Oakwood
I was recently invited to send a alumni letter to my high school.
Generally I disapprove of contemporary public education and still shudder at the idea of being restricted to a desk and forced fed garbage for 12 years of my life. However, the high school I graduated from was unique and I must admit that I enjoyed the final years of schooling.
While this was intended as a short letter of encouragement for the staff and students of Oakwood today, in writing I decided that by revealing more of my story the readers might better understand why I so appreciated Oakwood.
My name is Sean Corey Adams.
I graduated from Oakwood High School in 1989. My 'home school' was Wheeler High, though not for long.
I'm not ashamed to confess that my education and relationships with school faculty have often been bitter and rocky. During middle school I figured out that a failing grade was a failure of both student and teacher. Most teachers didn't agree with my philosophy.
My family tried to find the right place for me, moving me from school to school in hopes that I'd fit in but instead I became unruly and argumentative. Eventually I withdrew and spent most of my time reading books of my choice or drawing. In seventh grade I attended school only when I wanted to, preferring instead to sit at home and study.
My mother was encouraged to find another solution. For three years (84-87) prior to Wheeler I was confined to a private, treatment facility called Anneewakee, which, simply put, was a militant, labor camp for troubled teens. Each student at the facility was placed in a tight knit group with other students and each of these groups lived on and maintained their own rustic campsite in the forests of Douglasville, Ga.
With a few exceptions, the campsites had no running water or electricity. Each was equipped with an outhouse (privy), wood-burning stoves, and Dietz kerosene lanterns for light. Fresh water was stored in the cook shed in two 5-gallon Jerry-jugs that we carried over from Central Campus. We scouted old trees, cut them down and hauled the split wood in wheelbarrows back to campsite for fires. Each group repaired or rebuilt their cabins when needed. All of this was standard routine maintenance on top of responsibilities for the rest of the campus. The labor and lifestyle was hard but nothing that my grandfather hadn't lived through two generations earlier.
Futhermore we were effectively cut off from the modern outside world. Each campsite had a radio but we weren't allowed to listen to the news, nor could we read newspapers or magazines, or watch television. When Space Shuttle Columbia exploded, we thought the staff were lying to us -until they rolled a television into the Lodge during lunch and allowed the entire campus to watch the news reports. For some reason though, we were allowed to watch the Winter Olympics. I suspect it was a prescription group building activity; undoubtedly hot cocoa, central heat and athletic girls flipping around in tights on the big-screen can have a strong bonding effect on a group of randy young men.
Every privilege was earned and could be lost, including scholastic education.
However, for the first year and a half at Anneewakee, I couldn't even dream of attending school. My education was physical labor and psychological battery (pun intended) until I could prove I was ready for the change. When I earned my "school privileges" I was able to move at my own speed, and caught up approximately three years in half the time. Soon after, my "termination papers" were approved and I was released to public life again.
Needless to say, returning to public school was a severe culture shock. But I was excited; a stranger in a strange land, exploring pop culture, fast foods and trends of an alien society. But my experience at Anneewakee had developed a sense of self-respect and the shallow cliques, periodic prep rallies and quest for resurrecting team spirit, weren't designed for learning. After only a few semesters at Wheeler I decided it was not the right environment for me and quit -with flare.
Shakespeare encouraged me to drop out of high school.
One morning during World Lit, while our teacher robotic-ally recited some of Shakespeare's Sonnets, I had an epiphany that literally knocked me out of my seat a few minutes later. Following along in my text book, I read a single quatrain of one sonnet, in which Shakespeare aptly conveys the overwhelming feelings and abstractions of love on a fresh spring day, makes sense of birdsong, examines the chaos of hormones flooding the teen body, and allowed me to feel magically insignificant in a very old world.
I'm ashamed to state that I can't recall which sonnet we were reading. I was staggered by that quatrain, that with so few words we could share something visceral with a man over 400 hundred years dead. I felt a mix of awe and betrayal. (Why was this kept from me for so long?)
Sadly, I was alone. Looking around the classroom, expecting to see other people beaming with enlightenment and hungry for more, I discovered instead that most of my classmates weren't paying attention, and in fact a few of them were asleep on their books.
I was in the wrong place. Fortunately, Shakespeare could come with me.
