithal to keep on going, no matter what. Ham Morrison ’98 is a case study of that chase – of what it’s like to go after a dream with such vigor, such velocity, that you can’t be stopped.

by Alicia Lutz ’98

Photos by Sully Sullivan

The dry, brown veil of kicked-up dirt and shredded-up asphalt clouds everything – coating the drivers and all they touch, caking into the creases in the crewmembers’ weathered skin, softening the bright air underneath the floodlights.

The incessant, deafening blare of the cars whipping around the track forces the bustling crowds into the silence of their own thoughts, creating a strange, somehow soundless scene. It’s surreal, really: like an ear-splitting silent movie, filmed with a sepia-toned filter that makes the characters look slightly older, slightly more subdued and rough around the edges, than they really are.

But one character stands out from the noisy haze: Easy in his bright blue jumpsuit and his confident grin, Ham Morrison ’98 is the clear protagonist here. This is his dream.

And he’s chasing after it at 200 miles per hour.

If Ham Morrison doesn’t fit in among the seasoned competitors and the skilled mechanics hard at work in the pits, he doesn’t know it – and doesn’t much care. As he makes his way through the rows of garages and trailers, his stride is long and self-assured – the gait of a man who is comfortable wherever he is, in command of every situation and confident in everything he does. Even flying around a racetrack at dangerously high speeds with 20+ drivers who have double the experience.

“I can do it. I can race with the big boys. I know I can,” shrugs Morrison, who first got behind the wheel of a race car in the summer of 1998. He’d just earned his degree in sociology from the College, and – for the occasion – his mother had given him a ticket to the racing school of his choice.

“It was a very badass graduation present,” concedes Morrison, who ended up taking the three-day Advanced Formula Car Racing course at the Bob Bondurant School of High Performance Driving in Prescott, Ariz. “I was hooked immediately. The sensation while you’re out there on the track is incomparable. There is something so refreshing and liberating about relying on your instincts. That first time lit a fire in me, no question about it.”

To further fuel that fire: He beat out the rest of his classmates at the end-of-course race.

“They were no longer offering the advertised prize of sponsoring the race winner in a racing series, but I got to shake hands with Bob Bondurant, which was an inspiring and powerful moment for me,” says Morrison. “That really just made it even more real. That’s what led me to believe that this was something I could do.”

And so, like the true go-getter that he is, he’s been doing it ever since. Is he where he wants to be – where he knows he can be? No. But for the past 14 years, Morrison has kept the dream alive. And that alone says a lot.

It takes a certain kind of confidence to go after your dreams. It also takes a certain kind of ignorance. From the onset, Ham “Hambone” Morrison unabashedly had both: He believed in himself and his dreams. And he didn’t have a clue what he was getting himself into.

“I had no idea what I was doing or where to start, so I knew there’d be a learning curve,” says Morrison, who – upon returning to Folly Beach from the Bob Bondurant School – reached out to the owner of the Summerville Speedway to see what kind of odd jobs he could do there. “All I really wanted to do was break into racing, but you have to start somewhere, so that’s what I did.”

And, in this case, that meant renewing signage, getting new advertisers and hustling sponsorships for the speedway – something that paid off down the road.

“That’s how I first learned about sports marketing,” says Morrison, who took it upon himself to study up on the subject, reading books on motorsports marketing and taking online training through IEG, a global sponsorship consulting firm.

“I didn’t have a choice! I’d just bought my first race car, and I was starting to realize how much money it was going to take,” says Morrison. “My passion isn’t cheap: For a 20-race season at this level, you’re looking at upwards of $100,000 – or $200,000, if you really want to compete in the top five. That’s one thing I hadn’t bargained for.”

It didn’t take long for him to get up to speed, though – and, in 2009, he established his own full-service sports marketing company, Ham Morrison Racing (HMR).

It is – in essence – the life support for his racing dreams.

“My racing career needs to support itself,” he says, adding, “I’m at the point in life that I can’t get away with spending a bunch of money on a hobby, and I don’t want to take time out of my family time to be raising money. So, I thought, Why not make it my job?”

