I May or May Not Apologize for What You Are About to Read

I’ve never put a condom on a banana. At least, I don’t think I have. Truthfully, I don’t remember much about middle school. When we examined the innards of a frog, yeah. Sweating in skinny jeans at the carpool curb, playing footsie in a flimsy attempt to flirt with the school’s premier trumpet player. Later running to the corner of the courtyard, my face as red as the very bricks it faced, to avoid him after my parents made me swear we’d break up. Well, yeah, I remember those parts.

I remember the drive with my mom in the morning. I remember laying my cheek to the seatbelt and shutting my eyes in unbearable heat. After fighting about my affinity for the color grey in my wardrobe, I would ride silently beside my mom- Paul Gallo, a man with a mysteriously transatlantic voice, the only thing to fill the space.  I don’t remember when Mississippi passed House Bill 999, although Paul probably spent a few mornings telling me all about it. At that moment, however, I lost a fundamental memory according to the coming-of-age movies I was watching on my friend’s Netflix under covers and behind closed doors- sex education. Abstinence was the name of the game.

I entered a monogamous relationship with abstinence simply by default. Before I had even heard of the concept of a condom on a banana, I had sworn it to hell. I spent lunchtime condemning my sinful friends, sharing with them the truth of their eternity just as I had spent years preaching on swing sets before then. Truthfully, I didn’t really care to think much about sex and boys. Sex was for marriage and marriage was for 22.

One thing about House Bill 999 that was positive, however, was the separation of boys and girls during sex education. While I am sure there is some positive about having all kids learn about all sides of sex or abstinence, I feel this has to be largely outweighed by the sheer middle school humiliation of a girl in a classroom with a blurry picture of a vagina on the board, surrounded by boys, staring at you like a slab of steak and you find you have no legs to run.

I was always relieved to have a reprieve from the tongues that boys spoke at that age. I didn’t get soccer. Or South Park. Or “your mom”. Or why when I said “I couldn’t hit the D” when playing horn, that that was milk snorting funny. I loved my all girls early morning donut shop Bible study. Not only was it an escape from boys, but it was also a chance to see how the other side lived. A Bible study can’t discriminate, no matter how much you talk about Harry Potter and Hamilton.

So, each Friday morning from fifth grade until eighth, I sat around with the populars and their mothers and listened to them talk about God in relatable terms. They’d pray in ways that started with “Hey father” and throw in words like “totally” or “epic.” I loved it.

Mrs. Torres was magical. She could make long scriptures sound like Rick Riordan himself wrote it. She had long blonde hair, tan skin, and a shockingly white smile that was always on display. She was my pastor in all but title. So, when she hosted an afterschool Bible study in fifth grade, I was there, sat on top a desk, waiting to hear what she had to say and exchanging stories with the other out-of-placed girls.

That afternoon was as close as I ever got to sex-education. I remember how the instant excitement quickly turned cold into dread when Mrs. Torres began to speak.

“Girls, today we are going to chat about our changing bodies.”

Oh. Shit.

Now, I don’t think anything particularly groundbreaking was said that day. For the emphasis that was put on deodorant, it could have been an emergency meeting suggested by the moms because one of these eleven-year-olds was just not smelling right lately. Besides deodorant, she probably tried to talk about periods in a way that never directly said it. Talking in circles around it until all of our heads were left spinning and we left just a little dazed and confused. I remember this day for what I got out of it though.

“Ladies always apologize. For example, Casey, if you ever were to bump into me in the hallway, I’d say ‘I’m so sorry Casey!’ It doesn’t hurt, and it’s a polite thing to do.”

A rule follower at heart and a faith-fearing fifth-grader, I followed suit. For years, I lived my life apologizing proactively. I’m sorry if I do something wrong. I’m sorry when you did something wrong. I’m sorry you feel a certain way. I’m sorry for what I said.

I do think that it started as a compliance to Mrs. Torres. A compliance to her and to our God, my faith, my family. And it kind of worked. While I didn’t have a boyfriend, I didn’t really want one. That wasn’t the point. Everyone knew me as one thing- “the sweet girl.” I was the sweetest girl in school. I cherished that descriptor for years. It followed me from fifth grade to eighth to graduation. Somewhere in that time, however, the sweetness of my reputation began to feel sickly and rotten. The sweetest fruit is the quickest to be eaten, and I woke up and realized one day that I had been hollowed out. I couldn’t tell if I was sorry anymore. But I had apologized to men for rejecting them. Again. And again. I had apologized to them for paying for my own food. I had apologized to teachers for not putting them first. For working too hard at the wrong things. For not having enough fun. For not being normal. For not being the highest grade. For not meeting expectations. For failing to live up to some. I had apologized so much, it meant nothing and everything all at once. I realized I didn’t know what to be sorry for anymore- what an apology was for, what it meant. I’m still not really sure. The word “sorry” is so heavy now.

When I was nineteen I had this professor who hated the word “sorry.” He would always say that when I entered the advertising industry, professionals wouldn’t have time for “sorry.” To him, “sorry” was just an excuse for someone to not be able to get mad at you or upset at your work. It was a shield, and therefore implied you believed you were weak. In an industry of men, you, as a woman, cannot be weak. Needless to say, however, I wasn’t exactly equipped to delete the word from my vocabulary. Just like “um” or “like,” it had found its way into my sentences without even realizing it was there. Again, and again he would interrupt my critiques.

“No sorrys.”

Again. And again. And again.

“Sorrys” are a way that men punish women he would say. He still does. That man is my favorite professor on campus, maybe my favorite teacher ever. But one thing we will never see eye-to-eye on is the “sorry dilemma.” The word sorry is my shield. From criticism. From angry men. From the “what if” it’s the expectation. For the moments when if I don’t, I’ll be knocked to the ground and left in the dust.

I wish men would stay out of my apologies. Sorry is a game of roulette. For my high school choral director, it was necessary to get a word with him that he would hear. While the boys spent after-hours with him in his office, I had to apologize for my inattention to his class. A.k.a I had to leave early to go conduct the band. For my college advertising professor, it causes him to construct walls I have to craft an impressive headline to break through.

I’m sure there are many young women now who have engagement rings on their finger, who are going to live incredibly happy, fulfilled lives. They will stay in a small town and become nurses and teachers. They never stopped going to Bible study, and they will take their kids to Sunday School as well. And while I’m uncertain for my future, and I’m flailing in the sea of chaos in some city on the East Coast, they will be by the lake with their husband as he wraps her in his arms. And that woman will write Mrs. Torres one day to tell her thank you for what she taught her as it led her to the life she has today. And I’m still going to be weighing the risk of my apology while some junior copywriter named Daniel will have constructed three headlines for the laundry detergent already.