I’d met these people less than 24 hours prior. We’d gathered in an old train depot, broke bread, and made stilted first introductions. There was a “scavenger hunt survey” to break initial barriers, and drinks to finish the job.

We all had an early morning the next day–an 8 am curtain call at the Civic Center. Orientation. But this lubricated reception eased what was coming next, to some extent.

I was one of the only ones who knew that we’d soon be facing what all the Leadership Carteret alumni I’d talked to simply called “The Wall.”

There were 28 of us. We were the class of 2023. We were a blend of random people with different backgrounds and different kinds of jobs–many of whom were relative newcomers to the area.

I wasn’t a newcomer. I was one of three who was “a local” — a born and bred Carterican. (Carterican sounds contrived, and I guess it is. One of the boats on the Morehead waterfront was called that. Clever, yet foreign. But, “Carteret County native” is cumbersome, and I don’t have a better word.)

The truth is, more of us natives should have comprised that class of 28. From what I can tell, leadership classes are often sought by organizations who bring in talent from elsewhere. Both the manager and the director fit into that category. They were fresh faces in important positions, and they needed to quickly become acquainted with our little community.

Leadership class was a surefire way of getting acquainted with the industry, business, government and educational system that made our community a thriving one. I admired them both for diving in head first, especially because I knew we all had to face The Wall.

I hoped they would take it on with gusto, and they did; the footprints I left on the town manager’s back proved me right.

I started my role at the Carteret County Chamber of Commerce in October of 2022. Leadership Carteret was somewhat new to me. Two days into my training I had to shadow my predecessor as she facilitated an 8-hour Leadership Carteret class. The usual springtime class–a 10-week course of all-day classes every Wednesday–had been moved to the fall due to COVID, and I’d arrived smack in the middle of it.

The next Wednesday my predecessor was gone. Retired. It was 8 am and I found myself wearing a too-bright, cerulean blue, standard pre-shrunk cotton unisex crew-neck emblazoned with the Chamber logo, holding a watered down glass of cold brew, awkwardly standing outside the conference room of a hotel in Emerald Isle, and eternally thankful that the people I’d just met were all wearing a goldenrod yellow version of the same shirt.

Seventeen, 18, 19. They were all there.

I was their hired shepard. Like a field trip chaperone. I felt like an alien among this group of people who were obviously bonded after their five Wednesdays together.

That day exploring Emerald Isle, Cape Carteret, and Bogue with those 18 strangers melted every bit of the little green man I’d felt. There’s something about observing a group of people who seemed more acquainted than they should and being welcomed by them. But I knew about The Wall, and I could only assume that was a determining factor.

Not a week had passed since we’d wrapped Leadership Carteret 2022, and I was meeting with the committee chairs to plan the next year’s course. We were back on schedule with Leadership 2023 beginning January 10th and wrapping up in March. I had seven weeks.

January 10th is way too close to New Year’s Day, but that’s when we kicked off Leadership 2023 anyway. We had a decent opening reception that evening, I think. No sparks though. Orientation started at 8 am.

My job was to make sure everything went smoothly. Again I wore the too-bright cerulean blue, standard pre-shrunk cotton unisex crew-neck emblazoned with the Chamber logo that indicated my status as staff and not a member of the class of 2023. Everyone ate breakfast and the orientation facilitators gave a crash course on the next 9 weeks. 10 am came, and we learned one of the people who signed up for the class couldn’t take part. One of those facilitators, also the co-chair of the Leadership steering committee, suggested I take the vacancy. And did so loudly. I couldn’t refuse, but I was immediately anxious about the thing Leadership alumni impishly forewarned of: The Wall.

We learned each other’s names with a very public and slightly humiliating “name game,” tested for our “color type,” and then headed off to Camp Albemarle, one of those places where kids are just happy to be and the occasional team of adults defends upon for a team-building activity.

That was us.

The director of the camp led us through some getting-to-know-you exercises that were deliberate in their awkwardness: we formed a circle and were called into the middle based on career, family status, and experience; we locked eyes and whispered “mingle, mingle, mingle” while orbiting each other in imperfect ellipses until the director told to stop and engage in conversation with those nearest to us; half of us were blindfolded and guided around the property by people we met just the day before.

At lunch, one of the facilitators broke the news about The Wall. Groans rang throughout the cafeteria. The alumni in the room chimed in with playful, if knowing, teases, somehow sounding both ominous and encouraging. We may have been stuffed with Eastern North Carolina style BBQ, but we were decidedly unsettled.

We were split into teams and sent to the camp’s challenge course. One of those crazy playgrounds that requires a signed waiver.

My team of 9 did communication exercises on a balance beam and fought gravity to coax a giant see-saw into a perfect 90 degree angle from the forest floor. We jumped log to log to rock to log following rules only two of us managed to master.

We felt like a team by the end of all that. As trite as it might sound.

But we were only a third of our class. The other groups finished their challenges, and as a whole we closed in on the final obstacle: The Wall.

Our class wasn’t shy, nor subtle. Immediately sighs and comments both sarcastic and pessimistic peppered the air. The wall was huge, and it was smooth. Slick 2x4s stretching vertically to a platform with a wooden ladder leading to the ground. More than a few of us retreated to the edge of the woods, arms crossed, brows raised, already feeling some sense of defeat.

Our challenge course leader shouted for our attention and forced us into a semicircle. He spoke to us like a counselor would to campers. This was it. The Wall. We could work together to get everyone up and over, or we could give up. He walked away, and we were left with an empty space between us and that damn wall.

Silence.

Finally a classmate called out, “Ok, let’s figure out who should go up first.”

A couple others perked up and called out to the rest of us. More joined the chorus. Then three of our class worked together to get the first of us up the wall.

Within a minute, most of this class of 2023 was plotting a master plan. Who should go next? Do we need stronger arms up top or down below? Does height matter?

If I remember correctly, it took us more than an hour to get everyone up. It was January, but we were wet with sweat. Pants were torn and a leather belt was snapped in two. The town manager and plenty of other strong backs that wore goldenrod yellow crew necks were now caked in dirt.

The back of those shirts said something though: 2023 Best Class Ever. It’s a mantra claimed by every year’s class, and often debated.

But in that moment we were more than just the best class ever. We were a force. We’d boosted each other by the buttocks and caused each other pain. In that hour, as jargony as it sounds, 28 became one.

Class ended for the day. I was the last to leave the again empty area in front of The Wall. It seemed like someone on staff should see everyone off.

By profession I was still a shepherd, but I was no longer counting goldenrod yellow shirts. I wore one myself.

Epilogue

The next nine weeks were incredible. Even us three native Cartericans were introduced to people, places and industries we didn’t know were thriving in our own backyards. During the course of Leadership Carteret I learned about the challenges we face here in Carteret County, but I also learned about our collective success. I gained a depth of understanding that I, naively, thought I already had.

The most impactful change, however, was that I found myself comfortable being vulnerable around real people in my community. Months later and I still don’t hesitate to reach out to my Leadership network when I know I can only succeed with others’ help.

I swear, it’s because of that wall.