A few weeks ago, I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and heard a soft, yet distinct, rustling sound coming from the corner. I looked to my right—no, it wasn’t my roommate, she had taken two Nyquil before falling asleep and hadn’t stirred since. As my mind continued to race, I quickly settled upon the only possible conclusion: it was the resident mouse paying me my nightly visit.
I would like to consider myself a veteran of the mouse-catching business. As a dorm prefect during my senior year of high school, I was accustomed to waking up at 3 a.m. to the sound of an underclassman girl screaming, “MOUSE … TALIA!” It was as if being a year older had somehow endowed me with a superior ability to capture mice.
Annoyed and half-asleep, I would tell them I’d call someone in the morning to set up traps and offered them the option of sleeping on my floor. I always smiled when I put forth this seemingly hospitable suggestion, knowing very well that the mice simply traveled from room to room, and the floor was undoubtedly the worst place to find yourself in the midst of a mouse infestation. Nevertheless, the girls would set up shop on my carpet and sleep soundly the rest of the night.
Now granted, not every girl on the hall was hysterical at the sight of a mouse, but nonetheless, someone had to be responsible. In order to keep everything running smoothly, the school seemed to think it necessary to have a leadership role for every aspect of campus life. Every time I opened my e-mail, I found another application for a leadership position, whether it was heading the newly established philanthropy group, or a sitting on a committee that would constructively criticize our dining hall food.
Even though the school gave out leadership opportunities as if they were candy, the positions still came with high expectations. The abundance of positions was meant to provide all students the chance to develop their skills as leaders and to contribute to the inner workings of our tightly-knit community. What you chose to involve yourself in was in every sense a reflection of your personal interests. The Philanthropy Council consisted of those students who spent their Spring Breaks in Guatemala volunteering, the Young Democrats consisted of those students who campaigned everyday for Obama, and the Honor Council really did consist of those students whom you could trust.
When the spring of my junior year rolled around, there was never a doubt in my mind that I wanted to apply for dorm prefect. Prefects were seniors trained to act as role models and peer counselors to the younger students living on their hall. Essentially, we had to always be willing to sacrifice our own personal time in order to meet the needs of our underclassman hall-mates. As undesirable as this role sometimes seemed—especially at 3 a.m. when I was confronted with rodents—being able to play such an integral role in the lives of other students taught me more than I could have imagined when I took that initial step of filling out my application.
Back in Village C West, the irritating rustling that interrupted my slumber inevitably continued. The following evening I rallied my floor and took real action. It wasn’t that I knew how to take care of a mouse problem specifically, but my time as a prefect on a hall full of screaming girls prepared me to handle this less extreme rodent infestation with ease and confidence. I didn’t personally murder the little guy, but by the end of the night our floor had expertly joined forces and rendered our resident mouse decapitated and lifeless in the barren stairwell.
Leadership goes beyond the confines of titles such as “prefect”—it’s about being willing to sacrifice yourself for the good of the group. While investing in mouse traps and dedicating hours to soothing the nerves of the zemmiphobic girl on your hall may not seem like the most enjoyable of experiences, the strength of any community depends on our willingness to set aside our own lives and kill a rodent every now and then.
