At the corner of 111th and Roberts Road sits a cavernous and oftentimes quite carnivorous high school building (chicken patties are inhaled in this place and the AP curriculum can oftentimes feel like a baby shark clamped to your thigh, perfectly comfortable with never cutting you some slack, ever). It is two stories tall. Its first floor boasts a spacious Performing Arts Center complete with a lobby scattered with squishy sofas and in December, Christmas trees, along with a maze of closets and dressing rooms backstage. Its Library and Media Center wraps around roughly half of the entire second floor, complete with the smell of coffee wafting through shelves and yet another scattering of even more squishy chairs. Weaving through the far end leads one to a corner sectioned off to hold English Language Learner classes along with another smaller space designated for the Literacy Resource Center. Its exact address is room 709, and it has a nifty fireplace we are never allowed to use in fear the whole place burning down.
During my third year zipping back and forth from the corner of 111th and Roberts, I struggled severely with confidence and the way I perceived myself and the world around me. I was in love with everyone and everything, except for me, myself, or I. Education intrigued me, university flyers captivated me, my teachers inspired me, Leonardo DiCaprio was playing in a new movie, I was on Varsity Track, but self-reflection still managed to shatter me.
Some of the few times in my day that I felt anywhere close to feeling perfectly alright happened to be during English classes; I had always had a knack for reading and writing, and I never felt anxious to raise my hand. I felt good and smart. This year my English requirement was being filled with 6th hour Advanced Placement English Language and Composition, taught by Ms. Mary Ogarek. It was supplemented by tutoring in the LRC during my lunch hour, supervised by the same teacher. Possibly everything about Ms. Ogarek was extraordinary; her height, naturally strawberry red hair, exceedingly bright blue eyes, adoration for The Great Gatsby, and above all an innate capacity for kindness and caring. This woman practically invented random acts of kindness for our school, and enforced it via quick wit, sass, humor, and a weeklong sticky note compliment palooza in which the entire building delighted in.
Via her instruction in the classroom and yogurt fireside chats (without the fire hazard), I learned so much more than how to write an essay with a kick ass refute within a single 40-minute class period. She didn’t have to tell me any of these things or be so nice, and neither did the other teachers who ran the LRC alongside her, so naturally I learned all about the importance of going to prom with whomever I chose, that I looked nice in shades of bluish green, ranting is fine, but taking charge is even better, declaring “BOYS ARE STUPID!” loudly and clearly is therapeutic, I should think about becoming an English major, femininity is not weak but powerful, and that I was basically worth the whole damn bunch put together. Her random acts of kindness changed the way I saw myself amongst others; my perception of myself verses the universe would never be the same.
Random acts of kindness are completely and utterly unplanned. They are spontaneous bursts of humanity and cleverness. One does not simply wake up in the morning knowing they will combat bullying in 3 words or less, or stick up for someone being shammed for something out of their control, or make someone who is stressed to the brink of tears smile with your promise that those who care about her make up 99% of the population and the 1% annoyed with her are just stupid.
The 2017 National Random Acts of Kindness Week was February 12th through the 18th. It reoccurs annually, always within the month of February. I am a more compassionate, fiery, and loving person because of someone who promoted this weeklong happiness project-shenanigan for not just for one week, but for every week. I am braver and smarter and wittier, and above all, more powerful than my self-doubt could ever be.