“Guys, we need to hang out next weekend!” That was the moment I knew I had found people I could call friends. When I was little, I never had any real friends. I liked to say it was because my family moved to Gig Harbor from Snohomish when I was two and a half years old, which meant my parents didn’t know anyone with kids my age. I also had another excuse for not making friends, which was my speech issues. When I was three, I was enrolled in speech therapy until I was five and a half. I learned how to speak, but I still didn’t know what to say. I had spent the past few years unable to have conversations, so when I finally could, I didn’t know how. However, even after years of living in Gig Harbor and being multiple months out of speech therapy, I had only made one true friend that I hung out with outside of sports or school. This all changed on October 31st, 2013.

That Halloween night, my parents and I were invited to a party by my friend and his family. The car ride there was only three minutes, but it felt like three years. My stomach was twisting, and my courage was shrinking. When we arrived, I walked carefully to avoid tripping on my alligator costume's tail. As I walked my personal “tightrope,” the cool autumn air nipped at my face, and children's laughter hit my ears. I then looked up to see the house. It was two stories, with a small porch and large garage in front, and a wrap-around deck, connecting the front of the house with the fenced-in backyard. That house is what I now consider a typical neighborhood house.

When I got to their front door, I spotted my friend, along with four other kids I didn’t know. I stood there, listening to the voice in my head, You can’t make friends! I was doubting myself before the night began. I was doubting myself before I spoke. I was doubting myself before they even saw me.

The moment I decided to give in to the voice was the moment my friend saw me. He rushed over and started dragging me towards the group. My heart was racing. My nerves were shouting. My thoughts were sprinting. He didn’t notice; he just kept pulling me, until I was right in front of those kids. They immediately introduced themselves, then asked my name. I mumbled it, repeated it, then stood frozen as they launched a barrage of questions at me. However, as I answered each question, something shifted. Talking became less of a challenge, and my words finally loosened. I actually smiled.

The rest of the night passed like a blur. We roamed the neighborhood, traded candy, and played games. My worries had vanished, leaving only laughter and joy. It was one of the most fun nights of my life. As the party wound down, one of the kids said, “Guys, we need to hang out next weekend!” That is when I knew these four kids weren’t just my friends' friends, but my friends.

That following weekend, we hung out, and the next weekend after that, and many more after. We came from different backgrounds, but we shared the same laughter. We had different interests, but we found the same joy. We lived different lives, but we built the same friendship. That group taught me that everyone I meet will be different from me. Everyone will have different histories, passions, ideas, and personalities, but that doesn’t mean I should be scared to be friends with them. Now, over a decade later, they continue to show me the benefit of making friends who don’t share all my interests. That benefit is understanding all the different aspects of the one thing everyone in this country shares: Being American.

© Zach. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.