My tail swings softly back and forth as I march into the Caf, hungry and dignified. I notice the plethora of glances in my direction as I turn toward the counter with the intention of ordering the glazed turkey. The man who serves my plate smiles at me with what I perceive to be a knowing smile laced with respect. My roommate and I find a table near the middle of the room, but then she remembers she forgot a drink and silverware and runs off. Thus I sit, in the middle of my peers, alone at a table, adorned in a giraffe suit.
I distinctly remember the last night of my senior trip. In less than three days I would be graduating and walking away from the abhorrent penitentiary commonly referred to as high school. The last week before our long awaited freedom, the senior class was bused down to Destin, Florida, for some last minute bonding on the beach. It took a day or so to recover from the jarring culture shock of witnessing my classmates lounging around half-naked in the sand. Nothing can prepare a girl for the scarring image of the quiet boy, always wearing khakis and a collared shirt in the classroom, walk past her in a tiger print speedo. Sometimes a dress code is a good thing.
On the final night of the mandatory vacation, a luau was held on the beach. This simply meant that two or three torches were lit and a circle of chairs were set up around a comically small bonfire. After we all grabbed a hamburger and some chips, we made our way to the ring of seats.
My school was not a large one. My senior class consisted of 118 young adults. The size was small enough that most everyone knew everyone else. There was also the added fact that we had been stuck together for seven years. Thus we sat in a hoop around the weak flame eating our dinner and engaging in sporadic conversations with those around us. At long last, our spiritual director made his way to the center of the mass and quieted everyone. He made a lengthy speech regarding our school’s tradition of invading Destin with a herd of immature 17 and 18-year-olds every May. He then went on to open the sandy floor for a cliché session of open mic, for whoever to share a tear-jerking story of a friend or a teacher who made an impression. It didn’t take long for the wheels to start rolling. One by one, student after student rose to the occasion to give a shout-out to their favorite teacher or best friend. After almost two hours, most everyone had received a shout-out from someone else regarding the impact that they had made by simply being them. I, however, received no shout-out.
I have long considered myself an introvert. I find immense pleasure in being alone. Throughout the course of my senior year in high school, my introversion reached its peak. I would arrive at school as late as possible. I left the moment the bell rang. Lunch would be eaten in my car. Conversations were burdens to be avoided. I decided that I would be like the Grinch and distance myself from the judgmental, hypocritical Whos that resided in the senior hallway. Despite the isolation of myself from my peers, I was surprised at the lack of mention of my name in the makeshift circle of feelings on the beach that night. I felt invisible, and I felt alone.
It didn’t take me long to realize that the reason that my name wasn’t mentioned, was because during my seven years with these people, I had never made a name for myself. I had never put myself out there and separated myself from the mediocrity. I had merely blended in and become another face in the oblivion of society. As I walked away from my high school and toward college, I took one important lesson with me; the mitochondrion is the powerhouse of the cell. I also made the important realization that in order to make myself known, I need to put in the effort. I decided that it was time to go out into the world and make friends, or at least get a shout-out. The days of hiding in my car with a delicious peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich on Cracker Barrel sourdough bread are over.
Arriving on the campus of Samford University, I felt as though I had reached the beginning of a new chapter. Rather than playing a side character, I decided to move to center stage and at long last, act as the protagonist in my own life story. It is time to live and to love, louder and larger than ever before. I embarked on a mission to make a name for myself. Dressing as a giraffe and heading to dinner was only the humble start of my journey, not to separate myself from humanity, but to separate myself from the anonymity.
The world is stock full of zebras. They meander about the savannah of life, munching on grass, accomplishing nothing. They blend in with their fellow zebra brethren. One of them might spot a giraffe from afar and think to himself, “I wish I stood out like that.” Then all of his little zebra buddies might console him with the idea that every zebra’s stripes are unique. That’s really dumb. The stripes still look the same. This is why I no longer want to be a zebra. I want to be that giraffe and stand out from the herd. And I encourage others to shed their stripes as well.
