Perfect By Default
I slid the door to the balcony open quietly. I’m not sure why, I didn’t need to. Out of respect maybe, Riley and Kika were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake them, but I don’t think that was it. I think I was trying to hide what I was doing, because, even though neither of them would have batted an eye, I felt dirty, sneaky, like this was private and secret and needed to go unnoticed.
Closing the door, I sat down in the single chair nestled between the brick wall and the railing. I set my beer down on the ledge next to me and reached into my pocket, feeling for my AirPods, a lighter, and the last joint I would smoke in Granada.
Weed wasn’t technically legal in Spain, the stuff I was smoking was HHC (I don’t know the difference so don’t ask), a loophole that made it possible to occasionally buy marijuana on the walk home from class, if Riley and I so desired. I got lucky with Riley as a roommate in a variety of ways, including his propensity to indulge in The Devil’s Lettuce.
With my AirPods securely in my ears, and the volume turned up loud the way I like it, I produced my phone to begin my session. “Late For The Sky,” the Jackson Browne album, would be this evening’s soundtrack. Only it wasn’t evening, it was four o’clock in the morning. And I wasn’t smoking to enjoy a night with friends; I was mourning a night that had been, and a semester that would end with the coming of the sun.
I went to Spain to learn Spanish. That may seem kind of obvious, but it’s actually somewhat revolutionary among study abroad students – one of my friends spent a whole semester in Italy and never learned enough Italian to order a cup of coffee. By the standards of most Americans I was already fluent by the time I went to Granada, but not by the standards and horizon that I had set for myself. A horizon which, by its nature, would, and will forever, remain out of reach. However, the events of the night and the last week indicated that I’d reached genuine fluency.
Early in the semester I’d had a conversation with an Italian man on a chairlift at the ski resort south of the city. We dipped in and out of English and Spanish and talked about the ways that learning a language in school differed from learning via cultural immersion. I noted that having learned in school I was well-suited to discussing academic topics, and that if we were talking about capitalism or literature, I could carry a conversation with ease. But, in everyday interactions that required colloquial language, I was a lot shakier. He agreed that the simple, casual uses were the most difficult to master, but seemed confused by my declaration that I had a long way to go. “You speak very well,” he said. “I think you will be fine.” I thanked him but laughed off the praise – that uncomfortable laugh you give when you can’t or won’t say what you want to. “I don’t want to be fine,” I thought. “I want to be perfect.”
Perfectionism is one of those things that sounds like it’s made up. A punchline, an excuse, something a lazy person says to avoid doing work. If only it were so.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve been a terrible student. My backpack was, and still is, littered with loose papers and miscellaneous junk that may or may not correspond to the class I am attending. I procrastinated, and still procrastinate, every single assignment I receive – often to the point of noncompletion. Deadlines have been, and I believe will likely continue to be, my worst enemy. Put plainly, I have always been bad at doing what I am supposed to do.
I would eventually come to find out there was a reason for this, but in the meantime, I managed my deficiencies with an obsessive drive to appear perfect – if no one could see I was struggling, they wouldn’t think less of me. According to a Google search, which I feel that I must quote because I hope it will make you believe me, “Perfectionism is a personality trait characterized by a relentless drive for flawlessness, setting unrealistically high standards, and intense self-criticism. It often stems from a deep-seated fear of failure or inadequacy, causing individuals to view mistakes as catastrophes. This mindset severely impacts mental health—leading to anxiety, depression, and burnout—while also causing chronic stress and, in severe cases, physical health issues.”
Spanish was a particularly pronounced case study of my perfectionism, an obsession I often rationalized to others by saying: “If I’m going to major in a language I better be fluent.” And I believed that, but that wasn’t the source of my drive. I wasn’t making an economic calculus every time I listened to a podcast or a song or talked to myself in the shower or walked down the street rolling my r’s. It was because I couldn’t stand being deficient in something I felt I was supposed to be good at, and also because, fundamentally, I love learning.
