Lately the word "apology" has been in the news. It seems that one of the presidential candidates has been accusing the other candidate of always "apologizing for America."
He's been saying this repeatedly on the stump, even though no one can find even one instance when the aforementioned candidate actually did that.
Perhaps this is some kind of Vulcan Mind Meld trick wherein a lie is repeated so often it is reborn as an accepted fact. Or, God forbid, it is an example of the cheapest and most disgusting form of demagoguery designed to enrage and energize the far right base who seem all too eager to become enraged.
Whatever it is, it got me to thinking about apologies. There are several I should have given and never did. It's time for me to man up and apologize.
First, I'd like to apologize to all the followers of these lame thoughts for the photo above. It's a picture of the sign that hangs in front of a real joint in Dothan, Alabama. I'm apologizing for the slogan on the bottom. It's crude and makes ambiguous reference to backsides, derrieres, buttocks, and tuchuses. I'm not apologizing for the reference to sensitive body parts. I'm apologizing because it's a cheap and obvious pun. My old friend, Rick Miller, a master punster, would have rejected it out of hand!
Next I'd like to apologize to anyone who was a student of mine in 1969 or 1970. I was a brand new English teacher in Hingham, Massachusetts. I was given the job despite the fact that I had had absolutely no training as an educator. None. No education classes, no student teaching, no getting mentored or shadowing other teachers through their day. I was given a carton of chalk and an eraser and was pointed toward my room at the old South Junior High School. There wasn't even a curriculum or guide for me to follow. I was completely on my own.
I guess teachers, especially male ones, were hard to come by in those days, and the hope was that sooner or later I'd sink or swim.
What a blast! As long as my students weren't tearing the room apart (usually, they didn't), I was left alone to do pretty much what I wanted to do.
I'm apologizing because I'm pretty sure that often what I wanted to do was the last thing these kids needed to get ahead in the world. I'm apologizing because today there are about 200 55-year-olds who attended Hingham South Junior High School in 1969 and 1970 walking around this Earth with their eyes glazed over wondering why they never got that big job or that nice house.
I'm pretty sure that it was my fault and I'd like to apologize.
Staying in the same setting, I'd also like to apologize to the 12 or 15 soccer players who tried out for the inaugural South Junior High soccer team, probably around 1970 or 1971. I was honored to be named coach of the first soccer team in the school's history. I was proud to address the young athletes gathered before me at that very first soccer practice. Most importantly, I was completely ignorant of everything that had to do with soccer. This included rules, strategies, techniques, drills, uniforms, and even encouraging phrases. My excellent assistant coach, Bill Alberti, was an actual college soccer player who could have advised me on any number of proper practice techniques. Unfortunately, I decided it would have been a sign of weakness for me to ask him, so most of Bill's expertise stayed with Bill.
Just about the only soccer activity with which I was familiar was heading the ball. I didn't know why soccer players did this, but I was quite sure that it was done. Thus, if you could be magically transported back to that inaugural South Junior High soccer practice in 1970 or 1971 you would have seen a groggy and dazed group of athletes doing nothing but heading soccer balls to each other for about two hours. Today I assume those 50-somethings experience splitting headaches and double vision.
My bad.
Finally I'd like to apologize to Ada, Kate, and any other woman with whom I have ever danced. When I was 13 or so, my mother signed me up for dance lessons at the local Jewish Community Center. I was not what you would call a willing participant. The two instructors, as I recall a very smarmy husband and wife duo, would demonstrate the step of the week and then we'd be paired up with the other students to replicate what we'd just learned. Unfortunately, there was not an even number of boys and girls in the class, so often I would find myself paired up with a nice fellow named Natie Mushnick who always insisted on being the male. I didn't want to make trouble so I would play the role of the lovely Cyd Charisse to Natie's less than sparkling Gene Kelly. As a result, I came to view dancing in much the same way that most people view tax audits or prostate exams.
Sorry, ladies. It's just not in me.
And I apologize.
Ain't life grand?
J
