Declaration of Imperfection

Wow, I already feel free.

Of course there’s an accompanying playlist.

Today, I realized after days of pondering what it was that I was meant to let go of tonight during this full moon. (stay with me, science-y types, this is the last mention of the moon) I now rise to this occasion as someone that experiences a great deal of functional freeze to a detrimental extent. At times -as in every sentence uttered or written- I am rapidly second guessing with ums, uhs, and other fillers. This is what I hope to overcome in my rejection of perfection.

In finding that it is time to release my perfectionism, it's now clear why I started this new year blasting Messy by Lola Young on repeat walking back and forth to 7-11 for "one bottle of wine or two." Something about Messy spoke to me, as it did for many other digital listeners. Embracing messiness hits different during this critical time we are all living through together.

This declaration of imperfection is an act of vulnerability. Here, we will thoughtfully take a deeper look at the twisted, rotting roots of perfectionism. Perfectionism perpetuates a myriad of harmful pitfalls and rejecting its chokehold can yield new definitions of liberation. Liberating yourself from the confines of perfectionism allows for creative collaboration to flow into your life without fear of thorns.

Considering the Roots

Much of my personal writing has to do with ancestral exploration. In ways, I'm obsessed with the concept of roots. Recently, I became care taker to a fragrant hyacinth. A friend of mine said it was just like me cause you could see its roots and it could be planted anywhere and still be cute. <3 thanks bestie, this comment continues to stick with me.

Part of the exploration of my roots is no doubt colored by my whiteness and by extension the fragments of white supremacy that splinter and rot my roots. A few years ago, I became acquainted with a helpful tool circulated by many Black educators online and that is the Characteristics of White Supremacy.* Among these are some examples to name a few that you (no matter your race) may be unfortunately familiar with are: perfectionism, defensiveness, and individualism; all harmful and pervasive in much of "western" culture.

One way perfectionism has been perpetuated in my family is through a suffocating impulse to live up to the "German-American work ethic" of my grand(grand(grand)) parents. This ethos has led much of my family to alcoholism and other self destructive tendencies like working beyond the point of disability (caused by said work). And in fact is mostly now just an American thing how it came down through the generations. When confronted with my first German friends, I attempted to relate to them and they were confused and said many Germans detest over working and take lots of breaks and vacations. This is why it's important to make friends from everywhere. (surely, neither of these assumptions is fully true for any given German or German-American person, that would be how stereotypes form.)

This friendly meeting came too late in life as I have primed my adulthood with this urgent need to work hard and work perfect to prove my worth in all avenues of my life. This led to gnawing shame receiving help in all my relationships and was quickly cosmically corrected by stints of homelessness following a perfectionist-over-working crash out, burn out, BOOM.

It also followed my lifelong maladaptive academic excellence era (of which my whole worth has gingerly sat in an ever prickly way - as i'm sure many queers can relate, amiright.) Even as I write this (and literally everything else) I am haunted by passive voice scoldings, you can't start a sentence with "and," you must be objective even when your life is at risk, your emotional opinions are not allowed to seep into your historical analysis, the reader should not be able to know where you stand on an issue, and echos of Peter Novick's dreaded Noble Dream.** For those fortunate souls who have not encountered it, That Noble Dream is a history masters program hazing book on "The 'Objectivity Question' and the American Historical Profession" or as I remember it "The over caffeinated anxiety ridden fever dream: shadows of the ivory tower." I'm getting dizzy with regret even remembering it now.

There is a common phenomena between my history sisters and I after we graduated. None of us could read or write anymore, which feels dark after since that was all we were doing for years. There was no pleasure in word craft, only pangs of residual stress, imposter syndrome, proving our historical existence, and objective thought molding. It took me years to release this shame and do the two things I love most again. The years following earning my degree has been peppered with periodical visits with these friends in which we always commiserate about how hard reading is now; in part because of the academic trauma and in part because of our rapidly deteriorating eye sight following digital investigation of archives spanning the centuries.