It’s a job that suits Morrison well: He knows just about every business owner in Charleston, his confidence is contagious and he’s nothing if not resourceful.

“I look for a win-win in every marketing relationship I pursue. If I don’t see a win-win, I try to create one. If I can’t, then it just doesn’t make sense. If it doesn’t make sense to them, I’m not interested,” he says, noting that his business model is largely about mutual exposure. Whether he’s holding fundraisers for local charities, driving his race truck in holiday parades or throwing out the first pitch at a RiverDogs game, Morrison and his sponsors are getting out there in the community together.

“My sponsors are like family to me. So are my charity partners. We’re all part of the same team,” says Morrison, whose commitment to his business and charity partners directly translates to their commitment to his cause. “We’re all a part of Charleston’s one and only NASCAR team. We’re going to do what it takes to make this thing happen.”

It’s something of a grassroots movement committed to making Morrison’s racing dream come true.

And yet Morrison himself is in the driver’s seat.

There’s no room for anyone else when Ham Morrison takes the wheel. His team of support can only take him so far. This is his dream, and his alone. Ultimately, it’s all up to him.

He knows this as he pulls into the Myrtle Beach Speedway alone, as he unloads the trailer alone, jacks up the truck, makes sure that it’s right, secures the tires and fills the tank alone. All around him are crews of six or more, doing the heavy lifting, taking care of the cars so the drivers can concentrate on their strategy, their confidence. But as a self-made race car driver, Morrison can only rely on himself. That’s all he’s got.

“I’ve been competing on a shoestring all along, and money equals good equipment and crew in this sport,” he says, noting that he typically does have a small crew to help out – although most of them are old friends with minimal mechanical experience. “It’s challenging to compete with teams that have new equipment, parts and well-trained personnel. It is rewarding in a way to know that with limited resources we can run with some of those guys – but just think how we could do on a level playing field.”

The field has never quite been level for Morrison, who started off with not only no money but no experience and no mechanics. He remembers his first race, back in 1998, when he was jeered by the track announcer for driving his 1976 Chevy Nova, held together by duct tape and chicken wire, to the Summerville Speedway for the NASCAR Dodge Weekly Racing Series. And not because he had a funny-looking car.

“I had no idea you weren’t supposed to drive your race car to and from the track. My friends and I would pile in and make the drive together from Folly Beach, then make the drive back together with a few extra dings,” he says. “I didn’t know any other way to do it! I realized quickly that most people haul their race cars on trailers. Everybody had a good laugh on me.”

His inexperience also got him into trouble, when – after advancing to the Thunder and Lightning Division in 2000 – he upgraded to a newer Chevy Nova that needed some mechanical work.

“I put my trust in the wrong guys, dishonest hacks who jerked me around and swindled me for two seasons,” Morrison says. “I quickly realized you need to know about engines. Or, at least, you need a good, reliable mechanic.”

Looking back, it seems like common sense. But remember: There’s a certain naiveté in this kind of confidence – especially when there’s a dream obscuring things.

Morrison was starting to open his eyes to the reality of racing cars, though, and he knew he had a lot to learn. He enrolled in five automotive technology night courses at Trident Technical College in North Charleston, all taught by the school’s then–lead technician, Pete Dambaugh, who allowed the class to rebuild Morrison’s engine and transmission.

“I definitely paid my dues,” says Morrison, who credits Dambaugh and the work that was done to his car at Trident Tech for what happened next: He won a race at the Summerville Speedway.

It was his first big break. And, from there, things began to take off full speed ahead.

It’s not easy to stop a 3,000-pound race car going upwards of 200 miles per hour. But it’s even harder to stop Ham Morrison when he’s got some momentum. And, coming off that first victory, he wasn’t slowing down for anything. Not even the driver coming at his winning Pontiac Trans Am with the classic “bump and run” move, where one car intentionally bumps the car in front of it to move it out of the way.

