KATHERINE CARMICHAEL
She was loved as a treasured mentor by
those who knew her and mocked and
laughed at by those who only thought they
did. The former say she let the strict rules
of the day do their own talking; the latter
insist she would collar you on the street
and demand you put out that cigarette or
spit out that gum, and she might have you
over for an impromptu lecture.
ten record — she died at 69, five years after
retiring in 1977 — it appears she lived
most of her career on her own terms, but
she did not necessarily go out on them.
The dean, the caricature
This has happened several years run-
ning: The last building you pass by on the
spring reunions campus bus tour is a resi-
dence hall built in 1986 and named for
Katherine Carmichael. By the end of the
ride, it’s been established that most of the
dorms are dual-gender. Somebody always
asks, “It that one coed?” Yes, followed by a
“wuh-oh,” some sighs and shudders, and a
chorus of “oooo!”
Women of the 1950s and ’60s cannot
relive their Carolina experiences without
reliving Dean Carmichael. It’s not that they
were taken aback by mandatory study halls
and curfews overseen by house mothers,
drinking bans and dress codes — restric-
tions unheard of by male students —
because most of them had attended girls’
schools that were even stricter.
But Carmichael wasn’t just the face of
the rules. She was a caricature.
“She was a small woman, but she’d
enter a room and sort of swell up, throw
her shoulders back, sort of enter with her
chest, with one arm trailing behind her,”
said Dershie McDevitt ’ 64, who worked
for Carmichael after she graduated. “She
had a sweeping presence.” Someone else
said she looked like she was walking in
front of herself.
TELEGRAM, SOUTHERN HISTORICAL COLLECTION; YACKETY YACK 1947
