Pops
Because of the US holiday this past weekend, I heard a lot of patriotic songs. Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” played over the speakers. I knew many of the words, but not all of them. Right about the one-minute mark, he’s built up to a moment. Right where the rhythm resolves. As I hummed the tune, I made a “screeee-pooff, screeee-pooff” sound.
In third grade, my teacher played this song on a record player in the classroom. I don’t remember listening to it much, but I recalled the two scratches and pops the record skipped through before jumping back into the song.
I vividly remember most, if not all, of us in class singing along and singing the “screeee-pooff, screeee-pooff” every single time. I don’t remember hearing the song very often, but as soon as it played, I automatically sang the scratch and pop. Notably, I was in 3rd grade over 35 years ago.
I am certain that a clean, crisp recording of that song would have been forgotten by 4th grade. The scratch was not a flaw. It was our experience. It captured my classmates and me and became something I have permanently carried with me.
I can be a perfectionist. I can be hard on myself. Today I was on camera and started to dwell on it. I stumbled on some words. I had points I meant to make and didn’t. Then I thought, “screee-pooff.” The moments that stick are the moments of humanity. Moments where something was unexpectedly tender, or went sideways, or reminded me of something I’ve done.
Where do I need to let the “screeee-pooff” remain? Do I allow myself to be myself? Can I accept that the imperfection is the perfection?
Be curious, be kind, be whole, do good things.