My musing on the roots of my perfectionism also has to do with my identity, both as a trans person and as an elder gen-z/baby millennial cusp. I have been painfully aware from a young age of my digital legacy. The recording of my legacy first haunted me through CDs of me singing Kelly Clarkson and Clay Aiken (we've been gay, okay). I hated my high voice forever, I wanted nothing more than to have a voice as low as Johnny Cash as long as I can remember. Alas, this pain only lightened when the T started working and I dipped my toes into Robert Smith's goth wail which I emulate singing The Cure songs drunkenly on karaoke nights. My friends know to never post, it's a thing. It's agreed upon that Gen-Z's fear of cringe is one of the most profound canyons between us and our authenticity and by extension genuine connectivity and expression.

All of these experiences have required bravery in the face of the profoundly tiring and socially odd life I live as a queer person. All along, my journey's nagging sensation has been, well i'm always going to be some sort of freak, I accept this, but why not whole heartedly? My wish and my assertion in relationships is an embrace of the socially bizarre, a bullish stubbornness against perfectionism, but still I lie awake at night remembering that at one time, I had a glittery picture of white jesus on my myspace profile as my "hero" and a tattoo of john lennon etched into my back pre-finding out he was actually an abusive son of a— sigh.

Residual Phantoms of Perfectionism

Some of the undeniable common threads I keep getting tangled in are fear of legacy and how perfection prevents me from acting on my strongest desires. I imagine this is in part because of the historian aspect of myself, my fascination with bio-pics (no matter how bad), and the knowledge that we are "living through history" in a painfully obvious way (the casual, violent descent into fascism). This weight effects the way I love in every kind of relation. From the intimate, the platonic, to social activism.

It is the pursuit of perfectionism that puts me into this functional freeze; the one where I over analyze to the point of exhaustion, where milling over the right thing leads to inaction. In pausing finding a lover because I feel the need to pin down my messy identity beautifully to present to another imperfect human. In writing a book I have had screaming in my head for years. In being a member in community with others that is capable of creating a world for all of us, but that is only possible together.

These pangs of perfectionism, phantoms that they are, are always present around me. That is why I wield the sword of whimsical nonsense. It's the only means of survival. I want to be a voice, one of many trans-cestors, for future generations. I want to be a writer, for real. I want to be an activist amongst community into perpetuity.

This is why I must declare today my imminent imperfection as a human being. My life source demands it!

Intentional Acts of Imperfection

I've mentioned a couple things already that have humbled me beyond all hopes of comforting nostalgia in the moot pursuit of perfectionism. I grew up the child of a singer who hosts karaoke as his night job, a living made in vulnerability if you will. Being one of few femmes (at the time) fighting for our life in a socratic circle for years in a male dominated field. I've also experienced the ultimate American humbling of being homeless couch/floor/floor-bed surfing with quite literally every person I know within a 5,955 mile radius. Lest we forget, I'm also now abstractly, perversely, and constantly on the mind of every conservative in the entire country for some bizarre reason.

The following is a peak into my personal formula meant to heal the wound of perfectionism which surely will catapult me into the future we desire; one of radical authenticity and vulnerability in a multitudinous community that embraces the same.

Over the last few years, I have been one of a growing group of editors behind Opal Age Tribune; a queer collective publication comprised of submissions from around the world. Essentially on the back end, an effervescent ever-changing group project celebrating the messiness and beauty of multicultural queer expression. As you can imagine, working on Opal Age has taught me so many beautiful things. However the secret thing that it taught me was the power of collaborative working. The ability to share responsibility with others and co-creating something that we all love in a time that demands compassionate, socially cognizant global solidarity.

Initially, Opal Age began as a muse for us to write for. A way to soften the wounded animal that was us post-academia. At its core, Opal Age is a zine. The format of a zine is inherently playful, rebellious, and at times can be unserious. Though we have been able to cover serious topics, there is also endless room for play, collaboration, and expansiveness. Something about print in this format feels more ephemeral than permanent. Opal Age to me feels like a game of ring around the rosie but we're holding hands digitally and hopefully Opal can one day be co-created as if Pangea was still our reality.

Recently, I have also been dipping my toes into creating on TikTok and this really healed the gen-z cringe fear in me on basically a thousand levels and this wisdom is all embedded within the process. I have been a casual creator that hasn't honestly thought out my content for years, it has always been an act in play with the threatening prospect of maybe even getting paid one day. What a concept. Have I mentioned I haven't had consistent pay in 3 years? Anyway…

Things got seriously unserious in the most recent season of internet history when the collective psy-op of TikTok being deleted took place right before the spray-tan-tyrant took office. Sooo much to unpack bestie. This moment in culture was also colored by David Lynch dying, adding to the eeriness of it all. Something about this combo caused me to become existential in the way you are on your death bed confronted with all the things you wished you had done. And then, she lived again!

