Perfect

A Personal Essay by Logan Beddes

“Perfection is based on your own perception of what is perfect to you.” – Avis J. Williams

Smile. Stand up straight. Don’t slouch. Is your zipper done up? Hair in place? How’s your breath? Walk confidently. Smile. Make eye contact. Laugh. Appear easygoing. People like that. Is your smile genuine? Make them believe it is. Remember, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to so you don’t come off as a know-it-all, and don’t be annoying. OK, here we go.

***

I could never be like Clark, I thought as I followed behind him on my bicycle. It was a hot summer day, and the streets of Anaheim were smothering. I wished that I was still in my first area, with its rolling hills, nice houses, and kind people. Instead, I was surrounded by overcrowded apartments, skyscrapers, and people that refused to meet our eyes as we rode by.

And I was with him. Clark knew the scriptures better than anyone I knew. He worked hard and never shied away from an opportunity to talk to someone about what made him so happy. Even if that person were passed out in the middle of the sidewalk.

I’m glad he saw the woman before he ran her over with his bike. We skidded to a stop, and he immediately crouched down to check if she was breathing. When she stirred, he didn’t flinch.

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice smooth and Christlike. “My name is Elder Macey. Can my companion and I buy you dinner?”

“Elder,” I protested softly, still staying behind him, “we’re already late for dinner.”

“They’ll understand,” he responded simply as he helped the woman to her feet. She dusted off her ragged clothes, and Clark walked with her to a nearby taco shop. Grudgingly, I followed.

Clark bought her dinner, and we left before she picked it up. We ate an unmemorable dinner and biked back down the same street. There the woman was, sitting on the curb with her takeout box. She looked up at me as we passed, and she smiled. I couldn’t help but smile back, though it was guilt-ridden.

From that day forward, I thought of Clark for what he was -- The Good Samaritan. Surely something that I could only dream of being.

***

Ms. Akerman’s third-grade classroom was dead quiet. She was in one of her moods again, and though we were only a few months into the new school year, we knew better than to draw any attention to ourselves. So I sat in the middle of the classroom, my eyes downcast and hands in my lap. Risking a glance up at my friends sitting at my table, I saw that they also sat with quiet resolve, determined to ride out the storm.

“Yes, Miss Green?”

I looked back to see Shayna with her hand raised, and my blood ran cold. She didn’t stand a chance.

“Sorry Ms Akerman, but can I go to the bathroom?” Shayna asked, eyes glued on her desk.

I whipped back around to look at Ms. Akerman. She stood at the front of the classroom, looking as pleased as a shark that just smelled blood in the water.

Silent, Ms Akerman turned around to face the chalkboard and began writing in screeching strokes. She spoke as she wrote. “There will be no recess today, and you can thank Ms Green for that.”

“You didn’t answer,” Shayna said, standing up. “May I go to the bathroom?”

What has gotten into this girl? Did she have a death wish?

Ms Akerman clenched her fists. Without warning, she whipped around and chucked an eraser at Shayna. I ducked as it barely cleared my own head.

“DAMMIT girl, no, you may not,” Ms. Akerman yelled.

I glanced back at Shayna, who had tears welling in her eyes. She sat down again, defeated. Before I could comprehend what I was doing, I was out of my seat and standing between Ms. Akerman and Shayna.

“Let her go to the bathroom,” I said, fists clenched to keep my hands from shaking. “She’s gonna pee her pants.”

A few kids laughed at this, which only fueled our teacher’s anger. She hurled another eraser aimed for my head, but I quickly ducked and crawled under the table.

Ms Akerman rushed to the fallen eraser as I cowered. The next thing I know, she swatted my butt with it, a cloud of chalk dust exploding from the impact.

“Come out Logan, so the class can see you,” Ms Akerman said triumphantly.

I crawled out, and she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the front of the room. She pulled out a chair and told me to stand on it, facing the chalkboard. The class burst out laughing at the distinct chalk marks that the eraser had left on the seat of my pants. My face flushed, and I quickly went back to my seat.

“Logan, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Ms Akerman asked.

Humiliated, I squirmed in my seat, wishing I could disappear. “I want to be an author.”

Ms Akerman tsked. “No, I mean a real job. What do you want to do?”

I don’t remember what I said after that, but I remember to this day that her words stung more than the chalk on my bum or the humiliation of being laughed at by my entire class. Writing is not a real job.

***

My family were what you would call a church-going people. Every Sunday, we had a designated pew toward the front of the chapel. My siblings and I would poke and prod each other as my parents tried to keep us quiet while listening to whoever was preaching that week. Some weeks were more successful than others.

In 3 Nephi 12:48, Jesus commands, “Therefore I would that ye should be perfect even as I, or your Father who is in heaven is perfect.” After hearing this scripture for the first time, I stopped poking my siblings in church. But what else was I supposed to do? I certainly didn’t feel perfect. Nowhere near it.