Raising my hand politely to get the teacher's attention, I announced to the World-Lit class that I wanted to "resign" from high school. The Teacher informed me that the common term was "drop out," and stuttering, told me I couldn't just do "that." I corrected her, stating that I was of legal age and had things to do. The class seemed to be awake and very interested at that point.
I thanked my Lit-Teacher for introducing me to Shakespeare, insisted that she'd done me no wrong, and was en route to the office to speak with my counselor, before the Lit-Teacher could finish mumblings that I shouldn't "drop out."
In the office, my apathetic counselor argued with standard fear tactics; ie "you'll be a failure," "you'll need a diploma" (to which I replied "I need an education") and "what will your parents think?" (to which I offered to call home). Her arsenal to keep me in school expended, she called my mother and attempted to stir dissent. My Mother, while not being thrilled, said she understood and encouraged me to find a job... which I did that week. I left my books on the counselor's desk, said my farewells to a few teachers and classes, collected contact information and walked home with a deep feeling of relief.
I spent the next three or four months sketching, drawing, riding my bike and researching anything that caught my interest; which was just about everything. Science, especially Anatomy, enthralled me and for a time I seriously considered a career as an anatomical illustrator. I'd kept in touch with my former Anatomy-Teacher at Wheeler, and she supplied me with "homework," including dissection tools and occasionally bits of lab animals that were being discarded. (There's a funny story about a box rabbit limbs I forgot to pick up from the office, and the office assistant -a childhood friend actually, familiar with my eccentricities- who called to ask me about the foul smelling box with my name on it. I told him to leave it unopened in the counselor's office.)
During this respite, my Grandparents, desperate to have me back in school, gently persuaded me to investigate some "new school" they'd learned about. Admittedly curious by their descriptions, and willing to humor them, I agreed to check it out.
A few months later, without telling a soul, I rode my bike up to the Oakwood Campus and registered. My family didn't learn that I had returned to school until I'd been going for several weeks.
OAKWOOD
Day one. A handful of new students gathered together in the unused basketball court for orientation.
The principal stepped up to speak, and I braced for the same banal tripe and team spirit speech that we'd been fed during pRep-rallies at Wheeler, but instead he won me over with his first few words.
After extending formal introductions he explained why Oakwood was different. Oakwood, he said, was an experiment and unlike most public schools, the faculty at Oakwood "are going to treat you like adults because that's what you'll be when you graduate high school. We think it should be a part of your education."
Oakwood lived up to what it offered me.
Most of the people I knew had grown disenfranchised with the American education system and were making one last attempt at graduation before giving up altogether. Perhaps that's why a school with no sports team and a Unicorn mascot, had more genuine team spirit than any other school I've attended.
The faculty kept their end of the bargain, treating us as adults if not as equals. Of course I fondly remember faculty like Ms. Paterson the biology teacher, and Mrs. Baker who hand picked our creative writing class and put up with my subversions. And "Hoppy" the campus officer whose good nature kept us in check. And of course, Taylor St. Claire the art teacher. What more needs be said about Taylor that hasn't been said before? Taylor was more than an art teacher, she was our Professor of Hip, the Guru in the basement, and our Mystic connection to Little Five Points. I would do her an injustice by saying anything more.
The memories which stick out in my mind wouldn't necessarily make a Hollywood blockbuster movie, since there was no one person who dramatically changed the lives of an entire class or fought off a drug lord and city council at the same time. Often my memories are of the simple things, like a genuine recognition between two people that we are all human or the challenge of new responsibilities.
Dreary routines often erode the creative tools of the human mind, and Monday's have earned a place at the start of the grind. On one such Monday morning, first period History lacked focus. Our teacher fought the doldrums for twenty minutes or so, then put down her book and without missing a beat, ended her sentence by saying simply "I need Krispy Kreme donuts and coffee. Who wants to get them?"
We pooled our money and orders and sent a group to fetch the donuts. While we waited, our teacher proclaimed that history could wait and we should discuss current events, or whatever we wanted. Once the donuts arrived, our brains were united and awake, and I believe we were able to continue with the day's lesson (though that sounds too much like a convenient, happy ending).
There was a sense of unity outside the walls too; As students, many of us had been the out casts and losers at our home schools. Likewise, Oakwood's teachers, were embarking on a risky career working for a school with a undeservedly bad reputation. One teacher, who had just come from a local education conference, told our class that teachers from other districts had asked her if the rumors of Oakwood being a war zone were true. They'd heard that drugs were openly dealt in the hallways (which may or may not have been true, but it was no less the case in their own schools), that we were allowed to drink or smoke in class, and that generally the teachers didn't bother to control the student body.