“It was the last lap of the race, and I knew what I had to do,” says Morrison. “I dragged the brake pedal in the middle of the final turn to keep him from moving me up the track and then gunned it to the finish line. That was an awesome race!”

It was just the first of many breakthroughs during his first full season of racing in 2004, when he finished as the NASCAR Dodge Weekly Racing Series Rookie of the Year and the Summerville Speedway’s Thunder and Lightning Points Champion, his division’s top single title.

“That final-points race was nerve racking,” says Morrison, his eyes widening at the thought of the exciting 35-mile race. “I was right behind my nemesis and fellow points leader, Smoking Pussycat, and I pulled out and finished just ahead of him. It was huge. And a big milestone because that was Summerville Speedway’s last year in business, so I was its last points champion.”

After that speedway closed, Morrison moved on to even higher speeds in the Whelen Late Model Super Truck Series at the Myrtle Beach Speedway, driving his Chevy Silverado super truck off and on throughout 2011.

“Because of the truck’s maintenance costs, we spent the past few years concentrating on marketing research, our sponsorships and participating in community events. But now we’re really ramping up for this next season,” says Morrison, noting that, for the 2012 season, he has moved to the speedway in Dillon, S.C. “This season, I am going to commit like I did in 2004, when I was racing every other weekend. I plan on beating and banging in the truck series top 10!

“If the mojo feels right and the sponsorship opportunities are there after this 2012 season, we’ll gun for racing NASCAR’s elite third tier, the Camping World Truck Series,” he continues. “I’m not going to be satisfied until I’m with the top guys. I’ve always started at the back and climbed toward the front, so I know I can do it. I know I can pull ahead.”

This is the thrill of the chase.

He’s getting closer and closer. And he’s getting there fast, steering carefully as he gains speed with every lap he makes around the track, every turn he takes, every car he passes. It’s dizzying, really. But Ham Morrison is focused on what’s ahead. Nothing else matters. It’s all right here in front of him: the track, the race, the dream.

He takes the wheel. The chase is on.

Yeah, sure, basketball was the one thing in the world that truly made her happy. Just ask her. She’ll tell you about being 5 years old and just falling in love with the game. Then, she’ll smile her quiet smile. But her eyes will brighten like arena lights, and she’ll tell you how excited she was riding home in the afternoons, barely able to contain herself as she waited for the school bus door to creak open and let her out into her side yard, where she’d spend hours upon hours shooting and playing.

Back then, basketball was more than a game. It was a place. A safe place for this tomboy to be a tomboy, a place where she could put it all together – her competiveness, her teamwork, her individual skill. And she had all of it, a lot of it.

That’s what caught the eyes of the coaches at the College when they saw this kid from Blackville, S.C., hoop it up in one of their summer camps. Soon after, they offered her a scholarship, and Ericka Williams ’10 brought her game to the Cougars.

She was good in maroon and white. Very good. She could make the impossible shot look routine. And she had those kinds of games where the points just came in waves: 17 against Mercer, 25 against Davidson, 19 against Morehead State and 21 against Bradley. She averaged in double points scoring her senior year, helping the team advance the deepest in post-season tournament play since becoming Division I.

But it was just a game. At least that’s what the business major thought going into her senior year.

Associate Head Coach Temple Elmore ’85 thought something else. A former Cougar great and member of the College’s Hall of Fame, Elmore played professional basketball internationally after she graduated. She knows what it takes. She knows talent when she sees it, too. And she saw something special in Williams: that It Factor that defies easy explanation.

Elmore had watched Williams come into the program as a very raw talent, struggling at times in learning the fundamentals that the program demanded she master. But Williams, at her core, is a fighter. She never gives up. Elmore was impressed with her work ethic, her intensity and her growth as a person and player.

By Williams’ senior year, Elmore knew she had the stuff to become a professional player. And that’s exactly what she told Williams when she pulled her aside that season.

Elmore’s suggestion hit Williams like a game-winning shot at the buzzer. Everything lit up. Everything made sense now. Her future, before something hazy and distant, came into sharp focus. And she was ready to put everything into it.

