A former colleague—someone I have not seen in a decade—was speaking to me this week, and while reminiscing, she said, “Remember that time you brought cold pizza and fried chicken and hot dogs for breakfast? That was amazing.”
It was. Kind of.
Years ago, each teacher in my school was responsible for providing breakfast for the faculty on a Friday throughout the school year. The faculty was much smaller back then, so providing breakfast for everyone was doable, and sometimes, you’d partner with someone to do two breakfasts together rather than flying solo.
One year, I decided to do something different. Instead of the usual breakfast options, I brought cold pizza, cold fried chicken, and hot dogs for breakfast, alongside soda, juice, and coffee. It was good pizza and fried chicken, too — purchased the evening prior from reputable establishments and chilled just right. In addition, I grilled hot dogs and toasted the buns on the spot in case someone wanted something to warm their tummy.
Many of my colleagues loved my breakfast; It brought back memories of high school and college mornings spent eating the leftovers from the night before.
Many, many more of my colleagues hated my breakfast. Expecting to find donuts, bagels, and perhaps an egg dish, they were instead greeted with cold pepperoni pizza, chilled drumsticks, and Ballpark franks.
Many people said many terrible things to me that day. Many more said terrible things about me to other people. Annoyed, hungry teachers roamed the hallways, disparaging me at every turn.
But here’s the thing:
Twenty years later, the people who loved that breakfast still remember it with great fondness. It was a breakfast like no other. Years later, they still credit me for my willingness to dare to be different, challenge norms, and create something unforgettable.
Those who despised my breakfast likely forgot about it long ago. Even if they still recall that breakfast today, it’s unlikely that they think poorly of me because of it.
If they still do, they are likely sour, sad sacks of humanity, worthless of my time and attention.
But even though most of my colleagues did not like my breakfast, many remember it more than two decades later.
I’ll venture to guess that no other breakfast in the history of my school is remembered at all.
This is why we must dare to be different.
Cut against the grain.
Defy expectations.
Snub our noses at norms.
Even when our choice to be different fails in the eyes (and tastebuds) of many, it’s also likely to be remembered for a long, long time.
Being remembered — doing something unforgettable — is almost always a good thing.
Being average, expected, routine, and therefore forgettable is standard fare in the land of the faithless, the fearful, and the mediocre. Sadly, this is the land where many people choose to live most of the time.
When we dare to be different, we will most assuredly fail from time to time, but we will also be recognized as innovators, daredevils, and trailblazers.
Sometimes the fools.
Best of all, we’ll be remembered.
I never repeated my pizza and fried chicken breakfast, but the following year, I put my experience as a short-order cook to work and set up two grills in the faculty lounge and cooked pancakes and eggs to order, which no one else had ever done. It wasn’t as amusing or transgressive as the previous year, and it’s probably not remembered nearly as well, but again, it was me, looking at something being done the same way, week after week, year after year, and asking myself, “How can I be different?”
My colleagues appreciated my scrambled eggs and chocolate chip pancakes, so I repeated those breakfasts for years. And yes, they became standard fare for me—somewhat routine and expected—but I was still the only teacher doing them, allowing me to remain different in a sea of donuts, bagels, and the occasional frittata.