The teacher, wise enough to recognize a lost cause, defended us with a bald face lie. She confirmed their rumors and raised the stakes, explaining that Oakwood actually restricted its drug usage to a special room, and furthermore, we had rooms set aside for sex. Another Oakwood faculty member supported her claims and the pair left the hens clucking in shock. My point is, our teachers not only had a sharp mental arsenal, but they used it to defend us as best they could.
Another example of Oakwood's unique spirit:
A dear friend of ours, Jan Parsons got herself mixed up in some sort of trouble. It was all over the news at the time, but if her name is unfamiliar, it's alright. In fact, considering that all parties involved have since done their best to move on, I'm sure she'd rather have her story forgotten. However, let's just say that she was caught up in a scandal with a famous celebrity and this event drew the world press to Oakwood's doorstep, doing little to improve our school's image. But we weren't really worried about that. We were worried about Jan.
And Jan was understandably worried about what people, especially the other students, would think of her. So, with special permission from faculty, and without a word to us, Jan vanished for a few days while events escalated. By the time she returned, the rumor mill had been working overtime and we were all curious about what was really going on. She confided in a few of her close friends at first, but by then the press already had enough meat to grind and soon the entire school was aware of the situation. While Jan's friends readily accepted the situation there was some doubt as to what the more conservative students would think. But to my knowledge, none of the Oakwood students or faculty ridiculed her. On the contrary, the staff sought to protect her and the students seemed to like her even more.
If I recall correctly, it was Spring and Oakwood was preparing for an outdoor festival and car wash of some sort. The press had already been taking advantage of our open campus policy, waiting in their vans on the streets, trying to coral people for interviews regarding Jan. So it was no leap in logic that the parking lot would be swarming with news crews once our field day started. We had a school meeting to discuss the event and the faculty pleaded with us to respect Jan's privacy as a student and ignore the press if possible. I had a different plan.
On the way to campus the morning of the field day, I asked my ride to stop at Walgreen's, where we purchased a some black Sharpies and a few packs of adhesive name tags. The tags were the kind with the colored banner at the top which say "Hello My Name Is:" and have a blank in the middle to write a name. Once on campus my friend Roy and I set up shop in the cafeteria, passing out name tags and sharpies to anybody who wanted to "be" Jan Parsons for the day. Word spread quickly and before first period, we'd used up most of the name tags, unleashing our army of Jans on campus.
It was amazing. Every stereotype of subculture student (preps and princesses, jocks, coolios, punks, nerds, freaks and misfits) was representing Jan. If I'm not mistaken I believe a few of the faculty even put on name tags... and the press got very little from us. I heard that one news crew tried to interview a jock but he held to his guns, claiming to be Jan, while his buddy yelled in background "no, I'm Jan Parsons!"
There's one last story that I believe defines my respect for Oakwood.
Because Oakwood was an alternative school, we were told that there would be a small graduation ceremony with commemorative papers but our official diplomas would be issued by our home schools. This meant that we had to visit our home school and collect the document before the end of the year.
Later, in the principal's office at Wheeler, while waiting for someone to retrieve my diploma folder, a woman behind the desk informed me that they needed to measure me for a graduation gown. I smiled and told her as politely as I could that I wouldn't be representing Wheeler High School as another successful student, since they hadn't provided me with the education. The principal (an ex-coach who had personally escorted me on my admission tour) overheard this and looked as if he wanted to jump the desk and pummel me. I wasn't trying to be harsh, but I genuinely didn't (and don't) feel they deserved to have me on stage, smiling and shaking hands and giving them credit for all the hard work.
That hard work had been shared between myself and the faculty of Oakwood, and that's where it deserved to be recognized. Oakwood, in spite of it's reputation, had allowed me a sense of self-respect and a chance to focus on my education while growing as a person. For that I am gratefully indebted.
There's plenty more to say, but I think I'm done.
I just want to say thank you to all the people vested in the idea that Oakwood strives to represent. Keep chasing Unicorns and keep up the Good work,
Sincerely,
Sean Corey Adams
Oakwood Class of 1989
Aside: As I sat down to type this, my iTunes randomly selected to play Simple Minds' "Don't You -Forget About Me" from the Breakfast Club Soundtrack... highly appropriate considering how popular that movie was for my class.