*** 

 A few weeks after I deemed Clark as The Good Samaritan, his mental health took a turn for the worse. He started to miss meals, tire out more quickly, and experience anxiety about everything. Having my own set of mental health issues, I had never experienced being on the other end, and I certainly didn’t expect it from Clark.

As I biked ahead of him to our apartment at the end of a particularly long day, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was somehow the issue. Did I break The Good Samaritan?

“Elder Beddes! Wait up!” Clark shouted behind me. I stopped and turned around. “I think I lost the keys.”

“The keys? Like our apartment keys?”

He nodded. I checked my own pockets, but the keys weren’t there.

I took a deep breath to push down my temper. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll just go back and retrace our steps. They had to have fallen out recently.”

We biked the twenty minutes back to the Kirkmans’ house, our last stop before that, but the keys weren’t there. I felt my patience wearing thin as we walked our bikes, scanning the sidewalk, searching people’s yards, and asking everyone we saw if they had seen our keys.

When we again reached the spot of sidewalk where Clark realized he had lost them, we called it and rode back to our apartment. I boosted Clark up to our bedroom’s window, which was thankfully unlocked. 

As I walked around the building to our front door, I found that I was still fuming, so I slowed my walk and prayed silently. God, please help me know how I can help Elder Macey. He’s a much better missionary than I am, and I really don’t know what I can do. At least help me to not be angry.  

I got to the front door to find it unlocked. When I went into our apartment, Clark stood up from his desk and wiped his eyes, and my anger dissipated.

Not sure what to say, I fidgeted by the door. “It’s alright man, we’ll get a new key from the office tomorrow. No big deal.”

He looked at me and nodded but didn’t say anything. He sat back down at his desk.

I sighed and pulled a chair over to sit across from him. “It’s not about the keys, is it? What’s up? How can I help?”

“How do you do it?” he asked. “How are you such a good missionary? I mean, anyone else would be pissed off right now.”

I was shocked. I wasn’t the good missionary. I didn’t always exercise in the mornings like Clark did. I didn’t always want to get out and work like Clark did. I definitely had more fear than Clark did- he was never afraid to talk to anyone.

But instead of dismissing the compliment, I told him that he was too hard on himself. I listed what I appreciated about him -- his obedience to the morning routine, his work ethic, and his fearlessness. I pulled him to his feet and prayed with him, thanking God for the chance we had to talk to all those people as we retraced our steps and for the chance that we had to learn from each other.

I went to bed that night, still reeling that Clark thought that I was a good missionary. Was I too hard on myself, the very thing that I had told Clark he was doing? How could I be good if I wasn’t doing everything that has been asked of me? But if Clark thought I was good, there must have been at least a little truth to it. Maybe I wasn’t perfect, but I was good enough.

***

Smile. Stand up straight. Don’t slouch. Is your zipper done up? Hair in place? How’s your breath? Walk confidently. Smile. Make eye contact. Laugh. Appear easygoing. People like that. Is your smile genuine? Make them believe it is. Remember, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to so you don’t come off as a know-it-all, and don’t be annoying. OK, here we go.

I took a deep breath and opened the door of the counselor’s office. The woman on the other side of the door looked up from her desk and smiled at me.

“Take a seat. You’re Logan, right?” she said pleasantly. I nodded and sat down.

“I’m here to talk about getting into the Communication Disorders major,” I said, smiling as genuinely as I could.

“You’re switching from… the English program, right?” she said as she scrolled through my information on her computer.

I nodded. Writing wasn’t a real job.

“Okay, it looks like you’re enrolled in the prerequisite courses right now. How are those going?”

I’m going to fail. “They’re going well, I’m learning a lot,” I said enthusiastically.

“Good!” the woman replied with matched enthusiasm. “Well, as long as those continue to go well, you should get into the program no problem. Do you have the form for me?”

I pulled it out of my backpack and handed it to her. She glanced through it to make sure everything was correct, then typed something into my profile.

“Perfect. I’ll complete the form for you as soon as your grades for the semester come back. Do you have any other questions for me?”

“No, thank you. I look forward to hearing from you after the decision has been made,” I said, standing up and smiling.

As I walked out of her office, any form of confidence fled away. I was torn. A secret part of me wanted to fail the prerequisites, but then what would I do? I’d still have to find a new major to get my degree in -- English was too dangerous. Why would I continue to feed false hope in a career path that is destined to fail? But what if I’m not good enough for a real job? 

The cold winter air wrapped around me as I exited the building. Campus was dusted in snow, and a student biked past me, kicking up snow and memories. I thought back to an earlier time when I felt as inadequate as I did now, and I realized that I was doing the best I can, even if I wasn’t perfect. Confidence seeped back into my walk as I pushed my doubts away, and the smile I gave the next person I saw was completely genuine.