There are some things in life you can’t explain without sounding just a little bit ridiculous.
For me, one of those things happened to be strutting around the halls of my high school in a gigantic blue bird costume.
Yes, I was my high school’s mascot.
I danced at sporting events. I flapped my wings and “soared” from sideline to sideline. I got just as many fist bumps or high fives as I did steps in a day. I mocked the fan sections of opposing schools. I stole hats off the heads of countless fans and pretended to run away with them. I took countless pictures and selfies with little kids, alumni, the whole bit. I even got into a wrestling match with my U.S. History teacher at our pep rally. I did things that would have made me feel totally ridiculous if my identity wasn’t protected by the costume.
But when I put the costume on and “feathered up,” I didn’t care. And all along, that was the point.
Looking back, being the mascot wasn’t something that everyone fully understood. As my identity slowly was revealed (high school isn’t exactly the place for secrets or slow-traveling news), it became apparent that there were many people who wondered why I would willingly donate my time, dripping sweat inside the heavy costume, while making a complete fool of myself.
Some kids thought it was weird, and I definitely heard my fair share of jokes. I became the subject of jokingly playful, yet heavy banter both in classes and on the sports teams I was on. Sometimes I wondered if I looked stupid. But then there were moments that made those thoughts feel entirely insignificant.
My falcon duties went far beyond sporting events. Before holidays, I would visit the students in the special education classrooms to deliver candy and spread joy. Instantaneously, their faces would light up, and I’d be met with a brigade of high fives, hugs, and dance parties from cheerful students who were just happy to see me. Absolutely priceless.
Later that evening, I would arrive at the stadium or the court for a sporting event, and the same thing would happen all over again. The moment I stepped into the fan section, the paparazzi were after me: selfies, wide-eyed toddlers, and people calling for the mascot to come their way. My friends, who knew my little secret, would non maliciously giggle and cheer for me, which always brought a smile to my concealed face.
And suddenly, that moment of self-doubt was no more than a minuscule blip on the radar.
Because I wasn’t doing it to obtain popularity or get others to think I was cool. I wasn’t wearing the costume for the people who thought it was strange. I was doing it for the love of the game and the genuine fulfillment that came solely from making others smile. I was doing it to make myself and others happy.
That realization has stuck with me long after I took the costume off for the last time.
We spend so much of our lives worrying about how other people perceive us. We worry that our interests and hobbies are embarrassing or “cringe,” that we’re being too much, or that someone out there might laugh at us.
What if we stopped letting that matter so much, or for that matter, at all?
And if they’re going to laugh, let them. Let them talk their talk. If it makes you happy, and it’s not hurting anybody, why does it need to make sense to anyone else? Everybody has their quirks and things, and if everybody had the same hobbies and pleasures, life would be so mundane.
Surely the ones who are laughing have a hobby of their own that would seem odd to us, and what a shame it is if they’re missing out on taking part because they’re self-conscious. Maybe that’s where their motive for ridiculing lies: their own fear of being judged while watching others live freely without that fear of judgment.
Being the Frontier Falcon has given so much to me: a sense of joy, purpose, and, of course, a boatload of service hours for Honor Society. Above all, it taught me that true happiness isn’t always a concept that looks normal to everybody else. Sometimes, it looks like zipping up a massive blue bird costume and running up, down, and all around the sides of a football field.
Other days, it looks like handing out candy, bringing smiles to others who need it, or stopping to take a picture with a little kid who thinks you’re the coolest being in the world. I learned that some of the things we worry about being judged for become things that we cherish the most.
Sometimes, you just have to be willing to look a little silly, ignore the people who don’t get it, and keep doing the thing that fulfills your soul. Because at the end of the day, it really is such a small price to pay for doing something that makes you genuinely happy. At times, I may have looked sort of ridiculous underneath the giant bird head, but I was also laughing, dancing, making people smile, and creating memories that will live inside of me long after high school. And if I had let a few jokes or chuckles stop me from putting on the costume, I would have missed out on some of the happiest moments I had here.