Generally I disapprove of contemporary public education and still shudder at the idea of being restricted to a desk and forced fed garbage for 12 years of my life. However, the high school I graduated from was unique and I must admit that I enjoyed the final years of schooling.
While this was intended as a short letter of encouragement for the staff and students of Oakwood today, in writing I decided that by revealing more of my story the readers might better understand why I so appreciated Oakwood.
My name is Sean Corey Adams.
I graduated from Oakwood High School in 1989. My 'home school' was Wheeler High, though not for long.
I'm not ashamed to confess that my education and relationships with school faculty have often been bitter and rocky. During middle school I figured out that a failing grade was a failure of both student and teacher. Most teachers didn't agree with my philosophy.
My family tried to find the right place for me, moving me from school to school in hopes that I'd fit in but instead I became unruly and argumentative. Eventually I withdrew and spent most of my time reading books of my choice or drawing. In seventh grade I attended school only when I wanted to, preferring instead to sit at home and study.
My mother was encouraged to find another solution. For three years (84-87) prior to Wheeler I was confined to a private, treatment facility called Anneewakee, which, simply put, was a militant, labor camp for troubled teens. Each student at the facility was placed in a tight knit group with other students and each of these groups lived on and maintained their own rustic campsite in the forests of Douglasville, Ga.
With a few exceptions, the campsites had no running water or electricity. Each was equipped with an outhouse (privy), wood-burning stoves, and Dietz kerosene lanterns for light. Fresh water was stored in the cook shed in two 5-gallon Jerry-jugs that we carried over from Central Campus. We scouted old trees, cut them down and hauled the split wood in wheelbarrows back to campsite for fires. Each group repaired or rebuilt their cabins when needed. All of this was standard routine maintenance on top of responsibilities for the rest of the campus. The labor and lifestyle was hard but nothing that my grandfather hadn't lived through two generations earlier.
Futhermore we were effectively cut off from the modern outside world. Each campsite had a radio but we weren't allowed to listen to the news, nor could we read newspapers or magazines, or watch television. When Space Shuttle Columbia exploded, we thought the staff were lying to us -until they rolled a television into the Lodge during lunch and allowed the entire campus to watch the news reports. For some reason though, we were allowed to watch the Winter Olympics. I suspect it was a prescription group building activity; undoubtedly hot cocoa, central heat and athletic girls flipping around in tights on the big-screen can have a strong bonding effect on a group of randy young men.
Every privilege was earned and could be lost, including scholastic education.
However, for the first year and a half at Anneewakee, I couldn't even dream of attending school. My education was physical labor and psychological battery (pun intended) until I could prove I was ready for the change. When I earned my "school privileges" I was able to move at my own speed, and caught up approximately three years in half the time. Soon after, my "termination papers" were approved and I was released to public life again.
Needless to say, returning to public school was a severe culture shock. But I was excited; a stranger in a strange land, exploring pop culture, fast foods and trends of an alien society. But my experience at Anneewakee had developed a sense of self-respect and the shallow cliques, periodic prep rallies and quest for resurrecting team spirit, weren't designed for learning. After only a few semesters at Wheeler I decided it was not the right environment for me and quit -with flare.
Shakespeare encouraged me to drop out of high school.
One morning during World Lit, while our teacher robotic-ally recited some of Shakespeare's Sonnets, I had an epiphany that literally knocked me out of my seat a few minutes later. Following along in my text book, I read a single quatrain of one sonnet, in which Shakespeare aptly conveys the overwhelming feelings and abstractions of love on a fresh spring day, makes sense of birdsong, examines the chaos of hormones flooding the teen body, and allowed me to feel magically insignificant in a very old world.
I'm ashamed to state that I can't recall which sonnet we were reading. I was staggered by that quatrain, that with so few words we could share something visceral with a man over 400 hundred years dead. I felt a mix of awe and betrayal. (Why was this kept from me for so long?)
Sadly, I was alone. Looking around the classroom, expecting to see other people beaming with enlightenment and hungry for more, I discovered instead that most of my classmates weren't paying attention, and in fact a few of them were asleep on their books.
I was in the wrong place. Fortunately, Shakespeare could come with me.
Raising my hand politely to get the teacher's attention, I announced to the World-Lit class that I wanted to "resign" from high school. The Teacher informed me that the common term was "drop out," and stuttering, told me I couldn't just do "that." I corrected her, stating that I was of legal age and had things to do. The class seemed to be awake and very interested at that point.
