I watched a school’s talent show, drawn in by the energy of the performances. Among the students, there was one kid I’d seen around campus—a bit awkward, always a little out of place. I wasn’t sure if he was on the spectrum, but I wouldn’t have been surprised. He seemed like a kind soul, just socially uneasy.
But that day, he stepped onto the stage. Alone. Vulnerable. Standing before a high school crowd that could easily dissect him into a meme.
And then, he sang.
He gripped the mic, letting his voice fly, his confidence building with each word. The stage—his, even if just for a few minutes. He wasn’t frozen by nerves. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. He even took a few steps forward, attempting to move closer to his audience. His movements were stiff—his right foot and right hand swinging forward in sync, like his nerves momentarily rewired his sense of coordination.
I didn’t recognize the song at first, but something about the melody felt familiar. Maybe he was slightly off-key. I held back a chuckle, realizing that if I ever had the courage to sing in front of a crowd, this might be exactly how I’d look.
I scanned the audience, half-expecting someone to jeer, to mock, because every high school has at least one person who does. But deep down, I hoped they wouldn’t. But the moment his song ended, something beautiful happened.
Applause erupted. The crowd cheered him on. He bowed, and I imagined his self-esteem, his dignity, standing intact, strengthened even. His courage far outshone his talent. His schoolmates made sure he knew—he mattered.
But more than that, I was struck by the maturity and decency of the crowd. This wasn’t a prestigious private school, yet these kids carried more respect, more kindness, more than what is sometimes expected, even of adults.. They could have laughed. They could have torn him down. And maybe, in whispers and exchanged glances, some of them did. But they held it back. They let him have his moment.
And that, more than the performance itself, was something worth witnessing.
