Sometimes Apologies are Not Enough

Abstract

THE WIND chimes played a soft tune as a light breeze drifted across porch. Rocking slowly and minding my own business, felt that all was right with world. closed my eyes and channeled my full concentration on nothing at all. never know when it will happen or why, but sometimes my subconscious runs 3-D features on movie screen in my mind. On this day, a swell thriller was playing. It opened with a trench-coated man skulking through a pumpkin patch somewhere in upstate New York. Grasping a small pumpkin, he tugged stem, hoping it would pop off and reveal hollow insides. No luck. Frustrated, he threw pumpkin aside. Have to find microfilm, he murmured. Couldn't put it in a locker at bus depot like normal terrorists oh, no gotta put it in a pumpkin patch. . he stooped to examine another pumpkin, moon illuminated his face. Even with his collar pulled up, his hat tugged low, and skinny little robber's mask around his eyes, recognized him. Holey buckets! my mind screamed, it's NEA president Reg Weaver! He really is a terrorist! gave film two thumbs up, but sequel looks even better. In preview, Education Secretary Rod Paige is dressed in a brown double- breasted suit and standing atop a wooden platform in Wheeling, West Virginia. Having worked crowd to a fever pitch, he wipes sweat from his brow and dramatically pulls a paper from his breast pocket. Waving it above his head, Paige proclaims, I have in my hand a list of 2.7 million teachers who are known members of a terrorist organization. . The shocked crowd emits audible gasp followed by deafening silence. Verging on transformation into a mob, crowd stills as a small child's voice floats overhead. Have you no sense of decency, sir? child asks. At long last, have you no sense of decency? Apparently, my subconscious was still a little cross with Paige for calling NEA a terrorist organization. My family tells a story of apologies and consequences. It goes like this. On a hot summer afternoon, my brother Tommy, cousin Mickey, and were playing on front porch. Our parents were embroiled in a hotly contested card game. All seemed to be going well when, without warning, chaos erupted. Mickey let out a shriek. Bawling wildly, he unleashed a waterfall of tears that flowed down his face and onto unpainted wooden floor, while his hands, one atop other, rubbed rapidly growing purple bump on his forehead. In a flash, adults surrounded us. Suspecting was about to experience a difficult moment, glanced at Tommy. Could somehow shift blame onto him? No, he looked too confused to be guilty of anything. So, did only thing could do. Easing hammer between folds in my skirt, said innocently, I didn't hit Tommy on head with a hammer. It was true; hadn't hit Tommy. Surprisingly, though, was not rewarded for my restraint. My mother quickly refocused on Mickey and forced me to apologize. Mickey wasn't at all gracious about it, either. Before could fully implement my often-successful contrition strategy, he redoubled his crying efforts. That's when things got dicey. Sometimes, my mother said, an apology isn't enough. knew what that meant; there would be consequences. There would always be consequences. My mother made that point over and over as grew up. That's why I've never hit another person on head with a hammer -- or any other hand tool, for that matter. Like me, Paige was forced to apologize. He chose regulation politician's move. He issued a hasty and heartfelt non-apology. As one who grew up on receiving end of insensitive remarks, should have chosen my words better, he said. He loves teachers; we are the soldiers of democracy. What he meant to say was uh NEA's high-paid lobbyists are terrorists. Yeah, NEA lobbyists are to blame. …