In the Hollywood version of Williams’ story, we would endure a music montage of her working hard and then cut to her being drafted and making her professional debut either in the WNBA or on a prestigious international team. In the real-life version, things just aren’t that simple or straightforward.

After graduation, Williams stayed around Charleston, working out and finding part-time employment. For most Southern Conference student-athletes, post-collegiate opportunities are infrequent, if not improbable: like snow in Charleston.

But, as Williams knows, it has snowed in the Holy City, and it will snow again, someday.

Hope isn’t a strategy – at least, not for her. So Williams packed her bags and headed west, where she joined the Houston Jaguars, a semi-professional team. There, she played against some WNBA talent, along with many other professional hopefuls, and found that she measured up, both in talent and skill.

But the Houston Jaguars – and the hope of being seen by scouts – didn’t pay the bills. Williams returned to her hometown last summer to continue training and figure out a better route to playing professional ball. During that time, Elmore helped Williams sign with an agent in Germany, which may open doors for her to try out with European squads.

In the meantime, Williams took a part-time job on the flow team for Target in nearby Aiken, S.C., which means she’s at work by four in the morning to help unload the trucks. When she’s off at noon, it’s time to get serious.

Williams goes back to her high school three to four times a week to help out with her former team and get in some of her own training: “I don’t have a workout partner, and it’s a lot harder doing basketball drills – jumpshots, ball handling – by yourself, but I get a lot of work in. I do my free throws, my conditioning running, and I also play a lot of pick-up games against the varsity girls and guys as well as former classmates and friends.”

Of course, this is particularly tough for Williams. This waiting. This not knowing. Patience, Williams admits, has never been her strong suit. But she’s learning. And in her moments of doubt – because they do happen – all she has to do is touch a basketball, and her decades-long passion for the game reaffirms her goal.

“This is only my second year of trying to make it as a professional,” Williams says. “I just need my shot, an opportunity to show people, the right people, what I can do. I’ll never give up on my dream. I know I’m close. I’ve got a tournament in Germany I hope I can make and an open tryout this spring for the Atlanta Dream.”

Because, you never know, perhaps that Hollywood ending is there after all.

– Mark Berry
Photo by Gately Williams

This is what change looks like. Real change. These men represent the vanguard of a new movement taking hold in South Carolina. They are the foot soldiers tasked with reordering a landscape ravaged in many places by ineffectiveness and indifference. But instead of destroyers, they are builders, trying to win hearts and minds. Not only win them, but shape them, mold them, improve them. These men from the College of Charleston, if they have their way, are out to transform no less than the very face of education.

by Mark Berry

Photos by Vince Musi

Something is rotten in the state of South Carolina. Few would disagree that there is a tragedy of Shakespearean proportion playing out within our educational system, county by county, city by city, school by school.

Some call it the educational gap. Others, the achievement gap. Either way, they’re talking about a chasm, and it’s growing wider, ever wider, between white and minority students and their academic performance in the classroom. Soon, the Palmetto State will be able to boast of its own Grand Canyon, except this one you don’t want to put on a postcard wistfully wishing you were here.

Educational pundits, politicians, administrators, teachers, concerned parents – they all argue about both the causes of the problem and the ways to address it. Attend some of the local school board meetings around the state, and you’ll witness verbal fireworks worthy of reality TV. The cacophony of finger pointing, despair at slipping further behind and, at times, the self-righteous indignation is overwhelming, almost comical in its seeming absurdity in the face of such challenges. However, through all the combative discourse, there is a sincerity present, a deep and pressing desire to lift South Carolina so that it’s not some bottom-dwelling state content with a view from the basement.

So what’s the fix?

Unfortunately, there is no easy answer. When it comes to public education, there never is. The problems seem too complex, too politicized and too intricately woven into the very fabric of our society for any real change to take place.