I thanked my Lit-Teacher for introducing me to Shakespeare, insisted that she'd done me no wrong, and was en route to the office to speak with my counselor, before the Lit-Teacher could finish mumblings that I shouldn't "drop out."
In the office, my apathetic counselor argued with standard fear tactics; ie "you'll be a failure," "you'll need a diploma" (to which I replied "I need an education") and "what will your parents think?" (to which I offered to call home). Her arsenal to keep me in school expended, she called my mother and attempted to stir dissent. My Mother, while not being thrilled, said she understood and encouraged me to find a job... which I did that week. I left my books on the counselor's desk, said my farewells to a few teachers and classes, collected contact information and walked home with a deep feeling of relief.
I spent the next three or four months sketching, drawing, riding my bike and researching anything that caught my interest; which was just about everything. Science, especially Anatomy, enthralled me and for a time I seriously considered a career as an anatomical illustrator. I'd kept in touch with my former Anatomy-Teacher at Wheeler, and she supplied me with "homework," including dissection tools and occasionally bits of lab animals that were being discarded. (There's a funny story about a box rabbit limbs I forgot to pick up from the office, and the office assistant -a childhood friend actually, familiar with my eccentricities- who called to ask me about the foul smelling box with my name on it. I told him to leave it unopened in the counselor's office.)
During this respite, my Grandparents, desperate to have me back in school, gently persuaded me to investigate some "new school" they'd learned about. Admittedly curious by their descriptions, and willing to humor them, I agreed to check it out.
A few months later, without telling a soul, I rode my bike up to the Oakwood Campus and registered. My family didn't learn that I had returned to school until I'd been going for several weeks.
OAKWOOD
Day one. A handful of new students gathered together in the unused basketball court for orientation.
The principal stepped up to speak, and I braced for the same banal tripe and team spirit speech that we'd been fed during pRep-rallies at Wheeler, but instead he won me over with his first few words.
After extending formal introductions he explained why Oakwood was different. Oakwood, he said, was an experiment and unlike most public schools, the faculty at Oakwood "are going to treat you like adults because that's what you'll be when you graduate high school. We think it should be a part of your education."
Oakwood lived up to what it offered me.
Most of the people I knew had grown disenfranchised with the American education system and were making one last attempt at graduation before giving up altogether. Perhaps that's why a school with no sports team and a Unicorn mascot, had more genuine team spirit than any other school I've attended.
The faculty kept their end of the bargain, treating us as adults if not as equals. Of course I fondly remember faculty like Ms. Paterson the biology teacher, and Mrs. Baker who hand picked our creative writing class and put up with my subversions. And "Hoppy" the campus officer whose good nature kept us in check. And of course, Taylor St. Claire the art teacher. What more needs be said about Taylor that hasn't been said before? Taylor was more than an art teacher, she was our Professor of Hip, the Guru in the basement, and our Mystic connection to Little Five Points. I would do her an injustice by saying anything more.
The memories which stick out in my mind wouldn't necessarily make a Hollywood blockbuster movie, since there was no one person who dramatically changed the lives of an entire class or fought off a drug lord and city council at the same time. Often my memories are of the simple things, like a genuine recognition between two people that we are all human or the challenge of new responsibilities.
Dreary routines often erode the creative tools of the human mind, and Monday's have earned a place at the start of the grind. On one such Monday morning, first period History lacked focus. Our teacher fought the doldrums for twenty minutes or so, then put down her book and without missing a beat, ended her sentence by saying simply "I need Krispy Kreme donuts and coffee. Who wants to get them?"
We pooled our money and orders and sent a group to fetch the donuts. While we waited, our teacher proclaimed that history could wait and we should discuss current events, or whatever we wanted. Once the donuts arrived, our brains were united and awake, and I believe we were able to continue with the day's lesson (though that sounds too much like a convenient, happy ending).
There was a sense of unity outside the walls too; As students, many of us had been the out casts and losers at our home schools. Likewise, Oakwood's teachers, were embarking on a risky career working for a school with a undeservedly bad reputation. One teacher, who had just come from a local education conference, told our class that teachers from other districts had asked her if the rumors of Oakwood being a war zone were true. They'd heard that drugs were openly dealt in the hallways (which may or may not have been true, but it was no less the case in their own schools), that we were allowed to drink or smoke in class, and that generally the teachers didn't bother to control the student body.
