(I’m a trans guy in high school. This means that I was raised as a girl but I’m really a boy. I’ve only started coming out to people this past year, and I usually try to make it as casual as possible without mentioning words like “trans,” as those tend to make people uncomfortable. At this point, I’ve been introducing myself as my new name and leaving it at that. We’ve changed bus drivers a few times this year for various reasons, but the latest one should be here to stay for a while. He knows me by a shortened form of my new name, which is somewhat gender neutral, so I’m always afraid that he thinks I’m a girl. I try to use my full new name around him or call myself a guy to make sure he knows, but I’m always a bit insecure. I also have waist-length hair. I’ve never had it cut, though, so I’m fairly attached to it. I compensate by hiding it under hoodies or shirts and keeping it in a ponytail. This takes place on a bus ride home after the driver and I have been talking for a while.)

Bus Driver: “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Me: “Sure.”

Bus Driver: “I don’t want you to get mad or anything, but have you ever cut your hair?”

Me: “Nope.”

Bus Driver: “Really? Cool! I like it.”

Me: “Really? I usually get, ‘are you Indian or something where guys can’t cut their hair?'” *I don’t look Indian in the slightest*

Bus Driver: “Seriously? I really like it. I used to have hair down to here.” *gestures* “I looked like some biker dude. I really like your hair, though. I don’t know why you keep it covered all the time.”

(I don’t know if he knows how great that made me feel. That may be the boost I needed to wear it down once in a while! Bus Driver, if you’re reading this, thank you so much!)

(It’s the second day of seventh grade, but the first day for me, as I had had a medical procedure done the day before. I am not in the best frame of mind. I know I should have been home recovering but the school won’t let me. I have to deal with the chronic illness that has resulted in the procedure having to be done, I have an unstable home life that has left me breaking down and crying right before I come to school, I am still trying to comprehend something traumatic that had happened to me the year before, and to top it off, I am starting to show symptoms of the bipolar that would be completely ignored until diagnosed as an adult. And I am late for school. In short, all I want is to be left alone. In reading period, we are allowed to go to a separate room, provided we behave. In that room is a closet that has its door removed, that has been turned into a private reading nook. At the beginning of reading period, I take my book and make a beeline for the nook, getting there first and settling down. I don’t get far into my reading before a group of kids who had given me trouble the year before appear in the doorway.)

Kid #1: “Get out.”

(I ignore them.)

Kid #1: “I said get out!”

Me: “No.”

Kid #2: “We want in here.”

Me: “Go away.”

Kid #3: “Get out or we’ll make you.”

(At this point I’m frustrated enough to do the unthinkable: I flip them off. Naturally, they have a freak out that would put an association footballer to shame. They run to their teacher, screaming about what I have done. I get a sinking feeling in my gut — not too far from where the procedure had been done, in fact — and try to get a few more sentences in before Hell comes crashing down upon me. Their teacher comes flying into the room, straight towards the alcove. It’s her second day, too. She’s new to the school, new to the students, and she’s not my main teacher. All she knows about me is that I had to spend time in her class that morning because I had come in an hour late and my class was out in the field. She’s furious.)

Teacher: “Were you bothering [Kids]?!”

(I look up at her, but I have no idea how to answer that.)

Teacher: “Did you flip them off?!”

Me: *quietly* “Yes…”

(Now I don’t know if it was my honesty, my general quietness, or some look on my face, but her features instantly soften. She stares at me for a few seconds, and when she speaks again, it’s much gentler.)

Teacher: “You just wanted to be left alone, huh?”

(I nod.)

Teacher: “Well, it’s against the rules so you’ve lost your reading room privileges for the day, but why don’t you come read at my desk? No one will bother you there.”

(I nodded and she reached out a hand and helped me off the floor. As I followed her to her room, I saw the kids gloating at me and running to the alcove, but I didn’t care. She was right, no one bothered me at her desk, and every so often she would look up from her work and smile at me as I read quietly. When I graduated middle school and the teachers made speeches about all the eighth graders, she’s the one who made my speech. I never got to properly thank her or say goodbye, though, as she left school early to pick up her daughter from her own last day of school. So, Ms. H, if you’re reading this: Thank you and goodbye.)

I told my students that I hadn’t finished planning the rest of their unit because my mother-in-law was admitted to the hospital, but that I was doing my best to keep them on track.

Two days later, 15 or so kids stop in at break with cards, homemade treats, poems (!), and drawings of encouragement. I burst into tears.

Their kindness made it possible for me to get through a tough week.

I have lived in Los Angeles for no more than six months when I rear-end a city truck while on my way to work. I am nineteen, alone, and terrified. I don’t know what to do or what is going to happen. My truck is obviously a total loss and I am stranded. I am stressed about the damages, the cost, work and how I’ll get there; the list goes on.

I’m standing on the busy street, waiting for a tow, crying and shaking when another car stops and a man gets out. After he checks in with the others, he comes and talks to me. Turns out he’s a city employee as well. He noticed my license plates were out of state and asks me where I am from. He happens to have family near my hometown. Before I know it, I am not crying anymore but am having a light conversation with this stranger. He even manages to make me laugh.

I never got his name. I wouldn’t even be able to describe his appearance. But he comforted a terrified teenager when she was alone and probably in shock, now that I think of it. Years later, I still think about him sometimes, so if you’re reading this, mystery man, know that I am grateful and thank you.

I’m at a grocery chain where you have to put in a quarter to unlock a cart. I get mine, but I notice a flustered and annoyed-looking lady fishing through her purse to find a quarter, then I see her start back to her car. I call to her and fish a quarter out of my pocket. I’m in a good mood, just feel like helping out, and figure twenty-five cents isn’t going to kill me. She thanks me profusely; I just smile, say “You’re welcome,” and go on my way without thinking about it.

After I’m done, I’m getting all my stuff together and getting ready to leave when she comes up to me. “Here you are! Thank you!” and handed me a quarter. “Thank you again!” she said, and we both laughed. It was such a small thing, but we both walked away smiling. I felt good, and I hope I made her day better.