I’ve got a proposal for you. You write in and share the kinds of acts that reflect positive role models and I’ll share them with our readers.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got bad news fatigue, reading headlines online and in newspapers about people doing all kinds of terrible things to strangers, neighbors and family members.

Every time an athlete, actor or politician does something embarrassing, awful or illegal, it becomes the talk of the town, triggering endless discussions about negative role models, driven by the pampered lives of those accustomed to living without boundaries.

We have become a culture of rubberneckers, watching the “gotcha” moments when reporters demand accountability from horrible landlords. We also watch shows like “America’s Funniest Home Videos,” where people routinely hurt themselves doing ill-advised activities, like jumping over something sharp on a skateboard.

Yes, of course, some of those “gotcha” moments can benefit us, helping us as we stay vigilant against the same kind of scams or illegal activities we don’t want to trick us. But what about recognizing and emulating those people who affect positive change and tap into a seemingly endless wellspring of energy to improve the community?

How about the person answering the phone who has a kind, supportive word for anyone who calls; the receptionist who remembers every patient who comes into a doctor’s office; or the crossing guard who holds a stop sign in the middle of the busy morning commute, demanding safety for every child and encouraging anxious kids on their way to classes.

As we approach the longest day of the year, I’d like to offer you a chance to celebrate the sunshine in our communities. It’s harder for newspapers to see the sort of random acts of kindness that people share every day. After all, the police have press conferences and updates whenever there’s a crime spree or when someone does something the public needs to know about so we can protect ourselves.

A friend of ours recently started battling serious health issues. His wife has been by his side, while his children continue to go about their daily routines, to the extent possible. They go to school, take tests and walk the dog. Once their friends learned about these challenges, they rallied around the family, signing up through an organization called Lotsa Helping Hands to help provide meals and share in the dog responsibilities. These are the sort of things people routinely do to make life better for each other.

We have role models throughout our community. My son’s teacher, for example, recently noticed that he earned a lower grade on a quiz than she was accustomed to seeing from him. He didn’t fail and it didn’t cause his grade to drop dramatically. Still, she didn’t write off the result as a bad day or chalk it up to adolescent distraction. Instead, she asked to speak with him for a moment after class, where she went over each of the areas where he lost points. I’m sure that happens regularly with teachers throughout the community, who encourage and support their students in a way that might one day ignite a successful career.

To offer a corollary to the Homeland Security slogan, I’d like to suggest that “If you see something great, say something.” People routinely go out of their way to make a world filled with challenges a better place. It’s often the small things that stay with us through the day, like the magic that comes from transforming a child’s anxious frown into a self-assured grin.

We talk constantly. We speak to our spouses when we wake up, to our children when we try to get them up, to our friends on the way to work, to the person preparing our morning bagel, and on and on. Most of that speech is automatic.

“Hey, how are you doing?”
“Great, you?”
“Can’t complain. I mean, I could complain but who’d listen?”

When we’re not talking, we often hear an internal dialogue.

“Why didn’t you demand a raise?”
“Next time, next time.”
“You’re always saying that. This is next time.”
“Hey, stop yelling at me!”

Words are as natural most of the time as the steps we take on the way to or from the car, down the block, or up the stairs. We don’t think, “Left, right, left, right.” Wait, no, isn’t it, “Right, left, left, right, right?”

And yet, something happens to the natural flow of words when we have to give a speech. It’s not the same for everyone. I suspect many politicians are so comfortable giving speeches that they just need to know where the camera is to share their eloquence.

That’s not exactly the word I’d use to describe the times I’ve had to speak in front of large, or even medium-sized groups. I’ve spoken out in meetings many times about stories, offering my opinion or awareness of the history of an evolving story to a group of editors.

I’m fine in those situations. It’s when I get up in front of a group of people, many of whom I don’t know, to share some words on a subject that the discomfort begins.

I lick my lips regularly before I begin, as the saliva that pours forth from my mouth so readily at other times has decided that this moment is the ideal time to take a vacation.

