No Apology Necessary

“I’m sorry.”  Two words that are expected to heal a multitude of hurts.  Well, that and about 2-6 months of apologizing over and over again, as well as the natural tendency many humans have to beat themselves up after a misstep, even when it’s been forgiven and forgotten by the offended party.  The idea that we must all keep apologizing is unsound.  There are certainly some things you apologize for.  Other things you should never apologize for.  And, some, well, it can be a slippery slope. 

Recently, I visited a friend in the hospital.  She was recovering from invasive surgery the result of which required painkillers which in turn caused “loopiness” and exhaustion.  Less than 24 hours after her surgery, I was sitting in her room with her.  We were doing the normal hospital nothing-and-everything chatting that people do when they are simply passing time together.  Inside of three hours, this lovely lady apologized for:  being in pain, closing her eyes, wincing in pain, not having her phone on, not talking much, and needing to go to the bathroom.  She also apologized to the nurse for her IV getting infiltrated.  Goodness, I think if you have major surgery, you are totally exempt from the need to apologize for anything until you have regained your strength and your senses.  (Note: This may take 4-8 weeks, lots of sympathy and love, as well as several pints of ice cream.)

Years ago, my sister was hospitalized after a car wreck.  It was serious.  ICU-serious.  Everything that we did and talked about was life-and-death serious.  After she died, I remember crying a lot.  Not only at the hospital, but also at home.  At work.  At Walmart.  Everywhere.  I found myself saying, “Sorry.  My sister just died.”  What?  Why was I apologizing?  I didn’t kill her.  I had nothing to be sorry for.  William Carlos Williams has a poem that prescribes crying and wailing as a proper mourning technique.  People who are grieving should cry.  Really, they only should apologize if they don’t cry when a loved one has died.  When did it become required to apologize for loving someone and missing them and shedding tears when they are gone?

Civility yes.  Mindless empty apologies?  No.  I am also tired of hearing people apologize for talking to me on the phone.  In my profession, I deal with a variety of  client bases.  These groups include teenagers, their parents, colleagues in our school, and college representatives.  People from all of these groups will call or email me with legitimate questions or requests, and almost always I hear, “Sorry to bother you but…”   or “Dear Ms. Johnson, I am sorry to email you about this but…”  Huh?  It’s my JOB to provide you with information and support – why on earth are you apologizing for asking me to do my job?  C’mon in and let me know what you need.  Say thank you when I’ve provided it and begone!

There is a linguistic fad that is now passing (thankfully!) that is a “sorry” in disguise.  People make an observation about other human beings and their actions, usually noting something undesirable and then tagging the comment with “just sayin’.”  For example:  “People should totally use their turn signals when driving. Just sayin’.”  Or, “He doesn’t need to text me twenty times a day.  Just sayin’.”  No. People should totally use their turn signals.  It’s a safety issue.  It’s the law.  And, he probably doesn’t need to text you that much.  No need to soften these comments with implicit apologies for noting the assininity of the human race.

Other times the phrase “I’m sorry” is a catch-all.  If a co-worker inquires how I am in the morning, I might tell my colleague I’m not feeling great.  The standard issue phrase that many people pull out is “I’m sorry.”  We all know that this phrase actually means, “I care enough to utter two words but not enough to ask you anything further; in fact, I must now go, so contact me again when you are feeling better.  Ado, plebeian.”  It’s okay.  It’s not truly an apology and I don’t truly need one from that person.  I mean, the colleague in question didn’t make me stay one hour and two margaritas too long at book club last night.  Also, when someone mentions a death in the family, we can see the traditional “I’m sorry” brought out.  Here, of course, what we are saying is that we are sorry for our interlocutor’s loss.  In place of a more intimate inquiry, this seems legitimate use of the phrase.  Now, you might argue that the aforementioned colleague is also sympathizing with our condition.  Not so.  In the latter instance, the situation is out of the respondent’s control, and an “I’m sorry” stands as a legitimate response to a such a loss.   