Now, I am constantly at play editing and creating my videos the moment I think of them if I have the accompanying energy. Simply put, I do not care what people think anymore. The popularity of videos comes in waves, at times you float over everyone's heads and other times the saltwater of transphobia clears your sinuses as they crash into your comment section in the form of fash-bots. But it's now or never!

Speaking of transphobia, there is also something so existential in this moment as a trans person where in a dark traumatizing way you don't know which day could be your last as loss of life and freedom is dangled around your neck threatening to be tightened at any moment. <3 wow. Today, I play with the gallows, skipping on their creaking wooden undertows. chills. It feels as though every career opportunity has been taken from me as a trans person in America, maybe quietly for years and now burning into my irises shouting into my ear drums as breaking news - an absolute reality mostly at 2 am from my sweaty palmed phone.

That being said, there is a fear of trans (or queer) perfectionism I am trying to reign in constantly. I wasn't made aware of this even being a wound until I was on a bumble date literally 100 miles away from my house — which luckily ended up being safe and enjoyable with plentiful tangerines. We were speaking about gender and sexuality and I proudly brought up the "gay uncle theory." Essentially, how gay uncles were essential to the intelligent rearing of children; while the parents were out providing, the (in my case) gay unemployed childless uncle was able to have more meaningful teachable one on one time with kids, brilliant! Finally, meaning to my sordid life. My date said to me, "yeah, but we should just be able to exist without having an evolutionary purpose." Truly, mind melting information for someone subconsciously trying to prove their worthiness in society with every bodily movement.

This brings me to gender performance and performance in general, a well known theory we were given by Judith Butler.*** Something that has helped me deconstruct and make a bit unserious my performance comes back around to making TikToks. TikTok in a sense is a chaotic playground where everyone hangs out in their little friend groups and acts a mess. But its okay cause the bells of life ring and we continue to go about our lives. There is something so impactful about editing my silly (sometimes serious) videos. I am able to edit out every weird breathing clip, every bizarre movement, every uncertainty until I become someone you wouldn't want to scroll away from or misgender. Now this may seem counter intuitive to the point I am trying to raise declaring my imperfections. This sentiment is rather an encouragement for those who are afraid of being perceived and being worried you won't fit in on our digital playground. When you realize how many small edits your favorite creators make to their videos you realize just how many times they probably said "um" or cut little pieces of them looking at the camera in a particularly unsettling way.

Creators are such a wonderful part of our generations cultural landscape. Their power is not in the archetype of the influencer, but rather in their ability to deconstruct celebrity culture by bringing us, the viewers, what we thought we were gaining in our personal lives through out of touch, rich celebrities. Our imperfect, messy lives are much more pleasing to witness. Maybe this is why we have always been so fascinated by things like TMZ where we get small false glimpses into the human vulnerabilities of celebrities. Now, we are watching the unraveling of their deification in favor of realness and the ability of the viewer to impact the wealth of every day creators who start off their journey in the public with a day (or night) job.

Now we are able to treasure and uplift those people that have been real with us from the start as they rise and reveal their talents and vulnerabilities to us over time. My favorite kinds of comments I see appear on videos by people like Jools Lebron (the trans beauty creator who coined very demure for those semi-chronically online). As Ms. Jools "Demure" Lebron has gained notoriety, she has spoken on breaking generational curses in her family and is even taking care of them by permanently housing her matriarchal family instead of moving to LA and buying the brand new whip. The comment sections always read, "we made the right person famous." In these moments I viscerally witness the tides turning in the direction of authenticity and vulnerability being a prized (and at times actually financially abundant) collective identity.

This leads me to one of my most important acts of defying imperfection and it comes back to my gay uncle arc. Don't worry, it's not in a self sacrificing sense this time, rather in a generational healing way. During my time on couches, I spent lots of time on a matress in my two year old nieces room. My internet was full of parenting tips and I thought it important to learn a thing or two given my inherent influence caring for her and her even babier sister.