The teacher, wise enough to recognize a lost cause, defended us with a bald face lie. She confirmed their rumors and raised the stakes, explaining that Oakwood actually restricted its drug usage to a special room, and furthermore, we had rooms set aside for sex. Another Oakwood faculty member supported her claims and the pair left the hens clucking in shock. My point is, our teachers not only had a sharp mental arsenal, but they used it to defend us as best they could.
Another example of Oakwood's unique spirit:
A dear friend of ours, Jan Parsons got herself mixed up in some sort of trouble. It was all over the news at the time, but if her name is unfamiliar, it's alright. In fact, considering that all parties involved have since done their best to move on, I'm sure she'd rather have her story forgotten. However, let's just say that she was caught up in a scandal with a famous celebrity and this event drew the world press to Oakwood's doorstep, doing little to improve our school's image. But we weren't really worried about that. We were worried about Jan.
And Jan was understandably worried about what people, especially the other students, would think of her. So, with special permission from faculty, and without a word to us, Jan vanished for a few days while events escalated. By the time she returned, the rumor mill had been working overtime and we were all curious about what was really going on. She confided in a few of her close friends at first, but by then the press already had enough meat to grind and soon the entire school was aware of the situation. While Jan's friends readily accepted the situation there was some doubt as to what the more conservative students would think. But to my knowledge, none of the Oakwood students or faculty ridiculed her. On the contrary, the staff sought to protect her and the students seemed to like her even more.
If I recall correctly, it was Spring and Oakwood was preparing for an outdoor festival and car wash of some sort. The press had already been taking advantage of our open campus policy, waiting in their vans on the streets, trying to coral people for interviews regarding Jan. So it was no leap in logic that the parking lot would be swarming with news crews once our field day started. We had a school meeting to discuss the event and the faculty pleaded with us to respect Jan's privacy as a student and ignore the press if possible. I had a different plan.
On the way to campus the morning of the field day, I asked my ride to stop at Walgreen's, where we purchased a some black Sharpies and a few packs of adhesive name tags. The tags were the kind with the colored banner at the top which say "Hello My Name Is:" and have a blank in the middle to write a name. Once on campus my friend Roy and I set up shop in the cafeteria, passing out name tags and sharpies to anybody who wanted to "be" Jan Parsons for the day. Word spread quickly and before first period, we'd used up most of the name tags, unleashing our army of Jans on campus.
It was amazing. Every stereotype of subculture student (preps and princesses, jocks, coolios, punks, nerds, freaks and misfits) was representing Jan. If I'm not mistaken I believe a few of the faculty even put on name tags... and the press got very little from us. I heard that one news crew tried to interview a jock but he held to his guns, claiming to be Jan, while his buddy yelled in background "no, I'm Jan Parsons!"
There's one last story that I believe defines my respect for Oakwood.
Because Oakwood was an alternative school, we were told that there would be a small graduation ceremony with commemorative papers but our official diplomas would be issued by our home schools. This meant that we had to visit our home school and collect the document before the end of the year.
Later, in the principal's office at Wheeler, while waiting for someone to retrieve my diploma folder, a woman behind the desk informed me that they needed to measure me for a graduation gown. I smiled and told her as politely as I could that I wouldn't be representing Wheeler High School as another successful student, since they hadn't provided me with the education. The principal (an ex-coach who had personally escorted me on my admission tour) overheard this and looked as if he wanted to jump the desk and pummel me. I wasn't trying to be harsh, but I genuinely didn't (and don't) feel they deserved to have me on stage, smiling and shaking hands and giving them credit for all the hard work.
That hard work had been shared between myself and the faculty of Oakwood, and that's where it deserved to be recognized. Oakwood, in spite of it's reputation, had allowed me a sense of self-respect and a chance to focus on my education while growing as a person. For that I am gratefully indebted.
There's plenty more to say, but I think I'm done.
I just want to say thank you to all the people vested in the idea that Oakwood strives to represent. Keep chasing Unicorns and keep up the Good work,
Sincerely,
Sean Corey Adams
Oakwood Class of 1989
Aside: As I sat down to type this, my iTunes randomly selected to play Simple Minds' "Don't You -Forget About Me" from the Breakfast Club Soundtrack... highly appropriate considering how popular that movie was for my class.