I plop down in the back corner during study break, open my Macbook, and put on headphones. Is any sound leaking out? Is my screen out of sight? My head does a swivel like a wall-mounted security camera, scanning the room for unwanted approaches, when someone suddenly draws near my periphery. I slam the Macbook shut.
Nobody sits high schoolers down and tells them they should only show certain sides of themselves. We figure that out on our own: somewhat through practice, mostly by instinct. And as someone who saw himself as a leader, I knew what those sides were. Leaders are outgoing, respected, and socially aggressive. They are the popular embodiment of “correct” hobbies and interests. I fit this ideal into my school life, winning leadership positions and commanding group projects by carefully pruning my appearance and hobbies. If the popular conversation topic was baseball, then I watched baseball every night, just so I could participate in tomorrow’s talk. I was my own image consultant, molding my public persona.
It’s lunchtime and I enter the cafeteria. Students are gathered around an LCD screen, fixedly watching a T.V. feature on otakus, a term for rabid and dorky fans of Japanese animation. The spectacled otaku, thick and pasty, lugs around a life-size doll of his favorite anime character and speaks to her, carrying on imagined conversations. A ridiculous cab ride later they’re at an Italian restaurant where he requests a table for two. Next he orders two spaghettis and—you guessed it—pretends to feed the doll.
“Hah, wow! These anime freaks are disgusting!”
“What a bunch of total weirdos.”
We can’t help but laugh away the lunch period as the program spirals into senselessness.
I’d be “disgusting” too, if I told people about my true love. But I might as well admit it: I love anime. I like the imaginative storylines—so weirdly different from my reality, yet somehow so relevant. I rejoice in animators’ freedom from expensive CGI and actors’ fees. I relish the presentation of inner dialogue, while the episodic format allows me to connect more deeply with the characters. I talk about it with anyone I can, reminiscing about our favorite moments. But I knew that for each laugh we shared at the otaku that day, the less willing I was to share my interest. 
There is a common trope in anime where a character discovers a new world, parallel to ours, but more exciting, vibrant and mysterious. Everyone assumes the other world is impossible—right up until they’re in it. I envisioned that world, when I looked around my school—a world where people shared their interests without fear of being cast out. A world where I could suggest a favorite episode to friends and they’d entertain it, even if they didn’t become the world’s biggest fans.
So what is a leader? Someone who excels within the bounds of social norms? Or someone who navigates their own territory, unrestrained by preordained rules and customs?
The environment in my school today is very different from that of two years ago. Step into our history classroom afterschool and you’ll see Jae Hun and Soo Jin commandeer the projector to screen yesterday’s new anime hit; walk into the cafeteria and you’ll witness Min Sung head-to-toe in boisterous costume advertising the school’s new anime club; come into my homeroom and you’ll be immersed in debate over the merits of digital animation. It truly is a whole new world.
My school community didn’t change by accident. When I saw what I wanted in my life, I created my own definition of leadership. I don’t try to appear “normal” because a leader doesn’t care about looking good. A leader doesn’t wait. Instead, I find what people think is strange and unacceptable—but that has value—and cause it to be reevaluated in a new light. I know my true role: I shatter shared negative assumptions.
I plop down in the back corner during study break, open my Macbook, and put on headphones. Suddenly, I spot someone in my periphery. This time, the screen stays up:
“Hey! Why don’t you come check this out?”