Indeed, the state’s 2011 achievement statistics paint a very bleak picture for black students. In fourth-grade reading, 56 percent are considered “below basic” – a euphemism for failing (considering the other categories are “advanced,” “proficient” and “basic”) – as compared to 27 percent of white students. By eighth grade, that “below basic” percentage drops to 18 percent for white students, but only falls to 44 percent for black students. When it comes to math, the trend is worse: 39 percent of black students are failing in fourth grade, but that percentage actually jumps to 50 percent in eighth graders. Together, these figures add up to one big negative for black students by the time they reach high school: lower graduation rates and higher drop-out numbers as compared with their white classmates.

Yes, the statistics are demoralizing. But there’s hope.

Just ask the professors in the College’s School of Education, Health, and Human Performance. They see it, ultimately, as a people problem with a people solution. And they’re applying the old joke of how to eat an elephant (one bite at a time) to tackle an issue that has far too long been the actual elephant in the room.

“We have a responsibility to reach these kids in these failing schools,” observes Renard Harris, assistant professor of teacher education. “They are suffering there. And, remember, impoverished doesn’t equate to stupid. It’s a tough gamble if we ignore and marginalize these kids. We will all suffer.”

“Let’s look at some more numbers,” says Andrew Lewis, associate professor of health and human performance. “Approximately one-third of all students in South Carolina are African American, yet less than 1 percent of teachers are African American males. Statistics also point out that black males who have had at least one, just one, African American male teacher between pre-K and eighth grade are three times more likely to graduate high school and continue to post-secondary education.”

Let that statistic sink in for a minute. One – just one black male teacher – triples the odds for success.

Lewis leans forward, pointing his index finger in the air: “And this is where we can make a difference.”

The logic is simple: One equals 30, or, depending on the grade level, one may equal 100 or more. This would be the number of students affected by one teacher in one year. Now, multiply that number by five years, 10, 25, 30, and you see that one teacher can have a significant impact on a student population, in some cases, spanning generations.

“It is critical for us all to understand the importance that a black male teacher can have in our schools,” Lewis continues. “At times, they may serve as a father figure to those without one at home, or perhaps they’re simply a facilitator for telling kids that they can do it, too, whatever their dreams are. In all instances, they’ll be role models throughout the school – men who value education.”

In these professors’ eyes, it’s on the micro level that a macro-level problem can be solved.

Among the College’s various teacher recruitment efforts for diversity, the biggest contributor, in terms of sheer numbers, is the Call Me MISTER (Mentors Instructing Students Toward Effective Role Models) Program – a statewide initiative with 13 partner institutions specifically recruiting black men for teaching careers. The MISTERs, as they call themselves, are provided tuition assistance through loan forgiveness and scholarships. Their unusual name pays homage to Virgil Tibbs (played by Sidney Poitier) and his memorable demand for dignity and equal treatment in the 1967 classic In the Heat of the Night. Currently, there are 20 men in the Call Me MISTER Program
on campus.

“However, we’re not looking for just numbers here,” says Floyd Breeland, program coordinator for the College’s Call Me MISTERs as well as a former state representative and a 33-year veteran of South Carolina public schools. “These young men have to convince us that they want to be teachers. We’re looking for leaders, community-minded men who are going to make a difference, and be good at their job.”

And that’s critical for any meaningful change to occur. The College is not worried simply about the how many, but the how: How to make them successful teachers. How to prepare them for the reality of the classroom, with kids coming from all walks of life. How to look at teaching as a career and not just as a job.

“A good teacher, as we all know,” Lewis points out, “can have an amazing impact on a child’s life. That good teacher, given the right resources and the right support, can close the achievement gaps we’re talking about. And those are the types of people we’re trying to recruit and produce through our teacher preparation programs at the College.”

Last May, the College graduated its first two MISTERs: Jimmy Freeman ’11 and Thomas Savage ’11. Both are now first-year teachers in the Lowcountry. Well-versed in the current numbers and discouraging trends for minority students, they know that behind those statistics, there are names, faces and personal stories. For many of their black students, it will be in their classes where adversity has a shot at becoming triumph. These MISTERs understand what is at stake and are ready to do everything in their power to fight for it.

Welcome to the front lines of education.

