The Smiths chose the name of their band for its genericness. The controversial band of the 1980s wanted their songs to deal with issues to which ordinary people could relate, not with the glorious lifestyle of being an international sensation. I was thirteen years old when I first heard the melodic singing of Morrissey and virtuosic guitar-playing of Johnny Marr. While the rest of my seventh-grade classmates would swoon over any singer at the top of the charts, my love for the relatively antiquated Smiths was unswerving. Like The Smiths, I was one of a kind. I wanted my life to reflect the ingenious poetry of Morrisey’s lyrics: racy, controversial, righteous, just as Morrisey was himself. His musical descriptions of the struggles of mundane, drab, ordinary life clicked with me, as they did with millions of people around the world. I didn’t need to be famous or a singer to impact people—I just needed to be plain old ordinary me.

The Smiths were so relatable. Morrissey was unafraid to be vulnerable, which allowed me to relate to my darker emotions. Morrissey revealed to the world his feelings of being offbeat and lonely—feelings that everyone has felt. “Sixteen, clumsy, and shy—that’s the story of my life.” Through his lyrics, I learned to embrace my shyness, but, at the same time, I also learned that “coyness is nice, and coyness can stop you from saying all the things in life you’d like to.” So, like Morrissey, I spoke up for my beliefs, as he did in “Meat is Murder,” “The Queen is Dead,” and “Vicar in a Tutu.”

I walked a thin line between oversensitivity and justice, constantly wondering when to speak up and when to keep mum. This moral calculus became tougher freshman year, when I moved to a new school, one in which I didn’t have the benefit of being surrounded by people I’d known for ten years.

“You’ll need to know this formula for the lab!” Ms. Leners tried to yell over the din of twelve high-schoolers ensconced in their own conversations. “Please listen!” No one did. I looked around, and saw only two other students paying any attention to the struggling physics teacher.

“Can you guys stop talking? She’s trying to explain something. It’s just rude.” With stunned stares, as well as some audible scoffs, the class responded to my appeal. “Thank you, Sean,” Ms. Leners said, surprised as well, but nonetheless appreciative.

After class, as a group of us walked to the dining hall, my friend Jamal asked me acerbically, “What the f*** was that, Sean?” The rest of them looked at me in consensus.

“You guys were being dicks. I felt bad for her. But if you’re chill with being an ass, then you do you.”

“Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask, you are a flatulent pain in the ass. I do not mean to be so rude. Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly.”

Morrissey was confrontational when he sang, but, throughout all The Smiths’ albums, he sang of love and kindness. Although I felt like I was doing the right thing, I did not necessarily do it in the nicest way possible.

“You shut your mouth. How can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does.”

In a group chat between a few of the boys in my grade, someone brought up a picture that a classmate had posted in which he expressed his sadness. It was about a break-up and was very dramatic, even corny—an easy target for an insensitive prick. The convoluted caption implied that he’d contemplated suicide.

“Yo, did you guys see Nico’s post, on suicide or some shit?”

“Yeah, he’s missing Anna hard, bro.”

“LOL. It’s funny because Anna is having the time of her life.”

My friend Jason chimed in: “Whatever, dude. The guy can go slit his wrists if he wants to. Not really my problem. I mean, why kill yourself over a b****?”

I’d had enough. I felt like I had to respond: “LOL, WTF. No one asked.”

“Well, I’m the one asking, ‘Why would you kill yourself over a b****?’”

“Not your problem, dude,” I replied.

“He’s seeking attention or something.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe he’s seeking attention because he feels like shit. So what? Maybe he wants help or something. I have no clue, but it doesn’t matter.”

“I understand that, but I don’t think posting shit like that is the best way of doing so.”

“Yeah I agree with you, Jason, but there’s no need for you to say he can go kill himself.”

“When you laugh at people who feel so very lonely, their only desire is to die. Well, I’m afraid it doesn’t make me smile. I wish I could laugh. But that joke isn’t funny anymore. It’s too close to home, and it’s too near the bone.”

Eventually, I started to be more level-headed and respectful when telling other people that I thought they were wrong, but I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to spread positivity and love, like Morrissey did. After leaving prep school, I received a call from a former dormmate who’d been asked to leave the school and wanted to talk about it. During the conversation, he said, “I’m still at school, but I’m leaving soon. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I want to do something legendary before I leave.”

I took this statement to mean that he wanted to break a major school rule. In response, I broke the lightheartedness of the conversation in the spirit of Morrissey and told him, in all seriousness, what I thought: “Just say thank you to people. You won’t be able to say it to them again.” I hoped he would be mature enough to heed my advice.

“Like teachers or students?”

“Both.”

“I definitely have a few faculty members who, like, changed me and who probably haven’t heard me say that.”

“It’s so easy to laugh; it’s so easy to hate. It takes strength to be gentle and kind.”

I wish I possessed Morrisey’s mastery of writing, and the ability to share my thoughts with the world in a meaningful way. What a privilege it would be to be part of that legendary band! I still dream about being its fifth member, but, for now, I’ll continue to make sure that “Bigmouth strikes again.” I’m satisfied with that. I’ll be normal, a commoner, the average person—just another Smith.