Something that shook me to my core was the concept that saying "be careful!" and stressing at the chaos of childhood was actually something that could sew self doubt in kids. As someone in a semi constant state of self doubt, I was horrified both by frantic memories of my upbringing and inner fabric and the fact that I could impart that kind of thinking on my joyous, adventurous, curious, and brave niece. Something interesting that I'm not sure is talked about too much amongst the childless is how raising kids is in a sense a reparenting yourself, a reconsideration of your own upbringing. There's so much I have to thank my niece for just for her existence, but one of them is the portal to my childhood to relearn the importance of care free play. Would you scold a kid or a beloved friend for messing up? I hope not! This is a constant check in a have with myself. Why are you being mean to your inner curious and brave child? That's not very nice!

One of the accessible-to-all ways I witness my playful, shameless inner child is by making myself vulnerable learning languages. There is no way to not mess up over and over and over again in the process of learning a new language. There is something about learning language that requires a low threshold of shame. It also literally puts you in the head space of a very young being, picking up on clues, words and phrases out of context, and putting it all together in sometimes funny socially questionable ways. All the fun and none of the danger (unless you really mess up, which happens less often than the anxiety goblin in your brain would lead you to believe.)

Outcomes of Striving for Playfulness instead of Perfectionism

Now that we have become loosened by being humbled and closer to personal liberation there is so much to look forward to both personally and collectively. Here's how I feel my unraveling actually weaves into a wondrous future.

Through my collaborative work and the freedom of expression zine making has allowed me, I feel safer in my writing and publishing head space. There are no longer cognitively destructive red pens barking at me about minutia and people still want to read my stuff (and even pay for it!) I feel safe to write shitty drafts without the threat of deadlines meant to prove to an imaginary employer that I am able to destroy myself for a check. As a confidently imperfect writer, I know for certain this excavation will allow the books living within me to come to life in surprising, exciting ways. The thought of print permanence which changes meaning over time no longer scares me.

Recently I have even allowed myself to dabble in considering myself an artist again. I say again because this was an identity I held for most of my young life. Painting and writing for the sacred act of creation alone. I even want to learn to dance and ice skate again, something I have long abandoned since developing my shame of having witnesses to my creativity for lack of perfection.

Opening up to creativity again helped me discover that everything isn't mine to carry. That I am able to ask help from people I work with my community without shame of not "trying hard enough." These are things I was never able to even fathom in my life before imperfection. Maybe I will even find myself worthy of fancy dates and someone else lovingly buying my museum tickets one day. The possibilities are endless.

On a more reality shattering note, (in a good way, because let's be real– our current reality is looking a little abysmal) this leads me to the point of collective community care. It's hard to tell which human rights violation sparked this urgent need to organize within me, but I no longer feel resistance to taking immediate, thoughtful action when it comes to my collective activism. I have been politically active since the second it made sense (pretty early being a queer person - even before I had the language for that part of myself.) There is a constant illusion in my mind that what I want to do for my community is the wrong thing or not enough or that I'm the only one who wants to change things. I always find myself battling internally over one of the parts of white supremacy chart mentioned above - individualism, defensiveness, power hoarding (through being the sole "fixer"), and especially the ever freezing "only one right way" mindset - the toxic gambit essentially.

In deconstructing perfectionism, I have found myself so much more open to collaboration, asking for help organizing, looking for input, open to criticisms, quelling my fears and defensiveness and so much more. Knowing all of these problems within myself allows me to see a much larger world outside of the one in my mind that is constricted by fear of messing up. Messing up actually allows for any movement at all. Messing up allows the opportunity to be vulnerable and learn from a multitude of other perspectives without shutting down. This world is unsurvivable alone up against the compounded oppression we face today.

I am weird and I am whole. I am a constant "work in progress" but no longer with a false fully healed version of myself tapping their impatient foot waiting for me to arrive. I release the disappointment of my screw ups on my beautiful journey into the future and look forward to saying dumb things at the precisely wrong moment and laughing about it instead of agonizing.

Adopt a relentless inner audacity, don't be careful! All that matters is the freedom that comes with the never ending potential for knowledge. Embrace the imperfection and have fun the limits of perfection would have never allowed you to expand beyond.

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* "Characteristics of White Supremacy" a helpful resource from overcomingracism.org for everyone. Adapted from "white supremacy culture" by Tema Okun, www.dismantlingracism.org

**That Noble Dream: The 'Objectivity Question' and the American Historical Profession by Peter Novick

***Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory by Judith Butler