Thomas Savage '11, eighth-grade teacher at Rollings Middle School of the Arts, Summerville, S.C.

Savage Country
They all walk at an angle. Forward leaning, they carry backpacks bulging with textbooks, folders and loose papers, crammed in with the secret contraband only middle-schoolers can know. What might pass as a familiar scene of school-days drudgery changes upon closer inspection. These bent figures are laughing, shouting, almost squealing as they shuffle along toward the school’s entrance. There’s an energy here, a spirit almost matching the 10-foot metal sculpture of dancing children on the school’s front lawn. As they tramp into Summerville’s Rollings Middle School of the Arts, a message emblazoned in white lettering against a purple background reminds them that their school is “Where Learning Is an ‘Art.’”

For Mr. Savage’s first-period students, they take a left down the main hall and then an immediate right through a door marked EXIT in red. Outside again, they go to the first trailer on the left, labeled T-7. Whereas the exterior of the trailer is drab, sporting a few rust stains and a dull maroon door, the interior is an explosion of color. Walls of purple and yellow (the school colors of the Rollings Knights) greet students as they come in and settle in their seats.

Between the giggling, flipping of pencils and idle chatter of Justin Bieber and Chuck Norris jokes, students unpack their bags and let their eyes wander the room. One bulletin board reads, “You are in Savage Country,” and goes on to spell out the “Laws of the Land”: integrity, responsibility, respect, participation and procedure. But perhaps the most telling message, one that conveys Savage’s teaching philosophy, appears on another board as well as on a small bumper sticker taped up near the back door. It’s a quote from author Judith Groch: “Those who have been required to memorize the world as it is will never create the world as it might be.”

There’s a throwback feel in here – like the 1970s meeting the 1870s – that’s somehow just natural for a social studies class engaged in learning South Carolina history. Without distractions from hallway noise and activity, Savage’s trailer possesses the ambiance of a one-room schoolhouse, minus the pot-bellied stove and wood-plank floors. Rather, his room has a grumbling window heating/cooling unit and thin brown carpet, which provides a surprisingly silent surface for Savage, much to his students’ displeaure, as he patrols the class.

An electronic buzzer bleats, and everyone turns to Mr. Savage, standing in the center of the room. In teaching, Savage understands that, at times, the messenger can be more memorable than the actual message. So, he dresses the part. Wearing a crisp, blue dress shirt, a vibrant yellow tie, navy pants and brown boat shoes, he is the picture of poise and polish.

As he begins his lesson, Savage looks his students directly in the eyes – his gaze intense, but somehow affable at the same time. Through this class period, he will have his students responding to an image on his SMART Board, participating in a question-answer session about colonial attitudes, acting out a frozen tableau (think three-dimensional picture with eighth-grade models), finishing a writing assignment and then peer-reviewing each other’s work. For more than an hour, Savage plays the role of ringmaster, lion tamer and tightrope artist – a constant circus act of keeping the students engaged, yet reining them in just before their hormonally challenged self-restraint begins to fade.

His students will tell you that although he isn’t the fun-loving, joke-cracking kind of teacher, he does have a good sense of humor, one that you have to be pretty quick and pretty smart to catch. To them, his style is serious, thoughtful and sincere, and because of that, they feel he’s approachable in ways that most other teachers aren’t. In the same breath, however, they will also complain that he is “way too hard,” but there is a level of respect in that accusation, one in which even they take great pride.

Perhaps one of the most important moments during the class period occurs with “John.” It’s an interaction that may or may not happen with another teacher. But it reinforces the importance of the Call Me MISTERs and other statewide initiatives for diversifying the teaching ranks.

On the surface, John is a classic archetype found in almost every grade, in almost every school: He is The Jock, the one who appears to consider academics secondary, even tertiary, to his athletic and social exploits.

John comes into the room, loud and brash and with a swagger in his step. He makes his way to the back table and throws his backpack down, laughing with the other boys in the room. There’s a sense about John that he feels that everyone else is living in his world, not the other way around. Before the class starts, John holds court at his table, doling out praise and insults to the other students in the class, with his courtiers laughing and agreeing with each decree.