So, if you wrong someone – and I mean truly wrong someone, not just push your cart around them in the grocery store or put your McDonald’s cup under the ice dispenser before they even step up to the drink machine – by all means apologize.  Do it sincerely.  Be sure to do it in a way that does not negate the apology:  “I’m sorry, but…” does not count.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  What can I do to make this up to you?”  Something like that.  But, if you’ve had surgery, are asking for something you are legitimately entitled to, or commenting on the foolishness of people in general, no apology is necessary.

Center Stage

Whenever a musical came around in high school, I would like to tell you I was the star of the show.   This would be a lie.  The first musical I tried out for was Oklahoma!  I tried out to be a dancer in the chorus.  I was told that I wasn’t cast because I was on the basketball team, and rehearsals and practice would conflict.  The truth?  I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’m not all that graceful.  Perhaps the two activities did collide – whatever the case, I was relegated to stage crew.  No one headed up make up, so I took over.  I organized, sorted, and matched the needed hues to the whole cast -  I was in charge.  I did the eyeliner on the guys and advised the girls.   I doled out the foundation sticks, highlighted cheek bones, and kept everyone stage ready at all times.  No melting under my watchful care.

I remember one particular incident when I was trying to line Lee’s eyes.  In fact, it was for the drama/comedy You Can’t Take It With You.  I was in the play, but somehow was still doing make-up, as well.  Lee was having none of it – convinced I was performing some sort of back alley lasik on him, he fidgeted and cursed   At final dress rehearsal, I was kneeling next to his chair, trying to finish his make-up so I could go get mine done. Fidget. Curse. Fidget. Curse.  Finally, in an exasperated huff, I elbowed him in the crotch.  One more curse.  Then he sat still.  And every night thereafter. It wasn't that Lee didn't want his eyes lined – he knew he had recessed sort of piggish eyes that just do not stand out on stage without help.  So, what was it then?  In retrospect, I’d say Lee took pride in being different and difficult.  And, he wanted to do his own make-up.  Fast forward to his junior year and Lee could apply his own eyeliner.  He still cursed and probably fidgeted; I didn't have to deal with it, but we weren't really on good terms either.

Just last week, my 11 year-old son, Nate, got his ear pierced.  With my blessing and my thirty-six dollars.  He had wanted to do so for about six months, and I put him off.  He did the pre-pubescent equivalent of fidgeting and cursing:  hounding me.  Every time he thought of it:  in the middle of the night, while driving to Kroger, pumping gas. By putting Nate’s request off, I was in control.  I was kneeling by his chair, trying to make him look the way that his dad insisted him to for the world.   I knew his father (my ex-husband) would not approve of a piercing, but when push came to shove, my son had good reasons for wanting it, and I saw no valid reason to deny him a show of self-expression.  And, any thinking parent of an adolescent will tell you that if an earring and an occasional weird haircut are as bad as it gets, you’re batting 1.000 in the teen parent league.  However, upon informing his father of this fact, dear old dad kindly banned my son from his home and his mother (son’s grandmother) quickly followed suit. 

My son offered to cover the offending 3mm stud with a small, skin tone bandage while visiting his dad and grandmother.  This offer was firmly declined.  He was then subjected to a litany of reasons why earrings were not for boys:  not socially acceptable, not Biblical, buying into Hollywood propaganda, earrings are only for girls, your mother made you do this, you are embracing the homosexual lifestyle.  The list actually does go on – in a similarly ridiculous way.

The fact of the matter is that he wanted to get his ear pierced for legitimate reasons:  it makes him feel cool; his brothers both have one; he likes it.  Simple.  But, what he really wanted, was some control.  He wanted me to quit kneeling by the chair; he wanted control over one square inch of ear lobe realty.  A boy, starting middle school in the fall, wanting to have some control of his own body?  Seems reasonable.  Seems plausible.  And, if you've been a pre-pubescent boy, it’s nice to control something about your ever-changing body.  Not really that big of a deal despite father’s and grandmother’s alarm that the yawning mouth of hell was opening, ready to swallow him whole. 