Learning a language presented an incredibly expansive, raw form of learning – like a vast, unknown ocean to be explored. Every new term existed in its own cultural context and network of interrelated terms. Every concept or discussion demanded my complete focus and attention, or I would lose the point and the knowledge to be gained. It was a new, ever broadening horizon, and at times I was convinced that I could actually feel my mind growing, my thoughts becoming more refined, their movements more dynamic. My knowledge of English became better. My understanding of linguistic structures deepened. My attention to speech patterns sharpened. And through it all I was simultaneously, dissonantly, convinced that I was both an incredible Spanish student and a complete fraud. If I couldn’t be perfect, there was no point. If I wasn’t the best, why even try?
That night, nearly every student in the program – around 100 – went out one last time. We swarmed the haunts we’d established over four months, descending on rows of shots like locusts. Factions splintered off as people said extended, hours-long goodbyes to their friends. Girls hugged each other tightly and cried and promised to visit, guys gave awkward half-hugs and said, “yeah bro, it’s been a great semester.” It was all very emotional. My close friends, Riley, Jonah, and Drew, were all leaving in the morning and, responsibly, went to bed early. I was going to spend an extra night in Madrid before flying home and so, naturally, I was getting fucked up.
I ended up tagging along with a ragtag band of striving good-timers – students looking for one last hurrah, but without any real direction. Plans were made and unmade and remade again. We drifted from block to block, bar to bar, shawarma place to shawarma place. At some point, I became deeply engrossed in a conversation about the state of US politics, the nature of government, and religion, with a very conservative, very catholic fellow student. My politics are to the left, my opinion of our government was poor, and I was just drunk enough to speak my mind on religion with fluidity and specificity, but without any inhibition or sense of time and place. Long story short, I ended up arguing with one of her friends after she started crying and stormed off to, presumably, ask God to strike me down. The group splintered, the mood was ruined, and I apologized. I set off towards home with a student named Juan whose homestay was nearby to mine. When we reached the crossroads where our paths diverged, we said a friendly goodbye, and then Juan said something that hit me like a ton of bricks. “You’re a really smart guy man, I hope it all works out for you.” I was stunned. Juan and I weren’t all that close. We’d gone out as part of the same groups a few times, but had never had much in the way of a real conversation. And here he was giving me what felt like unearned and undeserved kindness.
Returning back to my apartment and taking a few minutes to settle into my spot on the balcony, I reflected on Juan’s comment. What had prompted him to say that? What did he mean he hopes it all works out? Why wouldn’t it all work out? Do I seem abnormal? Do I have some giant sign on my back begging for help? Why did what he said sound familiar? The answer to that last question was because a professor had said an eerily similar thing a few days before.
As part of the program, students were required to take at least one actual “Spanish class” - meaning a class that was focused on actively learning Spanish through the study of the language and its grammar, not just a class that happened to be run in Spanish. My professor for this class was a woman named Rosana. Rosana was in her late forties to early fifties, and she ran a tight ship. Students were allowed four absences from her class, which was held four times a week at 8:30 AM. There was homework to be done for every class and there was nowhere to hide, in a class of 15, from Rosana’s critical gaze.
Being the disorganized, perpetually late, and chaotic student that I am, I often chafed at the requirements of the class - not only at its structure but at its focus. The only B I ever received in high school (before I checked out during my last semester) was in a grammar-focused Spanish class – so, not my favorite kind of class. I frequently committed errors while writing, overwhelmed by all of the rules and requirements that I had learned over the years. Rosana didn’t understand what was wrong. She wondered aloud, in front of the other students, why my grammar was nearly perfect when I spoke, but chock full of errors when I wrote. I told her I didn’t know, and tried to explain that, for whatever reason, this stuff just never seemed to stick in my brain. She didn’t accept that answer, and for the rest of the semester, she plugged away at improving my Spanish. She talked through thought-processes and heuristics and linguistic reasoning with me again and again and again. And though I came to like her and my classmates, the class never seemed to get any easier.
At the end of the semester, we had to write an in-class essay for our final exam. There was an hour and a half blocked out on the schedule, and most of the other students finished well before that. I, on the other hand, was sitting and scribbling at my paper for nearly 30 minutes past the technical deadline, trying to force every thought out of my brain onto the page, to cover every possible base. It didn’t help that I’d sat and stared at the questions for about ten minutes before actually starting to write.