As the class begins, John hunches down in his purple-and-yellow hooded sweatshirt and whispers behind a clenched fist to the other boys dressed in their matching sports gear. Judging by his tablemates’ reactions, everything he mumbles is either enormously funny or enormously poignant to their very existence.

Hearing the muffled disturbance behind him, Savage turns and calls on John. John, of course, has no idea of the answer, let alone the question. Savage’s admonishment is not harsh, but is quick and decisive. He then continues his lesson standing next to John’s table in the back corner of the room and allows John to save face by answering correctly his next question.

For now, John’s table is the model of attentiveness.

When it comes time for writing, the class goes silent, each student scribbling his or her essay – save one. Momentarily, John looks lost and watches the other students writing. He raises his hand and calls over to Savage – his voice respectful and devoid of any eighth-grade bravado.

Savage pulls a seat up close to John and, in a low voice, talks him through the assignment about representative government. John, eyes down on his paper, nods in agreement, understanding now what’s being explained. A smile spreads across his face, and he begins to write. As Savage stands up from the table, John stops, looks up and says, “Thanks, Mr. Savage,” and goes back to furiously writing – his thoughts pouring out through his half-chewed pencil.

It’s interactions like that, just a few seconds here and a few minutes there, played out many times throughout the day, throughout the year, that have garnered Savage his school’s 2012 Rookie Teacher of the Year award. But it’s also something more than that. For John and the many other black male students in his classes, Mr. Savage cares – and now, so do they.

Jimmy Freeman '11, fourth-grade teacher, Sedgefield Intermediate School, Goose Creek, S.C.

Kid Cool
Everybody knows him. No matter the class, no matter the grade. Kids know Mr. Freeman.

As the black male teacher at Sedgefield Intermediate School in Goose Creek – and one of only two male teachers on staff – he would be memorable to kids. He’s an anomaly. Different.

As Freeman walks down the hall, the black string of his whistle bounces off his slacks, keeping perfect time to the rhythm of his strides, which you can’t quite call a strut, but there’s definitely a silent beat playing somewhere in Freeman’s head.

Students eagerly call out, “Hey, Mr. Freeman.” A few boys even race down the hall to give him high-fives and hear him call them, “my man.” Where Freeman treads, there are smiles, both outward and inward.

As he lines his own class up in the hallway for lunch, he pops the whistle in his mouth – a visual reminder to some that talking is not tolerated. The class is quiet as they march to the cafeteria – no small feat when dealing with 28 fourth-grade children. Freeman moves up and down the single-file line like a drill sergeant inspecting his troops. He’s perfected the art of talking to his kids with that whistle clenched in his front teeth, with just a slight sibilance framing his words. The ever-present whistle – the threat of that shrill sound ringing with his reprimand – is enough to keep everyone on task. In fact, Freeman has never blown it.

After lunch, he takes his class to the “playground”: an open field that stretches nearly 500 yards to a distant road. Only the rectangle of asphalt with its facing basketball goals gives any indication that this is a place for play. The kids don’t care, however. They spread out quickly, running and screaming, lost in the throes of their temporary freedom. Some linger, both boys and girls, snatching quick hugs and barraging Freeman with questions – about school, life, TV, anything and everything.

A group of boys rushes to a football lying on the ground. While one boy slings the ball with uncommon velocity and distance, another heaves it only a few feet back. The other boys laugh. Freeman bounds over to the boy and shows him the proper form, hands him the ball and steps back. This time, the football travels several yards – an achievement all of the boys acknowledge. And the game of catch picks back up, with that particular boy, his confidence building, throwing farther and farther each time.

Back in his classroom after recess, Freeman, in a voice calm and not particularly loud in spite of the commotion of the kids getting back in their seats, asks, “Hear my voice? Clap once.” Half of the students clap. The others fall silent, immediately aware that Freeman is ready to begin. For those that don’t quiet down, Freeman walks over and gives them The Look – “it’s something I had to get down pretty quickly,” he explains with a mock face of anger. When The Look doesn’t work for one particularly talkative girl, he asks her to stand. Begrudgingly, eyes rolling, she gets up from her desk and stands (she’ll be there a while).