My breathing becomes shallow and quick. “I, uh, would, uh, like to, uh, say a few words.”

Speeches are like walking on the bottom of the ocean, wearing heavy boots and breathing through a small tube. Suddenly, the words become like unknown and unseen obstacles, blocking the path to communicating something charming, witty, insightful and cohesive.

“Uh, hi, I’m, uh, uh, Dan, right, Dan.”

Why do those public words become so unfamiliar and uncomfortable? Is it because we can’t correct them? Do we feel as if we need to perform the words instead of just sharing what’s percolating in our minds at the time?

In the middle of a speech, we can’t say, “Where was I? Oh, yes, that’s it. I could really use a tuna sandwich right now.”

I recently gave a short speech in front of a group celebrating my brother’s birthday. I didn’t know many of the people in the room and even though it was a receptive audience, I started to feel the typical nerves building up in those last few moments.

The speech went fine, or so people have assured me. But then, of course, the voices in my head shared their customary public-speech criticism.

I became like all those pundits who second guess every word and decision after an election or after the big game. “You know,” I thought to myself, “you should have started with this joke. That would have been funnier.”

“Oh yeah?” I wanted to bark back at that self-critical voice. “Where were you 10 minutes ago?”

“I was here, you just couldn’t hear me because too many other voices were up here, shouting into your ear not to mess up.”

Yet it always seems to turn out all right. Until the next time.

We go so far even when we don’t seem to go anywhere. Our daughter’s jazz band played the same repertoire for the last few months, with the same solos, the same black pants for most of the group and the same introduction to the numbers from an incredibly positive and energetic conductor.

The first time they played compositions such as “Take the ‘A’ Train,” written by Billy Strayhorn and made famous by Duke Ellington, they sounded as if they were trying on clothing that didn’t exactly fit. They had their moments when they played together and some of the solos filled the room with the kind of spontaneous, live performance sounds you can’t soak in even with the finest video recording devices.

The group also had a few unsteady and discordant sounds. The problem with playing arrangements people in the audience know is that they recognize when the note isn’t exactly right, and they react when the entrance is too early or too late in a transitional phrase.

The audience wanted to let the music wash over them the first time they heard it, but they were like passengers on an airplane that ran into turbulence. They smiled through it, willing their sons and daughters to cleaner phrases, better sounds and a uniform performance.

A few weeks later, the group played the same music again and, ever so slightly, they improved. One of the players seemed to own the first few measures of her solo, turning several heads toward the stage as she directed her sound squarely into a microphone.

At the end of that performance, the applause seemed bigger — and so did the musicians.

Time after time, this group came together, working its way from guessing at notes to hitting them with the same energy as a “Jeopardy!” contestant who can barely wait to win money.

Recently, the jazz band had its final concert. Most of the players, who had performed together for close to two years, would be disbanding as they went off to high school. Yes, they will likely play some music again together, but the combination of two middle schools meant this was the last time these people would share music with their parents, families and community members.

Something about this final night felt different, even as they sauntered to their seats. Gone were the unsteady footsteps and the anxious looks.

The conductor, whose smile hadn’t changed from the first performance, snapped his fingers to the jazz rhythms — in contrast to classical music, where a baton is used. The group nailed that final concert, with each solo better than the one before and each chord coming together the way the composer intended. Could it have been better? Sure, and it will be better in high school and beyond. On this night, though, when the musicians put their instruments back in their cases and prepared to walk their individual paths, they shared everything they had on the stage with their appreciative audience.

The conductor took a moment, toward the end of the performance, to thank the musicians and the audience for sharing the three years of middle school with him. He commented on the changes he’d seen in them as people and as musicians, watching them enter when they were 11 from primary school and exit to high school as 13- and 14-year-olds.

As these young students consider the uncertainty of high school, with moments when school, music, sports and friends suddenly seem filled with awkward tension, they can reflect on the musical journey they’d taken and the music they conquered together.