From a young age, I never wanted to be a nobody; I wanted to be somebody, incapable of making mistakes and worthy of my own time. If you were a snot-nosed punk kid like me, you probably met your grandma’s mantra that “nobody’s perfect” with a sigh and a good old-fashioned roll of the eyes. Though I would protest the implications this statement had on a figure like Jesus, she would stifle my ignorance by affirming Jesus wasn’t a nobody.
Playing in a Christmas piano recital as a 5-year-old should constitute some form of perverse torture. Yet, there I played, wearing the eyes of a dozen parents like a cape, getting what felt like a sunburn from the limelight, crooning a crowd with the sexy melody of “Jingle Bells.”
This was before I learned what jazz was, though, and with the not-so-graceful slip of one of my pudgy fingers, I hit a jarring D in place of my target middle C. Insert here the scratch of a record and the symphony of crickets that engulfed the following silence.
Unable to regain my composure after such an offensive error, I made like a tree and got out of there. I could not bear the weight of imperfection, and shattering the illusion, admitting my humanity, and putting that burden on my keen audience meant the complete failure of my character to my juvenile brain.
Today, I wear the experience of 16 more years under my belt, and it is my Walker Institute-ordained mission to sit in front of my computer screen for six hours at a time and edit the Just Ask Podcast.
Using Adobe Audition, I carefully skim through the words of our esteemed guests so they may appear as competent, as polished and as professional as possible. Sometimes, however, our experts are none of those. Oftentimes, they are egregiously incompetent, unpolished and unprofessional (respectfully).
It is remarkably refreshing hearing someone with Obama’s level of commendation back up and say “Actually, can we try that one again?” Gradually, I began making changes to humanize my clients, and soon, it felt like I was producing a conversation instead of a speech, but isn’t that the point of college?
As I reminisce on my time at Weber State University, I’ve realized that giving space for the “um” has been central to navigating the narrow windings of my educational journey. The only way my decision to pursue a career in a broadcast direction could have been well-informed was to dance on the periphery of my preferred industry for three years before joining Studio 76.
It took classes ranging from botany to marketing, not taking an internship in Washington, D.C., working for an awful summer sales company and finding community at The Signpost for me to realize where I do and don’t belong.
It also took placing trust in two incredible mentors, Claire Hughes, coordinator of the Writing Center and Mark Galaviz, coach of the Speech and Debate team, who relentlessly supported me in those times of “um-age.”
Now, I find comfort in transition. I believe shattering the illusion means affirming the character. I can affirm that admitting mistakes acknowledges there is room to grow because, sometimes, Jingle Bells should be jazzy.