Freeman moves about the room, like a boxer dancing in the ring. To a nearby student, he hands a blue coffee mug, marked “College of Charleston School of Education, Health, and Human Performance,” full of popsicle sticks with each student’s name.

“Who can give me the peanut butter?” he asks, closing his eyes and pointing to the boy holding the cup, who pulls out a name. Most of the students shoot their hands in the air anyway, even though they’ve not won this round in the lottery of popsicle sticks. They all know that Freeman is asking about the author. They also know that when Freeman asks them about “the jelly,” that they have to give him the main ideas from the book – and that “milk” is a supporting detail. The PB&J sandwich with the glass of milk is their class’ personal metaphor for interpreting literature, and it’s a metaphor only they grasp. Because they came up with it together.

“My class of fourth-graders spans all reading levels,” Freeman says, “from those that are reading well below grade level, to those who have already read every book on my shelf. Some of the students were struggling one day to understand the concept of main ideas, supporting details, context clues, and the sandwich metaphor just came out in our discussion. The sandwich was something they understood, and I ran with it. I’ve always told them that I’m new to this thing, so we’re going to grow and learn together. And we have and we are.”

Freeman relates with the kids in this school in ways that few others can or do. When one student talks about his brother who has “gone on a trip,” Freeman knows what it’s like to have a family member in jail and talks from the heart with him about choices, personal accountability and that jail is not a foregone conclusion for black males.

“For me, growing up, there weren’t a lot of male figures there,” Freeman says, no hint of the victim in his voice. “And there aren’t a whole lot of male role models for many of these kids, either. That’s a reality. So, I want to show them that there are other options. There’s nothing I haven’t seen. I know that they can do better – they have to.”

Freeman’s own life is an object lesson in accountability. Raised by his grandmother in a Charleston neighborhood he calls “unpredictable,” Freeman got in with the wrong crowd, failed his freshman year of high school and had to attend summer school. It was there that he started to see the road he was going down – a road traveled by many of his friends, some of whom later met violent and premature ends. From that point on, he focused on academics and volunteering in his community. And it was that spirit of caring and commitment that caught the eye of Steve Thomas, the first Call Me MISTER coordinator, who recruited Freeman to the College from Trident Technical College.

“Jimmy truly has a smile that will light up a room,” says Thomas, now Paine College’s dean of professional studies. “He has taken the lessons that life has taught him, learns from them and turns that energy into something positive for himself and those around him.”

And students definitely respond to that energy. You just have to look in their eyes, watch them grab for their notebooks and listen to them compete to answer Freeman’s questions. There is a pride in learning, in “knowing stuff,” as they might say. Education, like Mr. Freeman, is cool.

Cool like his 58 tattoos.

Since he was 19, Freeman has treated his body like a canvas, as if it’s yet another space to share his learning and creativity. There’s a smiley face on his right arm, a reminder that no matter what is happening, some part of him is always smiling. There’s also a tiger, an African killer bee, angels, stars and illustrated maxims to live by: “Family First” and “Smile Now, Cry Later.” But the one that means the most to him, centered squarely on his back, is two heavenly hands holding the word Blessed.

That’s because Freeman feels blessed to be where he is today– blessed to have been helped by others and, now, to be helping others.

Although his students may not know of the existence of that tattoo, the sentiment is certainly not hidden, even beneath Freeman’s jacket and dress shirt. His students understand, or maybe just have a vague feeling, that something sacred is taking place in their classroom – of knowledge passing, wisdom shared. They are in it together, as Freeman points out: teacher and student. And if more men like Thomas Savage and Jimmy Freeman become the Mr. Savages and Mr. Freemans in the lives of South Carolina’s kids, then there is great hope for narrowing the state’s achievement gap.

Remember, in this new math, one equals 30. And one, just one, can and will make all of the difference.