One might argue that I could have avoided all of this by not allowing the piercing.  By putting him off.  By kneeling next to the chair, demanding to be in control.  We have all seen our share of kids who went down questionable paths when denied the right to self-expression. Nate is verging on being the age where he does, in fact, get to start making his own decisions, and this is a minute one in the grand scheme of things.  I don’t want to have to throw an elbow to the groin, so I’ll let him grow his hair and have an earring.  It is his turn in the limelight.  I’m happy for him.  He is doing his own eyeliner.  After all, I don’t need to take center stage here; my only job to make sure that he doesn't melt under the glare of the lights.  

Independence and Strong Winds

Yesterday my eldest son called me from college to lament the fact that with half the summer now gone, he finally found a summer job.  The deal we had was that he could go to summer semester if he paid his own living expenses, hence the need for a job.  After a month of sweating it, this looks like it will pan out.  However, he noted that he was going to have to go to class most of the day, then work all evening, and then he’d have to get up earlier to study for class.  His whole day would be taken up with – gasp – work!  Either class work or work-work or working out (which he has to do to stay in shape for his ROTC scholarship).  He went on to tell me that real life wasn't like this: you didn't have to work your job and then work after your job, too.  (I chuckled.  Out loud.) He was lamenting not because he is incapable.  Not because he’s a spoiled baby.  He was lamenting simply because he has been hit on the head with the brick of adult life.  

Last week at a conference in Iowa, the coordinator gave strict instructions to the attendees:  if there’s a tornado warning do not follow the people from Iowa.  Why?  Because the people from Iowa would not take shelter, they would go out to see the storm.  When I was little, the sirens could send me, my sisters, and mom to the basement in the late afternoon or even in the middle of the night.  I remember more than one basement sleep out due to the Ozian conditions outside.  Well, I actually don’t know what the conditions were because I was relegated to the basement.  However, I do remember realizing that Dad was rarely in the basement with us.  He was on the porch, watching the storm do its thing.  I suppose he wanted to see the beast that was to sweep us all away or maybe he was simply giving instructions to the wind, “Okay, that’s good.  Now, move on so I can go to bed; I have work in the morning.”  I do clearly remember the first time I was allowed not to be in the basement – I was about in 5^th grade, and the sirens were blaring outside and the weathermen were predicting wind-induced apocalypse.  Mom trundled my sisters downstairs, and I slipped through the living room to join Dad on the porch.  The wind, the rain, the dark clouds were all thrilling.  “This isn't going to amount to much, Laura,” and Dad walked around the garage to make sure the garbage cans hadn't overturned.  From that time on, I didn't have to go to the basement.

Maybe such feelings of being grown up are not really true.  The fact of the matter is:  my dad was right there.  I felt independent, and of course I lorded it over my sisters the next day that I didn't have to cower downstairs.  But, in retrospect, it wasn't the standing on the porch that made Dad a grown up  - it was that he righted the garbage cans before he went back inside.  That’s the stuff grown-up, independent life is made of, as my eldest is finding out this summer.  

Compared to many of my peers, I have been a late bloomer in the traditions of growing up.  I bought my first car at age 42.  I bought my first house at age 43.  Sure, I've been employed ever since I had a shopper newspaper route that I complained vociferously about every week.  And, I've been a mom for 20 years. But still, although I've been watching the tornadoes pass since 5^th grade, I have only recently taken on these major adult signs of independence.  It’s overrated.  I’m ready to get rid of some of them, just as my eldest son is taking stock and adjusting his sails to adult winds. 

Independence is what we celebrate today, and the thing that I am reminded of on this day is that with independence comes responsibility.  Without going down some patriotic path, it behooves me to remember that the bricks of adult life – whatever they may be for each individual – are what we build our lives with.  And, dad isn't always going to be on the porch with us.  We have to tend to our own garbage cans.  The summer jobs, the classes, the relationships, the places to live, the hobbies, the games, the friends, the things we fill our time with – these are the independences that our lives are made of.  And, yes, indeed, if any wind is going to try and sweep things away, I do want to meet it.  In the meantime, though, I will try to help my son choose his bricks wisely while reconsidering my own.