So often I feel like we put on a mask to hide these imperfections. Social media perpetuates this, as our selfies become windows into the perfect lives we want others to believe we live. Okay, maybe my selfies aren't quite so perfect (Seniors, I promise I did pay attention when you gave me my lesson in taking them, but the struggle is real). Regardless, so many of us strive for perfection, including me.
I remember when I was in high school learning to drive. I wanted to do everything perfectly. The first time my mom took me driving, we drove to Cedar Creek Park on a blistery, windy day. She encouraged me to push on the gas and brake pedals gently, treating them like an egg, so we drove around the empty parking lot, starting and stopping "the egg." Somewhere when we switched roles as passenger and driver and I got back into the passenger seat, I lost my permit. Back in 1992 when I learned to drive, you received a paper permit. That first day I got behind the wheel, I had proudly put the permit on the car's dashboard. As my mom and I exchanged seats, I was unaware that the wind blew the permit out the window. In fact, I didn't realize I had lost that permit until I got home, looked at the empty dashboard, and admitted what happened to my mom. "You can't even keep track of your own permit; how are you going to be responsible to drive?" my mother angrily questioned. I wanted her to remember the egg--how I treated that brake and gas pedal like an egg, just like she suggested. But she was right. It was at this moment that I wallowed in my imperfection. I just wanted to do everything right when it came to driving, but I couldn't even hold onto the piece of paper that allowed me to do so.
While that moment behind the wheel is just one example, my desire for perfection trickles into everything I do. So often, I sit at my laptop, planning a lesson that I know isn't quite right. I sit there, trying to figure out exactly how to present the material in a way that will captivate your attention. And then when I present that lesson--one that I think is pretty perfect--and you don't think it is, I'm hard on myself. Yes, I'm hard on myself in those moments when I fail. This past week was no different.
You see, I failed you, my students, last week.
After the recent tragedy at Atlee, I wanted to be strong for all of you. I knew what I needed to do as I entered my classroom and there were students in there already waiting to talk and process and grieve. I watched my first block crumble as the announcements sounded over the PA that morning. I watched as one student who usually has a smile on his face and a quick-witted comment put his head down on the desk. I watched as students started to cry and others were silenced, unable to process any of it. And while I hugged those students and tried to talk to them, I cried. I cried as I held writing conferences with my students. I cried while attempting some kind of normalcy in that room. I cried as individual students sought me out to talk throughout the day. I cried when I tried to tell every single class I had two simple words: you matter. I don't remember how those words came out, but I remember your faces when I tried to tell you how important you are to me. As a teacher, I know I was supposed to be a pillar of strength for you, but I was not.
I failed you, my students, last week, and I left school being hard on myself for doing so.
Something happened afterward, though, that changed everything. I received a message on Remind from a student who told me how much he appreciated how I handled things today. Another student stopped me after class to thank me for being "real" with them. And as I stepped into my classroom last Friday morning, there were many of my students writing positive messages on my whiteboard tables:
You are a star.
You are worth it all.
Be kind to others and yourself.
You will always be enough.
You matter.
There were those words again--you matter. I cried as I watched you write all of those messages, and I guess through all of this, I want to remind you in case you didn't hear it the first time I said it: you matter. For so long in my teaching career, I neglected to tell my students this. I distanced myself for no particular reason at all except maybe for the fact that it doesn't allow me to teach my planned lesson and may put me in a vulnerable position to tell a teenager this. What if it doesn't come off as sincere? What if they don't believe I'm being real? Those were the insecurities--the imperfections--I thought about as I neglected to tell my students how important they are in many of the years I've spent in the classroom. I may have shown them this through my actions, but the words never uttered my mouth. I recently ran into a former student I taught when I was in my twenties. I believed I truly understood and connected with the teenagers I taught back then. He told me he had been going through a lot in my tenth-grade class, and that the class really helped him. I had no idea that he was going through anything, not because I didn't care but because I didn't take the time to notice; I didn't take the time to make sure I told him he mattered. Instead, I wanted my lesson to be perfect. I wanted to get done exactly what I had planned that day and stopping for anything would make it far from perfect. How wrong I was. I realize that now; I wish I realized it then.
So, I tell you today two simple words: you matter. I may not have been a pillar of strength for you. I may not have taught a perfect lesson that day or many other days this year, and for certain, I cannot for the life of me take a perfect selfie. But you matter. You always have and always will to me. I make mistakes all of the time. I grapple with this idea of perfection, but what I've thought about this week in my attempt to be perfect is that the moments of imperfection actually are the moments that are lifechanging. So if you happen to be like me, stop trying to achieve perfection. Stop putting up walls. Be as real as you possibly can. This week I learned that giving you "Kelly Pace 2.0"--the real Kelly Pace--is far more effective than trying to be the perfect model of strength. My photograph is unfiltered, displaying vulnerabilities, imperfections, and a true slice of reality.
It's a photo I'd like to call perfect imperfection.
It's a photo that includes you, my Dual Enrollment class, as you continue to improve your writing on a daily basis and challenge me to write your assignments with the most difficult of topics. (I consider my most recent topic you assigned me to review TikTok as the greatest of these challenges).
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| photo credit: Connor Ryan |
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| Photo credit: Connor Ryan |
My photo includes you, my IB English 11 students, who have had the courage to write about real-life moments in personal narratives about IB global issues, who have re-imagined John Lennon's "Imagine," and who have allowed me to play far more Beatles songs than I should be allowed to play in one class.
My photo includes you, the tutors in the Raider Writing Center, who have tutored over 160 sessions this nine weeks.
And my photo includes you, all of my former students, who I never forget and who I am so proud to have taught.
I'm far from perfect. I may fail more often than not even though I often want to put on that mask to present a life of perfection. From that moment my permit blew off the dashboard, I learned not every situation is going to present itself the way I want it to. From that moment where I attempted the perfect lesson, I learned that sometimes, it's more important to pay attention to my students. From that moment when I failed you this year as I was not a pillar of strength you probably needed, I learned what's necessary--that showing the real Kelly Pace 2.0, owning my failures, and living in a world of imperfection is a pretty perfect way to live.
