Mistakes, Gaffes, & Flubs
(fuck 'em)
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Mistakes.
At the end of 2020, I was reading President Obama’s book The Promised Land, and in it, he repeatedly acknowledges fumbles from his life and career while in politics. He covers a range of topics from foreign policy and immigration to healthcare, marriage, and parenting. At one point, he talks about gaffes, providing a few anecdotal examples of ways that he misspoke on the campaign trail or while in office; regardless of how serious or relevant the comment, the fallout for him and his team was significant in each instance. Obama learned quickly that every word he spoke was captured and criticized worldwide, so he learned to be more and more careful as each day passed.
Something about Obama’s inclusion of these sometimes granular hiccups moved me, and I couldn’t help but think about my own gaffes. I opened a new document on my computer and wrote: “mistakes” (see above).
Until now, that document remained blank.
When I was in tenth grade, I took a student government class instead of a free period. The class has elected officials from all grades, and a very popular girl from the year above me was one of them. At one point, I tried too hard to impress her by commenting snarkily that some people simply wouldn’t ever know what attractiveness feels like. She said she didn’t “know what I meant by that” and ended the conversation.
At work, I tried to communicate that my teammates should trust their gut and repeatedly misused the phrase the devil on your shoulder without any awareness of its connection to substance addiction. My teammate Hilary was very kind when she told me.
There is one particular edition of Gangletown…
I was assigned to the English class in a portable classroom on the west side of the school’s campus. We were reading All Quiet on the Western Front, and I enjoyed it very much. My classmates Jessica and Judy expressed that they weren’t, and I jokingly taunted the class, saying that I’d be the only one actually to read it. They stared at me blankly and did not laugh.
The way I raised my hand when the choreographer asked if anyone could tumble.
In seventh grade, I was a writer for the school paper (seriously, how did I not realize that I liked writing until I was in my twenties?) and, in a feature, I said that my favorite song was "The Goldfish Song.”
I worked at Barney’s Coffee in the mall, and one day at the end of my shift, we were still swamped. As the new team came on, I should have cleaned the floors or counted the register, but I grabbed the tip jar and prioritized that. I was fired the next week for “schedule conflicts.”
There are a thousand of these little moments. They live on in my mind, and when they sneak up into my consciousness, they are always deeply vivid. They come with them not just images but smells and emotions. They come with questions, analysis, wonder, and twisty little feelings at the bottom of my throat, right above my rib cage.
This week, opening my “mistakes” document, I sneered.
I laughed a little and thought, no.
Mistakes get too much credit. Fumbles get too much attention. Gaffes get too much energy.
Why do we focus so much on the balls dropped, lines flubbed, and turns wronged? Why not the things we did well, the seeds we sowed, and the laughs we inspired?
Today, I’ll do that instead, and I hope you will too.
Fuck the mistakes.
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