As the two hour mark approached, Rosana and I were the only ones left in the classroom, and she’d indulged me long enough. “I think that’s probably good.” She said from her chair.
“I’ve just got a few more sentences!” I pleaded. Her face was a picture of exhaustion and sympathy. I finished writing and handed her my paper. I apologized for taking so long, trying to explain that “I’m just a really slow writer, but once I get an idea in my head I need to get it out and explain it.” Rosana’s gaze softened.
“I know that it is very hard for you, I appreciate the effort you’ve put into this semester. You are very smart, you have a great eye for analysis, but you need to work on this part of it all. Because, trust me, you pay a price for not doing these things. It is not what you are good at, but the world won’t care.”
I knew what she said was true, I had lived it more times than I could count. I knew full well that the world reserved no sympathy for inaction - I’d even written that exact line a year before. I thanked her and turned to head for the door. “You are wonderful though, Ethan. Your level has really improved, you’re much more consistent now. You’ve done a great job.” I don’t know if she saw the tear in my eye as I walked out.
My album was coming to an end, and my night was catching up to me. I looked up into the night sky, regarding the stars while Jackson Browne prophesied the end of all things:
Some of them knew pleasure
And some of them knew pain
And for some of them it was only the moment that mattered
And on the brave and crazy wings of youth
They went flying around in the rain
And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered
And in the end they traded their tired wings
For the resignation that living brings
And exchanged love's bright and fragile glow
For the glitter and the rouge
And in a moment they were swept before the deluge
I thought about Juan’s comment and Rosana’s comment and the class and the night, and all of a sudden it dawned on me: I was a fucking mess. I knew this, of course, it wasn’t any kind of real revelation. But just because you are aware that something is technically true or correct, does not mean that you actually feel that thing, or really know it to be true in your being.
I thought back to the argument I’d had that night, and the actual dynamic that had unfolded. The discussion had begun after a round of foosball with some Spaniards, who’d brought up Trump as we chatted and I nursed the wounds of an utter beatdown. This conversation was conducted in Spanish. The Catholic girl I would eventually reduce to tears was standing nearby and slid into the conversation casually through the semi-permeable membrane that is drunken bar-talk. The conversation spiraled further down the rabbit hole as I argued my positions with both the girl and the Spaniards, alternately offering my views in English and Spanish, switching back and forth rapidly and energetically. Coherently. Fluently. I had maintained a fluent, varied conversation in Spanish interspersed with English for about an hour.
This fact occurred to me at the same time that it occurred to me that I had made that girl cry. I had carried the conversation far beyond cordiality and made someone feel bad. I had cursed and yelled and gotten far too worked up about topics that had no immediate effect on the situation at hand. I had even carried that same energy into the subsequent argument with the friend who came to defend her. I had been an asshole.
I was also an inveterate pain in Rosana’s ass. I consistently showed up late (never more than ten minutes but still), I was stubborn, argumentative, neurotic, and difficult. I expressed my disdain for the class’s structure and my disagreements with topics and methodology. I was, once again, an asshole.
And yet, on that last day of class, as on that night, I had received kindness. Someone had looked at me, all puffed up with projections of perfection, and relentless pursuits of being right or being better, and seen the reality: I was a mess.
I made out the right triangle and sickle of Leo among the stars, and felt a chill run through me. Generations of people had seen the same thing I was seeing now. Billions of other humans. Suddenly, my face was wet. Puddles had spilled over into streams as tears raced down my cheeks, and my throat was closing and heaving and all at once I was keeled over, sobbing.
And there, silvery tears streaming down my face, weeping wildly into the night and awestruck by the stars, I felt and understood a thing that I foolishly believed I would never again forget: that I deserve kindness by way of my being human, that I don’t have to be perfect.
But that moment, as all moments, would be robbed from me; plucked from the stream of the infinite present and calcified into the finite past. I imagined the stars, with their ancient, time travelling light, looking down upon me pityingly. “Poor thing,” I heard them say. “I hope it all works out for him.”